Dr. Bloor watched Emilia literally melt in front of him. She was shaking and seemed to be oblivious of her surroundings like a doe surrounded by a pack of wolves. It reminded him of someone else, but he couldn't quite place who. "She's waking," he murmured mostly to himself.
Suddenly, he felt agitated. "I believe your services are no longer - ." He paused, struggling to remember the right word.
"Needed?" the other man offered.
"Yes, needed," the headmaster said. He was surprised he couldn't recall such a simple word a few seconds ago. Why was his brain malfunctioning today? He tried to come up with a logical reason to explain it, but it was like trying to catch fish with a bow and arrow.
He didn't know why, but that made him feel angry. It welled up in his chest. The man had a strong urge to hit something which he couldn't comprehend. He wanted to watch someone beg for his mercy as they tried to protect themselves from his brutal assault. He wanted to see blood splattered in little specks on the windows and dripping from the walls. But not just anyones blood. He wanted someone weak; someone helpless. Corrupted innocence was his sweet, dirty fetish. (Sounds wrong. Sorry)
Dr. Bloor caught the sight of his sadistic grin in the reflection of the closed window and recoiled in shock. He looked like a monst - no, a murderer; like Casey Antony or Jeffrey Dahmer. If he had ever felt and sadness or shame at this level of drunkness, this would be it.
Had there been other times when he felt like this? To tell the truth, he didn't really remember. He reassured himself that this must be an indicator that it was a first time feeling. If he had ever attacked anyone, they would have fought back and he would have bruises in the morning. He'd have to remember that.
Unless they were unable to defend themselves. The thought caused a lurching sensation in his stomach. He hurriedly poured himself another glass of wine and managed to get it down in two gulps. The feeling slowly diminished before going away completely. A few minutes later, he would notice that the bottle was only half full and wonder why he had drunk the first half.
Dr. Bloor thought he could hear a strange noise in the background. Someone was crying. Looking around the room, he could faintly discern someone lying on the ground. It looked like a girl, but he couldn't really tell because they were all blurry.
Someone coughed politely, as if to draw his attention to them. He shifted his gaze upwards to see a man standing by the doorway as if they were unsure of what to do. Strangely, they also seemed fuzzy, as did most other things around the room.
Must be getting dark, he thought. "What time is it?"
The other man looked confused, as if they weren't expecting that question. Looking at their watch, they said, "2 o'clock. Why?"
"Just curious," said Dr. Bloor, too embarrassed to explain that he had forgotten the real reason for his question.
"Should I go like you told me to?" Mr. Moon was wearing an expression of extreme confusion.
It took several seconds for the headmaster to comprehend the question and several more to recall what he was supposed to be doing.
"On second thought. . ." The headmaster's sentence faded out. He seemed to be contemplating his decision. However, after a quick look at Emilia, whose hysterics were beginning to escalate, he said, "On second thought, get my son."
For some reason, he had to repeat the command twice before Mr. Moon understood him.
As the man dutifully left the room, still muttering about something, the head master wrinkled his nose in disgust at the sobbing lump in front of him.
The girl, Emmy or whatever, was really setting him on edge.
Dr. Bloor took a long swig of whatever happened to be in the glass in front of him. Whiskey? Beer? By now, he didn't really care enough to try to figure out.
As he filled another glass, he briefly remembered his son, Michael or something those lines, who had similar breakdowns. Albeit, they were a lot more violent and definitely much less rare, not to mention costly. Fortunately, those could be solved with sedatives and a few swift slaps.
Groaning, he ran his hand through his greasy hair once more and tried to remember the last time he'd taken a shower. Not since last Thursday, that was for sure. What day was it today? Sunday? Saturday? Why was he trying to remember the days of the week again? Unable to revoke his train of thought, or any thought in all truth, the somber headmaster allowed his vision to sweep the floor, which seemed even more smudged than a few hours ago.
His gaze passed over what seemed to be a weeping child and several broken beer bottles until they landed on a cardboard box, or rather the remains of it. He identified the spilled contents as cereal, and momentarily allowed a small grin form; he'd been practically living off Cheerios since Friday evening.
It evanescenced within a matter of seconds as the familiar creak of the door resonated through the room.
I had to cut it here because this chapter would have been scarily long if I didn't. Chapter three is still going to be overly long. So yeah, Dr. Bloor's an alcoholic. Dorothy de Vere's worse, but you're not going to meet her until chapter 5 or 6. Hope you liked this chapter, the next will be even sadder. Rate and review please.
