Disclaimer: Reanimator, Evil Dead, Batman, and any others in here are not my property, this film is for distribution purposes only.
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Literary allusions, let me count the ways!
Prognosis
Out of the depths and darkness came a scream of primal terror, so strident as to raise the hair on any unlucky individual within hearing range.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!"
Another typical night at Arkham asylum.
Herbert West snuffled a few times and rolled in his sleep, the slight movement jarring his thick glasses on the three-legged night table near his bed. He had begun to drift off again when the howling began afresh, and then jerked up with a snort. He hit his head immediately, of course, because though there was only one occupant of his cell the staff felt very disinclined to giving him a single. True, a bunk had its conveniences, a momentary hiding place, and extra shelf, but Herbert did not appreciate having to duck his head every time he wanted to lie down.
Subject shows acute personality defections.
The howling came from the room abutting his; there had been no shared cells in that ward for some time, as partnered escapes and other more unmentionable practices had become popular. So everyone had a room of their own. West, the howling man, and the other nearby patient whose name Herbert could never really bother to remember.
"AHHH! AHHH! GOD!"
What was his name…red hair, long nose, came from a book…
"BASTARDS! WHY ARE YOU TORTURING ME LIKE THIS?!!"
Ahh, Crane, that was it. From sleepy hollow, a book he had been forced to read in sixth grade, perhaps a somewhat Freudian bookmark in his memory, the reason he couldn't bother to remember.
Subject show complete disassociation from reality, suffers from mild god complex.
The two inmates were closest to Herbert…well, closest since Derby had left, he had begun bellowing too, they dragged him away intoning grotesque syllables. He never heard of him again.
"PLEASE! NOT HER!!!"
West sighed and rubbed his forehead. Originally he had been in the medical ward, mostly because he refused the use of sedatives and was once awake for sixty hours without showing fatigue. The doctors had jumped eagerly at the chance to study this new marvel, but Herbert had gone through years of dealing with people like them, and so they left, discouraged. The din had died down about his admittance to the hospital, and they had stuck him here, ward C. The incurables.
This was a special ward, and no one left except in a narrow black bag. Even something like a cardiac arrest would only bring a man with a black bag full of nitro pills flanked by two white shirts into your room, he kept you from swallowing your tongue, they kept you from him. This was a ward for people who weren't unhealthy enough to go through normal therapy, but not healthy enough to walk the streets. Hmph, "walk the streets". He hated that cliché.
The inmates were as varied as the walls were homogeneous, all in distinct states of mental decay. There was Crane, who was intelligent enough, Herbert found, but nearly impossible to have a civilized conversation with because all he talked about was fear. There was a man who claimed he had seen something outside of the normal spectrum of colors, and that it had killed his friend. He couldn't be alone anywhere, and they had to sedate him heavily at night because he would scream about the window of the room and "that damned thing". Then… there was Herbert's neighbor. He had been brought in nearly -he did a mental count- eight months before, all but catatonic, and quite peaceful, it seemed. That lasted until nightfall.
"IT'S COMING!! COMING!!"
The man had remained in a near-constant state of terror since he had arrived, yet it seemed the ward had no outward influence on him. Herbert himself had been in here only a year and a half, and already it had had something of an affect on him. he found he was sleeping nights, well, four hours to be precise, and he was able to calm himself very rapidly when he woke up from the crypt dreams. Usually he tried to get in check before the big orderly with the wandering hands came in. In nearly every way, he was almost completely well-adjusted…except for one thing. He couldn't admit he was wrong.
Subject shows anti-social tendencies, severe lack of social identification, possible childhood trauma.
True, it wasn't easy for him to acknowledge when he had first begun work in Switzerland, but he had had lately what even he would call a run of extremely bad luck. Countless failures, loss of equipment, assistant mortality, he put in before he could stop himself. He shook his head. No…no, it wasn't him, was never him, people just put too much faith in what was "normal", it interfered with the research of pure science. Why even Dan…
Herbert stopped at that, one hand grasping the other tightly. It was a behavior he had done often as a child, why he did it now, Herbert couldn't guess. He might have, if he ever thought very hard. For all his bluster and bristle, he was not such a good critical thinker, otherwise he would long ago have drawn a line connecting what he did with what happened afterwards. He really wasn't as good alone as he was with another perspective, to sometimes support him or chastise him, and then leave hi-
He stood up, and nearly sat down again as he cracked himself across the temple this time, swearing very unscientifically under his breath. Not that it mattered anyway. The howling man was nearly hoarse, but if he ever felt pain from his prolonged bout of screaming, he never showed it. He looked as if he had some endurance, he was in his twenties and good-looking, slightly athletic. Herbert felt around in the dark for his glasses and found them, sliding the duct-taped bridge over his nose, a souvenir of a mess hall scuffle. Rather than turn on his little battery-powered lamp, they knew better than to trust the inmates with electricity, he groped blindly for the edge of the bed and slipped his hand between the hard plastic mattress and the chilly metal frame. He had bargained for a mirror with another inmate, it had cost him two weeks worth of Luvox, hidden under his tongue. He slid it between the bars of the cell, trying to position it at just the right angle.
Subject show some predisposition for obsessive compulsive behavior, but without much of the depression that is associated with the disorder. Displays typical megalomaniacal behavior, but is uncharacteristically self-contained for complete diagnosis.
They had tried, a few years ago, to try group therapy instead of one-on-one sessions, a new doctor's idea. A pretty little redhead, fresh from college and of an enthusiastic luster undimmed by anything as petty as patients. She had had a breakdown the first hour, though the small, white haired man with the ventriloquist's dummy was quite caring and supportive. The man was, that is, the dummy had made inappropriate comments and had fondled her posterior more than once. Though most everyone else had frustrated her by their lack of desire to talk, it had been Blake that threw the folding chair at the wall. It had dissolved, as these things do, into madness.
At just the right angle, the mirror caught the moonlight so pure in nearly dazzled him, a little further down it showed the man writhing in bed. Ah, he had been dreaming. Eight months ago, Herbert was recovering from a sprained finger one of the orderlies had sat upon when the double doors opened and someone new was walked into the hall. Rare enough, usually the people that came here had to be wheeled in under restraint, or carried in by several orderlies, like Herbert himself. But he walked, the newcomer, face tilted down to the floor, quiet, so quiet, some terrible sadness and confusion in his eyes, the first stage of shock.
Derby had relayed information to him, Derby had been mostly sane in those days, that the young man had been picked up wandering in the woods somewhere in the south, and had been sent here for lack of the ability to do anything else. He claimed he had been vacationing with his girlfriend in a remote cabin when evil forces had killed her and possessed him, leaving him with startlingly large gaps in his memory. The authorities had been unable to find the cabin he spoke of, and he refused to admit what he said was anything but the truth. So they sent him here. He had looked up only once, on that long walk down the hall, when Herbert pressed forward for a better view and his glasses clanked against the bars. His head tilted up for a few brief moments, and Herbert's heart had gone into his throat. The face he had seen had dark eyes, and dark hair, and the face had a look of sad resignation to it, just like-
Subject is extremely reluctant to bring up the past, seems to have many repressed feelings. Remember to check for catholic background of any sort.
But this was here, now, and he had to get through to the man moaning on the bed, before security heard and called in an orderly.
"Pssst!" he hissed, not the most original one in the book, but he wasn't trying for form. The figure on the bed stirred once, then was back to the noisemaking. He ground his teeth together in frustration.
"Psssht!" he hissed again, feeling like a fool. The cell cross the way stirred a little, and a red head popped out of the covers.
"Oh, for god's sake, not again." The man grumbled smarmily, grinning slightly at Hebert's outstretched figure.
"Shhh!" he snarled back, going slightly red. He didn't like that he tried so hard to placate this young man, and he liked even less the fact that his fellow patients found it amusing. He decided to hell with subtle and tried the direct tactic.
"Ash!" he whispered loudly, dreadfully aware of the snickers from various cells. He wished that they had stayed asleep. He also wished it hadn't suddenly become so hot in there.
"Ash!" he whispered again, feeling foolish. "Ashley!"
The figure gave a larger stir, and Herbert felt his heartbeat irhythmize for a moment. For some reason, it bothered him to look at the other man's face. Though chiseled from the same quarry they probably were, Ash's face had a permanent smugness and self-assurance that Dan's, with all his insecurities, had never achieved. Still, the silly thing haunted him.
Subject shows great contempt of imprecision, and his single realm of fear seems to be the unknown, the supernatural.
Another thing that haunted him, though he would admit this to no one, was that the young man, when he talked of his prior experience, spoke with such great conviction and earnestness, it was very easy to believe him. Even though Herbert prided himself on being a solely logical being, was quite disturbed by tales of something in the woods, a sensation he couldn't quite name or give face to.
"Ashley!"
"mmno…"
"Ash?"
"LINDA!!"
"ASH!!"
He blinked and rolled over in his sleep, glowing with a sheen of sweat. The months of hospital food and night terrors had not been kind to him, and though he still in many ways resembled the young man that had come there months ago, something about his face was old, terribly old. But his progressively gaunter face broke into a grin when he saw Herbert. Ash was an odd one to figure out. In his whole life, he supposed, no one had ever been as happy to see him as often as Ash was. And no one had as much of a reason not to as Ash did.
Subject shows contempt for the opposite gender, possible maternal issues.
They had first introduced themselves during an outside assembly, Hebert bumping awkwardly through the crowd, trying to find a place out of sight from the podium so he could write down a new idea for a formula he had. This had been when he still wrote things down. He had bumped into Ash, who had been staring at no point in particular. He had assumed he was a typical catatonic, therefore safe. But he was proved wrong when he turned around in surprise, and then lightning-quick had one of Herbert's hands in his and a patented grin on his face. The normal name exchange had been gone through, then onto the what-are-you-in-for spiel. At this time, the speaking had begun, so much of what Ash shouted had been lost to the crowd. But when it came Herbert's turn to explain, Ash seemed to catch every word that dropped from his mouth. He had gone white, dropped his hand, and stalked to another end of the yard, a typical reaction, Herbert supposed.
He had expected him to stay away, and he had…for a few days. Then, on white-bean-casserole-hotdish with a side of bulk apple sauce day, he had plunked down across from Herbert and asked for the ketchup. He endured Herbert's incredulous stare for two full minutes before just shrugging and reaching for it himself. Thus began a tenuous relationship.
"Herb?"
They had settled on that as a nickname, because apparently Herbert's was too long in Ash's book, and West refused to suffer the indignity of "Herbie".
West let out an impatient little snort. "You were dreaming again, Ashley."
"Oh yeah." The younger man made a little strain and sat up, his face bathed in moonlight from the cell's only window. He was pale, too pale for someone who spent so much time outdoors, nearly out-blanching Herbert. He rubbed one eyes with the palm of his hand, then wiped the back across both, a behavior that reminded West of a puppy…well, dogs in general.
"schnerk." He did a little nose clearing and leaned back for a wide yawn. "Aaaaaawwwwas about my girlfriend again…" he murmured, rubbing his eyes again. This was a little ritual he did whether woke after a night of deep sleep or a ten-minute nap. These days, Ash always seemed tired, and though he ate about three square meals a day and was able to charm what he wanted from the sour cafeteria staff, he was getting gaunter and gaunter. His handsome face was beginning to resemble what Herbert felt must be his subconscious mind, and it seemed it was getting harder and harder for Ash to wake up.
Still, he was like a bright ray of sunshine in this place. He had survived so far with his sense of humor intact, not beaten and drugged out of him like countless others, or even stretched to such extremes that it was no longer recognizable as anything natural, like the frightening man who grinned in clown makeup like some drag queen bride of Frankenstein-cum-harlequin. Herbert had seen that inmate only once. Once had been enough
"I thought I should wake you, you were getting particularly vocal." A sardonic titter from a few cells down, and mirror-Ash finally faced him and smiled.
"Aw, Herbie," he said in a voice low with sleep, "You didn't hafta, that was awful nice of ya."
Herbert reddened slightly, between the embarrassing monikers and smothered tittering, this was beginning to feel like third grade all over again. He could almost smell the anger and humiliation and grape candy.
"Well, much longer and you would have brought the orderlies down on us, and I heard that Zenas is working tonight."
Ash gave a chuckle. "Old southpaw huh? Well, didn't mean to give you guys trouble. Thanks again."
"Don't mention it." Herbert said sincerely. He made a move to lower the mirror, but Ash put his hand up.
"No no, let's talk more; we never talk!" he protested. Herbert sighed.
"What do you want to talk about?"
Ash grinned. "You see the nurse eyen' me today?" Herbert lowered the mirror again.
"Waitwaitwait!" he raised it again. "Okay. I actually wanted to ask you something, Herbert."
Hmm. Full name. It must be important.
"What is it?" the sound of his voice bouncing off the walls jarred even him, he hadn't meant to raise it.
"Well," he looked toward the ground sheepishly, "You're gonna think it's stupid."
"Trust me, I won't." Herbert curtly intoned.
"Well." Dark eyes studied him. "It's about you."
"hmm."
"Well, you barely ever sleep, and I've never heard of you dreaming"
Herbert's throat tightened. "What?"
"From what you told me about yourself, and from what I could piece together, it sounds like you'd be having nightmares nonstop. But I never hear anything about it."
Herbert swallowed. "Well, Dan, I-I-"
"Dan?"
his hand tightened around the handle. "D-Dan?"
"You just said Dan. Herbert, are you all right?"
"Nononono, I'm not alright, I just called you Dan, Dan is dead and I killed him but I'm so sososo sorry because I did so many terrible things and now I'm here and I'm sure it's hell because I'm so quiet but inside I'm SCREAMING-"
"Y…yes." His voice broke slightly though, and he cringed at how weak it sounded. This was one reason he didn't make friends. Friends made you weak, made you vulnerable, and vulnerability got you killed. The second reason…
"You don't sound too good, Herb." He took a step forward. "Maybe I should-"
"NO-"
"-nonononono! Go away, because I know you're not real and this is all some nightmare, I'm being punished for my cruelty and you're just another part of it because you look like Dan, Dan who's dead and every time I see your face I see him die again and I could stand being alone in this crypt but you being here makes it so much worse, god, what have I DONE-"
"-no…" he took a deep breath and the mirror slipped slightly in his grip, his palms were suddenly slick with perspiration. "No, I…I'm fine I just…I need a moment."
"Okay." But the tone was doubtful. "It was just a question, Herb."
"I know." He reached behind his glasses to wipe his face (sweat?tears?) and took a large swallow. "It's really nothing, but-"
Subject is recovering from physical and psychological trauma, one example of relapse, trigger unknown.
He had to be carried, kicking and screaming to the medical ward, still deeply asleep. It had been his first instance of REM sleep in months and he hadn't been prepared for it. He screamed miscellaneous things, profane statements, babbling nonsense, and had twisted and turned with such force it took five orderlies alone just to pin him down, and eight to keep him there. They had had to jam a leather strap in his mouth to keep him from biting his own tongue in half. He had to be sedated into deeper sleep, because he just could not wake himself up from the nightmare. According to the doctors, he had calmed somewhat in the six-hour interlude but had gone on crying jags that lasted forty minutes at a time. Of that horrific fever dream, Herbert could only remember a fraction.
They say some psychological trauma never goes away, and it can be triggered at odd moments by nearly anything. Some triggers were simple, the sound of running water, others complex, the song "Gloomy Sunday" on a hot day in July. Some were so odd that the patient was unlikely to hear them more than once or twice in their entire lifetime. West's was simple enough, just two words in the right tone of voice.
Crane had unwittingly spoken the trigger. He had found out who had been pilfering his stolen medical supplies from his secret cubby out in the rec room. A natural enough complaint. But if only he hadn't been profane, had only worded it differently…
"Wessst!" Crane had hissed at his sleeping form. "Basstard!"
Hebert didn't open his eyes but screamed and screamed and screamed.
Subject has gone 32 months without REM sleep, look into past instances of medical irregularity.
"-you never know who could be listening." He finished lamely. A snort sounded from nearby.
"Honestly." Crane mumbled. "We could care less about your pillow talk, I just want to sleep."
"Shut up." West was glad ash had replied. His throat seemed to have closed up.
"oh god…"
Dan had taken him to see a movie once. West had sulked because of the interruption to their work, when he should have been glad that Dan cared enough about Herbert's well-being to spend money he didn't really have. It was a midnight showing by a college student, the foyer smelled of body odor and patchouli. They paid for tickets and sat down between a young man with prodigious arm-hair growth and a woman with a violet Mohawk. He had grumbled when the title came on. "Johnny got his gun". He hated war movies, they never seemed to have a point, and they always gave the message that blind brutality was rewarded and cautious judgment was deemed cowardly. But Dan had insisted, and Dan hardly ever insisted, so Herbert was quite powerless to object.
And yes, it had been upsetting, which Herbert found of most war movies. But this one had been distressing in a way he hadn't quite been able to put his finger on. A young man had been shelled in the last days of World War II, and he lay in a hospital bed like a bloody starfish, quadriplegic, deaf, dumb, blind, without a face, unable to die. West had bitten his lip at that, and sunk deeper into his chair, Dan giving a grunt of either satisfaction or oblivion. It had gone steadily downhill from there.
"I'm like a piece of meat that just goes on living…"
He had bitten his lip hard, drawing iron and salt gone unnoticed till the drive home, but Dan had just sat there, unmoving. It was times like these West regretted not being friends with Dan, because while weaker, Dan had backbone in places West had never allowed himself to acknowledge he had.
When they had left the theatre, West had tried to make a few acerbic comments and laugh the movie off, tried to do what he thought Dan would expect him to do, but Dan had remained silent. Further tries had been shrugged off, and Herbert followed Dan to the car, sulking slightly. In what he recognized now as extremely poor taste, Herbert had tried one last bid for Dan's attention.
"At least his limbs stayed dead."
This was meant to be funny.
It wasn't seen as funny.
Dan spun around so suddenly that for a moment West felt sure that Dan was going to hit him, and he cringed. But Dan only spat out through clenched teeth: "Shut up West!"
He had been honestly hurt, as his attempt at brevity was his last line of defense against a problem he could neither grasp or give name to. Dan continued the affront, slowly and unconsciously backing West into a corner between two buildings.
"God, I can never get through to you! I was trying to show you something here, something meaningful, and it just went right by you, didn't it? I suppose you were studying precisely what angle they sawed off his limbs and were too busy to catch the message."
Rarely was Dan this forceful. Or personal. He reeled for an answer.
"Uh…war is hell?"
Dan took a deep breath, tilting his head back and shutting his eyes, a response that Herbert was quite used to by now. His teachers all through grade school had done the same thing, and a few professors as well.
"You think this is funny, don't you?"
"What?"
"You thinks it's funny. Emotion, sympathy, humanity, that sort of thing." His tone was level and dead, as if all his energy was expelled in the outburst.
"No, I do-"
"Yes, you do. You go on and live you own little twisted existence in suspended animation, while all other people grow old and have children and die. And you chuckle to yourself, Herbert West: Reanimator, genius, contemptor of the human race."
"Dan-"
"I hope you recognized the young man in the movie today, Herbert, I really do. Because you know him."
Herbert was at a loss. "I do?"
"Oh yeah, we both do. He's the first successfully reanimated human being. Desiccated. An abomination. But alive." His tone grew harsher. "I hope you recognized him, Herbert, because you know what? We're going to be seeing him sometime in the near future. Maybe in a few days, maybe a few years. But we'll be seeing him, and we'll be there when he first regains consciousness, disoriented, and we'll be there when he screams for death, maybe so much so that you cut out his tongue to be rid of it-"
"Dan!" Herbert nearly yelled, "Stop it!"
But Dan had a fire in him, something he hadn't seen since he they first met, something that had drained out of him so gradually it hadn't really been noticed. But it was back, full force.
"You stop it!" Dan had really yelled, getting uncomfortably close. "Stop denying that this is what you're going to create! It isn't going to be insane like those other failures, its going to be awake, aware of what you've done to it, and it's going to cry for death, because you've brought it back from peace to a meaningless existence-"
"I can give life!" Herbert had screamed back, going slightly red in the face. "I can bring back that which has been lost to the grave! If you were any kind of scientist-"
"Oh, come off it West, scientists learn from their mistakes, you're doomed to repeat the same ones again and again! It doesn't matter how hard or how long you try, you'll never succeed! You know what the definition of insanity is? It's repeating the same actions over and over again and expecting a variant result!"
"Dan, I am not insane-"
"Oh, but you're something, all right! No one does the things you do and stays human, if you were human to begin with! The very notion of humanity escapes you, you devote all of your energy to the how, not the why!"
"Dr. Cain." West stated coolly. "Please, elaborate."
"All right." Dan appeared to gather his thoughts. "You want to revive the dead. But you put so much emphasis on the will of the brain. You neglect the soul."
A snort from West.
"I'm serious, Herbert. Yes, survival instinct is strong, but what about reasons for wanting to survive? Not everyone has the repulsion of death as you do, Herbert. Some people see it as a last chance for dignity, others a way out. Would they thank you?"
West rolled his eyes. "Sometimes important work is thankless, Dan. If scientific work were only done on a gratifying basis, none of us would be where we were if-"
"But you're missing the point, Herbert! Who's going to decide who lives and who dies? You? The government? The church? None of you are qualified to have that kind of power-"
"Ha! Compare me to those idealogs, those perpetrators of mass murder! I'm insulted that you try to bring religion into this, where it has no application. This "right" to die is just as much of an illusion as other rules set by such corrupt institutions! Once we master death-"
"But it's wrong Herbert, don't you see that it's wrong? Do you even know what wrong is? Didn't anyone ever teach you these things that only you seem to lack? Were you ever a child, do you ever weep or laugh or feel anything that doesn't directly affect you? My god, if you were a dog, they would've put you to sleep by now! If you were in any sane society, they would've sent you to an asylum for the criminally deranged!"
"But Dan," Hebert said with a smirk, "What about you? It's all well and good to speculate and throws stones, but you forget about the most important piece to this puzzle of ethics. You. If I am truly damned, you yourself are definitely gong to hell for your perceived-" and here he lent extra disdain to the word, "-injunctions against mankind."
Dan's eyes were dead. "I know."
"What?" He hadn't been prepared for concession this easily.
Dan sighed. "I know this sounds stupid to you Herbert, but I long ago made peace with the fact that if there is really a hell, I'm going there. If not my deeds, then for letting you get away with so much without trying to stop you." He sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose. "There's an old saying; "when good leaves the room, evil locks the door behind it." I think it applies to our current situation. I've done more damage by staying with you all this time, not fighting you, than you could ever do on your own. You see, I've figured something out; you can't really do anything worthwhile unless there's someone alongside you, to disagree with you, drive you on-"
"-So you're saying I'm co-dependant?"
"Please Hebert." Dan looked very, very old. "Don't interrupt. I think Gruber was that for you, but when he died, you had to find someone who lacked the will or the way to leave you. Someone to object-but not strongly- to what you did. And you found me."
"So," Herbert's forehead creased. "You think I picked you because you were compliant?"
"No, maybe not consciously." Dan looked at him now, and however old his face looked at the moment, his eyes were eons ancient. "I think you just do that automatically by now. I think I seemed least likely to hurt you. Because it's not really death you fear, Herbert. It's life."
"…What?" West asked incredulously.
"You are more frightened by the possibility of dealing with more complex emotional problems than by the walking dead. That shows a distinct lack of a sense of proportion, West."
"And so you're a psychiatrist now?" West asked wryly
"No, West. This is basic stuff. Stuff just about anyone but you can see, apparently."
"Dan, you're obviously letting your ethical bias affect your judgment-"
"I know I am, West. God, I don't even know why I try with you anymore."
The conversation was apparently over. West had felt frightened, like Dan was slowly receding from him while staying in the same place, which was why he had gotten so defensive. He felt empty as they got into the car, as if arguing with Dan had taken something from him. He tried one last time to appease his partner and, subconsciously, free himself from guilt.
"Daniel," he said as they buckled their seatbelts. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah." Dan didn't look at him. "So'm I."
He had started the car and driven back to their shared house, and not long after had implicated Herbert in court and sent him to this festering hellhole.
Standing here now, Herbert couldn't quite decide whether he was sorry for knowing Dan. Some days he dreamed about breaking out and vengeance, other times he thought of redemption and finding Daniel, wherever he had gone, and begging for a place to stay. He could no longer tell what he truly wanted, what he felt, this place was leaching his all-abiding certainty from him, he was disappearing into its walls.
"Herb?" Ash's voice broke him from his reverie. "You okay?"
Do I look okayidiot?!
"-Yes, I'm perfectly fine, and-"
"-and once I escape I'm going to shoot myself because even if I leave I'll still be here and my life will be a waking nightmare Dan was right to leave me, I hurt him the most because I killed him but left him alive, oh Daniel I'm sorry because I destroy everything I touch and everything I care about dies-"
Only an animal whimper came out of his mouth, which he quickly put his hand over. Water welled up in his eyes like hot acid, and his chest felt incredibly heavy. He was getting dangerously close to dropping the mirror, it dangled from his nearly limp hands.
"West?" Ash's voice was getting urgent. "West! The nurse is coming! If she sees that-"
He didn't have to say it twice. Herbert clumsily attempted to draw it through the bars, the loud clattering echoed throughout the hall. He was biting his lip to keep from screaming, the pain was intense, though where emotional pain ended and physical pain began, Herbert had never been less sure in his life.
Something pale abruptly shot through the bars of Ash's cell and grabbed Herbert's hand to steady it. It was Ash's hand and its warmth made Herbert sick.
Don't touch me, I don't deserve it.
For a long couple of minutes, the only sound in the hall was its inmates labored breathing. Asenath was on duty tonight, she was one of the hardened local girls, not from there but nearby Ipswich. Through some unknown power, when reprimanding an inmate she also had the right to dose the other inmates with whatever was handy. Capture at her hands was not sought after, even by the most spent souls. They heard the loud clunk-clunk of her sensible heels outside the door, and for a second inmates facing the right angle could see her cruel pale visage at the small window in the door. But the light in the hall was poor, and hunched in the shadows, West and Ash went undetected.
After her footsteps receded into the distance, the inmates breathed a collective sigh of relief.
"For the love of god, Williams, keep him quiet!" Crane said, being the unofficial spokesman for the ward. "I would like to avoid spending the rest of the month full of Ziprasidone, thank you."
"Shh." Ash's eyes were locking on Herbert, whose gaze rolled about the room. "It's allright, Hebert."
Allright.
All right.
How typical of Ash.
About five days into their acquaintance, Ash had come up to him during outside time and apologized.
"I've been kind of a dick." He said, holding a hand out to Herbert. "Came to apologize. You can't really help what happened."
Hebert didn't take the hand but stared at it like it was some kind of strange new animal. Ash sighed, a sound reminiscent of his old partner, and had taken Herbert's hand in his and shook it.
"Okay?" he asked. "Okay. Let's start over. I'm in here for something that apparently never happened, and you're in here for something you didn't directly do."
"Hm." Herbert said and went back to his book.
It had taken some time for Herbert to warm up to Ash, it by "warm up" you mean "make eye contact" or "respond to attempted verbal engagement".
Ash had a reasonable fear of the walking dead, everything in his room had to be flat against the floor and bolted down. Herbert had toyed briefly with the idea of making him his assistant, but had dismissed the notion quickly. Not only did Ash have barely a college-level education, he was also glaringly sane, and unlikely to follow all orders. Herbert could see what the doctors could not, that Ashley was indeed telling the truth about himself, unless he had cut off his own right had and sutured it himself. Which Herbert doubted.
The strangest thing about the newcomer was this; he actually saw Herbert as another human being. The other inmates regarded him as just another face, no threat really, and the doctors viewed him from a lens, dissecting Herbert in the same way he had dissected others. The guards viewed him only as a potential threat, and the nurses saw him as another headcase to feed and drug. But Ashley was the first person Herbert had ever met who honestly felt sorry for him, despite their nearly identical circumstances.
"Hey Herbie, I was wondering, you have anybody waiting for you out there?"
"One: don't call me Herbie, and two: get your hand off my arm, and three: out where?"
"You know." He gestured with his dark head out the window. "On the outside."
Herbert put a carton of milk on his tray and left the lunch line. "No." he called over his shoulder at Ash. He caught up with his while he sat down, attempting to force the carton open.
"You mean, no one?" he asked. "Here, let me get that for you."
"No." Herbert replied. "No one whatsoever. Thank you."
"Hm." Ash got thoughtful. "You really mean no one? I mean, even a guy like you-"
"Yes, Ashley, I really mean no one, and I don't appreciate you prying into my personal life; pass the mustard please." He said while inserting a straw into his milk. He detested drinking from the carton, it made him look like an animal.
"Well you just –here you go- say no one like no one really cares if you're in here or not. Like no one will care if you die. You sure you don't have anything like a girlfriend?"
"Nope."
"Parents?"
"Please."
"No friends?"
Ne thought of Dan and swallowed quickly. "None."
"Wow." He seemed genuinely sad at this. "That's pretty bad, Herbert."
He decided to turn the tables. "Do you have anyone on the-" he mimicked Ash's earlier gesture. "-outside?"
"Yeah." He smiled a little self-consciously and shifted his eyes downwards. "A few friends. Ones that weren't at the cabin with me. And my dad, he's gettin' pretty on in years though."
"Why aren't you in his custody?"
"He couldn't get the criminal ruling overturned. Because even though they didn't find the bodies, I was still the last person seen with the missing people." He shifted his eyes back to Hebert's. "But I gotta say, that's not as bad as having no one in the world. Is it because of something you did?"
"No." he stabbed his noodle casserole hard. "I just don't put much store in friends, that's all."
"Oh." An agonizing silence followed, with Ash studying Hebert and Herbert pretending not to notice. Finally he heaved a sigh and sat back in his seat.
"Boy." Ash said, stretching a little. "That sucks. Tell you what, if you want, I can be your friend. Whaddya' say to that?"
No!
"Really, Ashley, you shouldn't bother."
"C'mon, I asked you not to call me Ashley, and why not?"
"Shh."
And so on and so forth. Herbert still wouldn't admit verbally to their friendship and whether or not he truly needed it, but as tenuous as it was, it was the most real thing Herbert had in this hellhole. He wasn't sure about anything anymore, did he really have feelings once, or was that just an illusion of the bright world outside these walls? He felt very much like a person who has died a long time ago but kept existing and no longer knows why. He could no longer write, it all came out in a dyslexic scribble. Even if he could, he had nothing, no unorthodox theories, no brilliant formulas, nothing. His mind had been taken from him, and it had been all he had left.
"Yes." He heard himself numbly say. "It's allright now."
He could see Ash's eyes gazing at him with sympathy, which filled him slightly with revulsion.
"That's good." He dropped West's hand. "Try to get some sleep now, okay?"
"Okay."
He trudged monotonously back to his bed, listening for the telltale squeak of springs before laying down himself and wiping his eyes once more.
One day he would forget why he was in here. One day Herbert West would go far away and not return, leaving behind only an empty shell that hadn't been full to begin with.
Diagnosis: subject is unwilling or unable to seek voluntary medical attention, see therapy sessions 9-27.
"Night, Herbert."
Prognosis: incurable.
"Night."
And across the United States, in a quiet town called Clearwater, Daniel Cain puts down the book he was reading and turns to the wall, thinking of Herbert West.
Author's note: Finally! You've made it to the end of the rainbow! I didn't expect it to be this long, but time makes fools of us all. Since Herbert West is a Lovecraft creation, only natural that he should be sent to Arkham with the others. Ash in Arkham is not a new concept, I know, but I think the way they interacted in this story was pretty original. I kinda got the Ash/Dan subplot from Silent Hill 2, with Mary/Maria. I was slightly fascinated with the concept that the double was sent there to encourage the man to punish himself, and I decided it should take the place of a crossover. Ash doesn't belong in Arkham, on more levels than one. A little more insight into Dan/West's twisted relationship in "Imago", the companion piece to this one. Be seeing you.