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Searching For My Shadow – Part VI
Raphael had not visited his mother for consecutively two days. Dr. Crane did not suspect anything at first, until a social worker appeared in his office one morning to inquire about the boy. He had not turned up for school either. As he was Mrs. Peacock's psychiatrist, Dr. Crane agreed to accompany the social worker to check on her son at his home later that afternoon.
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He had arrived early. He rang the doorbell, but only received silence as an answer. Dr. Crane pretended to dismiss this lightly, and stood at the door waiting for the arrival of the social worker. The latter arrived a few minutes later, and unlocked the door to the apartment.
An unnerving silence filled the apartment; their footsteps shattering it as they headed toward the boy's room. Dr. Crane knew beyond doubt that something had happened. He had identified Death walking through this apartment before them. He could recognise its touch, its smell, the way it clung on to everything it breathed on. As their eyes fell upon the boy's motionless body lying face down on his bedroom floor, he was aware this was merely a confirmation of his suspicions.
Broken shards of glass covered the floor, remnants of a broken flask, curiously shaped like crystal dewdrops. It was easier to stare at the light refracting within the glass, because focusing on something definite and material was less complicated than confronting the first pangs of guilt and grief.
His eyes caught sight of the cages. The mice were no longer alive; Death had caught them in mid-motion, snuffing their lives out as easily as extinguishing small flickering candle flames. He allowed himself to look at the books, the curtains, the tables, and the experimental set-up, paying attention to everything except Raphael's thin body.
The social worker knelt beside the boy, checking for a pulse just for propriety's sake, for the boy had obviously been dead for two days. She turned the body over, and gave a cry.
Raphael's face was contorted. It was as though he had been tortured to death, but his body bore no trace of physical injuries. Dr. Crane knew that he had died after inhaling a fatal concentration of the fear gas.
The mind can only take so much.
In his mind, he saw Raphael falling to the ground, choking and gasping, the gas dispersing throughout the room. He wondered what images flashed across the boy's mind before he breathed his last. With the excuse that he had to return to his work at the hospital, Dr. Crane left the scene hastily, leaving the social worker to conduct the coda of Death's masterpiece.
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Back at his office, Dr. Crane was left alone to his thoughts.
It's your fault, you know, says Julien.
Shut up, he hissed, ignoring the guilt gnawing at his heart. I knew nothing.
Yes you did. You knew he would try something as dangerous as that, she persists.
Could you leave me alone? He begged desperately.
No, I won't. I have to let you know what I think. I...
He grabbed the glass paperweight that lay on his desk and flung it at the wall in an empty corner of his office. It shattered.
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They say that time heals all wounds. But there are some hurts that time cannot mend, and only self-deception and a perverted interest in something else that calls for a mind's full attention can cover the pain. Dr. Crane had to find a way, some sort of protection for himself, if he were to use the fear gas. A thin voice captured the first idea and brought it to him.
Scarecrow.
A burlap sack would be the perfect starting material...
To be continued...