A Living Dance upon Dead Minds

Disclaimer: All due credit to Bond, Wheeler, and Sondheim.

A/N: This is a "revival-world" piece. If you haven't seen it, know that Toby is thinking back on the events in an insane asylum and mentally casting the inmates and doctors in the roles. The woman described throughout is one of his caretakers, and Toby identifies her with Pirelli. And if you haven't seen this revival, run, don't walk.

"Always a beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question" – e.e. cummings

xxxxx

October 31, 1848. London, England. 4:18 am.

The moon slips out of London at night.

No one really notices except the lovers, and there are certainly no lovers here. Here there is steel, and it really could be moonlight. Some of the tenants want the lanterns on at night, so they can pretend it's moonlight. Here there is a lot of pretending. It's in the air, and it settles into the spaces between the bars. Fantasy. The monsters come to life here.

A monster lurks these very hallways. It can kill with its eyes.

She walks with a lantern and mission, the stern cacophony of her footsteps echoing and dispersing into the night. A scream from #298 woke her up, but the right combination of fluids from the apothecary can put even these children to sleep. But once she is awake, she is awake, and she's coming to battle an old rival. She brought the weaponry: a bucket of soap water and a sponge. It's time.

Room #403 is no longer in use, but it is one of only about twelve rooms with a window. In the very corner of the room, below the not-quite-functional sink, is a grouping of lines and arrows. They don't seem to mean anything, but if one traces a careful finger along the lines, they forge a distinct route from one place to another. The lines correspond with passageways under the building that date back to the asylum's days as a dungeon. They lead right to the streets of London, not far from the decks where the sailors come in. Not far from the sea.

She picks up her sponge and her bucket and begins to scrub. The work is tedious, but the lines slowly but surely disappear. No one really knew they existed, and they didn't lead to any serious asylum break-outs.

Except for one.

There is a word above the lines. It is clearer than the map and much younger; it's something she remembers (has been trying to forget). She collapses on the floor and simply stares at it for moments on end. She could laugh or cry or smile or pound the steel walls until someone wakes up. But she simply sits and wonders whatever happened to…

Crazy. They're all damned crazy, and she is crazy for putting up with them.

The map is gone. It could have never existed. The word could have never existed, and hell the building could have never existed, and she could be sitting in a man's living room eating biscuits and watching the sun rise. He could kiss her head softly and tell her that he thinks tomorrow would be the perfect day for a stroll. Perfect.

No, she is here. Not the woman in her head, never will be. She is not a captive of her own foolish subconscious, and she can pride herself on that fact. She picks up the bucket and the sponge and leaves the name on the wall (and everything else) behind.

Toby.