Thanks to Damsel-in-stress, my constant reviewer and to those others who have also reviewed, you guys are wonderful!
Tuesday. What has Tuesday brought? The sun. When I open the front door of the cottage, the heat is the first thing I notice. Yesterday's cold weather has been replaced with light clouds and blue sky. Someone in this world must be happy then.
Struggling to remember the streets taken to get to the asylum, I shrug on a coat and head into the heat. The walk is rather long and boring, with nothing much to catch my interest or attention for more than a few seconds.
When I find the street that leads to the square, I recognize it immediately. Shadow falls onto its cobble stone from the shape of the buildings lining it and I find myself shivering even in the heat as I turn onto it.
The asylum looks slightly different in the sunlight, less gloomy. Even though I know what sort lies on the interior, the outside looks no more disturbing than any other house or shop, except when you read the sign that glints sharply in the sun, the words burning into the metal.
Once more I knock on the door, waiting more impatiently than the last time, having been waiting for this for the past few days. After being turned down once, I'm not sure I want to even go in.
Of course I do because she's in there. Which is the exact same reason I don't want to. Do I want to know what condition she's in? Of course I do. No, not really. Yes.
The door opens and the tall, pointy man steps forward again, his vest set so perfectly straight on his body that it reminds me of a corset, holding his perfect posture together along with his self importance.
"What do you want?" he demands.
"You said this is open Tuesdays."
He grimaces then moves aside, waving for me to come in. I brush past him into the lobby. It's a plain room, with a desk facing the door and what must be the one window in this hole. Another wooden door leads off to the left, and I know she's on the other side somewhere.
A gray haired man sits at the desk hunched over a paper, scrawling across it in a dutiful way, the nib of the feathered pen scratching the parchment in a familiar sound, the sound any pen makes. The way the feather touches his hand speaks of good use and training to fall the right way for the writer, grazing the skin of the hand perfectly.
The door closes heavily behind me and the dark haired man passes me to stand next to the other at the desk. I walk up to them both, unsure how you really go about this.
"I would like in," I say hesitantly, addressing the one writing. He doesn't look up when he answers.
"We're allowing no weaponry inside. Please remove any knives, swords, guns or others. Not a very lively bunch, the crowd today. It's too sunny to be indoors, but if you want to go in, I'm sure there is still some fun to be had."
The tall one walks to the door and opens it, just as I hear a loud laugh come from the other side. Curious, I go through the doorway. It opens onto a hall to my right, the floor made of cement or smooth stone. A few men stand about, looking into the cells lined up in one row along the wall, heavy bars separating them from their entertainment.
The laughing man is chorused by a few others at the same cell, a woman's high pitched laugh as she clings to her husband's arm. She looks sort of frightened of the person inside, but highly amused at the same time. I can't see what the person has done. I can't see them at all.
Afraid to find Elizabeth, I venture into the hall, once more hearing the door shut behind me. The first cell is empty and dust has gathered in the corners of the unused space. It looks so dejected, so uncared for. The second is also empty, a silent picture of no colour. I think there are ten in all. I find the first occupied cell. A man sits with his knees folded to his chest, singing quietly to himself in another language, his hair long and ragged, his clothes torn. When I stop and look at him, he turns his head, his eyes narrowing and his hands shaking. He jumps to his feet and runs at the bars, growling fiercely at me. Quickly turning away, I move to the next, wanting to find her soon and get out.
I pass the one the woman had been laughing at. A frail woman stares at them with a confused expression. Four more women cluster in the corner of the space, terrified of the viewers. They're thin frames quiver in fear and one of them whimpers. Disgust at all these poor souls makes me walk faster.
The next holds a sharp faced girl, her skin pale, and her hands gray. But she looks so young. Her companion sits on the bench that they have. Her face is calm, her eyes sad but her posture composed. She looks completely normal, even beautiful. She's probably someone who refused a hand in marriage, to the wrong man. Sympathy for the poor girl makes me pause for a moment, but not wanting to be like the others, I move on.
And finally, I find the right cell. Two men stand outside the bars, heads tilted to the side, looking in.
I look inside. She's sitting on her bench, calm like the other woman. Her hair still falls messily over her shoulders and her dress is still ripped and stained. She keeps her eyes on the floor, a blank look on her face, quiet and unreadable. What is she thinking about?
When she sees another body move into her line of sight, she looks up and her eyes find mine, the look changing.
She smiles. And I take a step back, afraid. This is not the smile I want, not the warmth I need. It's mocking, like I'm the one behind bars. The others snicker and move away to more entertaining subjects.
I say nothing, waiting for something, for that smile to disappear.
"The rocks are over there," she says, pointing to a spot behind me. I haven't had one thrown at me for a few hours now," she smirks, her eyes sparking in that mocking way, again.
"What have they done to you?" I ask, stepping forward to touch the cool bars. They're rusty and uncomfortable, but I don't remove my hand.
She laughs, her smile highly amused. "So you're one of them, one of the questioners. Why don't you go deal with your own life, fix something that's really broken. I'm not," her eyes are lit with defiance.
"I'm here to help you."
"Like the rest of those who run this place? I don't belong here."
"Elizabeth..."
She narrows her eyes. "This morning, no one knew my name. I didn't know my name. But I told them, I told them and now they tell you, as if you can use it for something. As if you have the right to say my name. My name," she spits.
"I'm going to get you out of here," I say, moving closer so I'm leaning into the bars.
"That's likely. Why don't you join me instead? Although, your face is to pretty to be behind bars," she smiles and stands up, taking a small step forward.
Her face is too pretty to be behind bars and I've seen it in that situation once before. But she doesn't see the connection and she doesn't know my face. Looking out at me from a cell rings no bell with her.
"I promise you, I will get you out of here."
She takes a few more steps forward so that she's inches away from me. Then she reaches through the bars with one hand and touches my cheek, that smile never leaving her face.
"And then what? Once I'm out of these bars, what are we going to do?" she's very close, her heat touching my skin. Her face is close to my own, her breath warm on my lips.
"I'm not leaving you."
"Then where are you taking me? What could possibly have merited such great kindness?" she says, her breath whispering over my lips. It's uncomfortable. If she doesn't know me, why is she so close to me? "Selfishness instead, perhaps?"
"I love you," I say. Oh great, now I've done it.
She laughs. "You do have a very nice face." She leans even closer, her lips brushing mine. I pull away, taking a step back. Her hand drops from my cheek, her arms hanging out of the bars. She reaches out and with one graceful but harsh hand she grabs the lapel of my coat and drags me back to her, a playful smile one those lips.
Her breath against mine makes my thoughts trip over one another. I've missed her so long. I think I see it, why Jack couldn't resist. Shaking that discomforting thought from my mind, I place a hand over hers, prying her fingers loose. She backs off slowly, still smiling teasingly.
"Oh, now you're no fun," she pouts.
"Do you remember anything?" I try again, shaking off her lingering touch from my mind. Even though it bothers me, I'll leave it for now. She smirks at my dodge.
There she is, her hair curled to perfection, her hat perched richly on her golden head. Her soft dress blows in the sweet wind and the flowers at the stand far away touch the air with their exotic flavours. The pink ribbon she toys with sails in the wind, until she catches it with a white-gloved hand.
I watch her admire it, running the fabric through her fingers. She takes her glove off to feel the texture, a small smile on her lips.
Unable to stay away any longer, I sidle up next to her. "It's a fine colour. I'll buy it for you."
She looks at me, startled, a warm smile on her lips. "Do I know you? You look familiar."
"Yes, we've met before." We've met a very long time before. I love you, I love you, I love you. And you loved me, you did. And you will again. And after we met, I thought about you all the time. "Would you mind joining me for a walk?"
"I don't see why not," she says and we walk through the market, her carrying her newly purchased ribbon. It dances with her steps, fluttering against her skirts.
"My name is Will," I say, watching her face for the reaction, if there would be one.
"Will... I think I do know you. What is your last name?"
"Turner."
She stops and drags me to a halt. I turn back to face her. "Will Turner. I think... there's something..." she shakes her head, trying to come up with the memories. She stops, her breath catching. When her eyes meet mine again, they're confused. "You're him. Mine? I've been... how... why?"
I catch her chin with my hand, stopping her words from coming.
"It's alright. It will all come back soon. Everything will be cleared up I promise you."
The next thing I know, she's in my embrace, burying her face in my chest. I clutch her to me possessively, in relief. Because once more she is mine and I am hers.
And she begins to sob, slowly at first when the first memories hit her, then more violent. The market around us disappears as I hold this girl, this fragile creature to me, trying to comfort her by saying nothing, let her revisit her past, letting her find me in her mind. I let her find the sea. I let her find Jack, The Pearl and The Dutchman. I don't say a word as she remembers. And when she pulls back and looks up at me, she wipes away a few tears and kisses me, gentle soft and sweet.
"No, there is nothing worth remembering I think. After waking up covered in blood, knowing it's my own but finding no wounds, do you think I want to know? Have you ever felt that way, where you wake up and wonder how you got there? What's putting you through this?"
"Every day," I answer bitterly.
She smirks again. "I don't know what happened. But I remember one thing."
"What?"
"Something a lover once said to me."
"What did he say?" I ask eagerly.
"What makes you think it's a he?" she snaps. Then she shakes her head, continuing. "He said, 'No cause is lost if there is but one fool left to fight for it.'" She shakes her head slowly, mockingly again. "Mean anything to you?"
I just stare at her. Of course it means something to me. A line I had said referring to saving my father, now it holds a different significance. I just don't know if I'm too big a fool for it to do much or hold true.
"No, didn't think so. That's the one thing I get to know, apart from my name and a few other things jostled about. But that's the only thing I can ever remember someone saying to me, and it means nothing, nothing at all to me."
She's right. Of all the things, why would she remember that? It could have been 'I love you'. It could have been 'Will you marry me?' But those words that she so carelessly repeated still hold value to me. She remembers something at least. My words repeated is like a life line thrown out there. But it could have been something more... loving, more significant to her. But it isn't.
"What else? What other things do you remember?"
"My age, but that small unimportant number feels wrong. But that's how many years I count, how many I know I am for sure. And yet, it's wrong. The number is right but the counting is wrong," she says, scrunching up her brow, a look of utter confusion.
"I'm going to get you out of here, and then I am going to help you learn more. I'm going to help you remember."
"I said I don't want to remember," she hisses, her glare piercing my eyes. Her sudden anger makes me catch my breath. "You're all mad, every one of you on the other side of this cage. You're the ones who need to be locked up. You've made these bars, you've tied these bonds. But you're all crazy because you can't see that what you've made is meant for you. And if there ever was a day where you were in the right place, in here, the fools we are would laugh at you. We would laugh because you're all so blind you locked the doors on your selves. And you're so stupid that you would laugh with us, because you couldn't understand that we were laughing at you. I'm laughing now, because that day won't come. Because it's those that are the completely sane who are completely mad. And one day, you'll know it. You'll know I'm right."
"I'm not like them," I answer carefully, afraid of the wild look in her eyes.
She turns her back on me and walks to the bench, staring at the gray wall.
"I'm not like the people in this place either. They throw me in the same pile as these people; I throw you in with the others. Fair enough, don't you think?" she turns back to me.
"I know you don't belong here." She grimaces and steps forward, coming back to me.
"Tell that to them. At least then you can be my cell mate and we can continue this fascinating discussion for as long as we want. I think I'd rather enjoy your company." She's once again a step away. She cracks a smile, her eyes shining. And I wonder, just briefly, just in a flash, if this is her place. For the shortest moment, I wonder if she's here under good judgment. I wonder if she's truly mad.
"Then why don't you come with me?" I ask, hoping she'll cave.
She takes the final step to the bars and I let her put a hand on my chest. She looks up at me with dark eyes.
"You're very persistent aren't you?" she whispers.
"Please let me get you out."
"I still don't see why. If you want me so bad, here I am," she breathes against my neck, her lips brushing the skin there. She pulls me close by my jacket and locks her lips onto mine, hard and teasing at the same time. Her hand touches my bare chest, sliding across my scarred skin
"Don't," I say firmly and draw away, once again pushing her away from me.
"I'll go with you," she says suddenly, her expression of great amusement.
"What?" I ask, surprised and not sure where she changed her mind. "Why?"
"Because you're different. And I think I might actually like you."
"Do you always kiss people you may not like?"
"Not that I know of. I needed to see if you were just another tormenter come for a bit of fun. Then again, you did decline the offer of throwing stones at me. If you can get me out, I'll go. But then I want you to leave me alone. Let me deal with my own life. I can handle it. You'd best get going; it gets rather busy around this time. All the no goods start showing their faces and it gets a bit loud and chaotic. No one around here has a life, a few people in a pen is entertaining enough. And you, Mr..."
"Turner."
She eyes me funny. "And you Mr. Turner, I assume I will be seeing you soon enough." She smirks and retreats to her bench. When she notices I haven't moved she glares at me. "Just remember, you're all mad." She waves. I reluctantly turn away, knowing that there is nothing more to be said. The others have left, and no new visitors have arrived yet. This is a good time to leave.
"You're all mad." She says as I take a few slow steps down the hall. "All mad!" she calls after me. I speed my pace a bit, wanting to escape this hell. "You're all bloody mad!" she yells louder. As I walk past the other cells, the prisoners come to the bars, watching as I go by. The man who had jumped at me before growls at me and hits his bars angrily. "Bloody mad!" she screeches and I want to cover my ears. I reach for the door latch and jerk it down, swinging the door towards me. "YOU'RE MAD!" she shrieks and her voice echoes around the hall, chasing me. Her sobs and screams follow me until I slam the door behind me. Ignoring the looks from the two men in the lobby, I cross the threshold of the heavy front doors and leave them behind me as I run through the streets, back home, back to my safety.
Her shrieks ring in my ears, in my head, and I know they will follow me for a while to come.
Here are just some neat things I learned through a bit of research for anyone interested:
Asylums were often run open to the public. The viewers came to entertain themselves by watching the insane patients, throwing sticks and rocks at them. They would laugh at the vulgar or sexually natured things the patients would do, provoking them and teasing them. These types of asylums were not meant for curing the patients, but for entertaining others. Then there are the closed hospitals/asylums which dealt more with curing, but there was still some public amusement in the affairs. Sometimes a patient could be sold and it was quite common for their hair to be sold for wigs by paying customers.
The patient did not have to truly be insane or crazy. If a husband disliked his wife and did not want to completely disgrace himself by keeping her company, he could give her to an asylum. Her family would say that she died to anyone that asked, saving the family name. Children were also admitted to these places. Most asylums ran in the late seventeen hundreds and early eighteen hundreds. Most of the patients died in the asylums from disease.
It's actually a very interesting thing to research. Madness in the eighteen and seventeen hundreds was very different from now, as you can see. I discovered some very fascinating things in my search.
Thank you to all of my readers, and my greatly appreciated reviewers. Please review and let me know your thoughts on any of this.