!Warning: M (16+)-rated themes: Depiction of violence and blood.
- XVIII -
Inside His Mind
"Henry! Watch out!" Dr Frankenstein yelled, but it was too late for Jekyll to react.
The attacking shadow that was Francis Fenton had already thrown the chemist to the ground, driving sharp claws into his shoulders, screaming at his tormentor like an irate harpy. Aghast and for a moment rendered entirely motionless by searing pain, Henry stared into the vengeful vampire's burning eyes, but as he beheld the creature opening its mouth to reveal a set of predatory teeth, Jekyll's survival instinct set in again. With all the strength he could muster, he fought against the attacker, but the hitherto so fragile looking boy seemed to possess powers beyond any man's muscularity.
Frankenstein now, too, seized Fenton's arm, courageously trying to drag him away from his friend, and together they were at least able to release Jekyll's shoulders. Stains of crimson fanned out on the chemist's shirt, where Fenton's nails had left behind deep, bleeding lacerations. Before he could scrutinise his wounds, however, he had to brace himself against a second strike, for, although still in Victor's grasp, the vampire attempted to lunge at his victim again, snapping at him with pointy canines.
"Henry, quick! The scalpel in my back pocket...!" Frankenstein hissed between clenched teeth, while clutching the boy's upper arms, struggling to keep the raging creature at bay.
With one step, Jekyll was behind the physician, and with trembling fingers drew the surgical instrument. He had to take a deep breath in order to focus on his target, did he not wish to in the dim light accidentally hurt his friend. Then, Jekyll's hand shot forward, driving the steel blade into Fenton's chest.
How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner
As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier,
As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner,
And drops to perfection's remembrance a tear;
When floods of despair down his pale cheeks are streaming,
When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming,
Or, if lulled for a while, soon he starts from his dreaming,
And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.
Ah, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave,
Or summer succeed to the winter of death?
Rest awhile, hapless victim! and Heaven will save
The spirit that hath faded away with the breath.
Eternity points, in its amaranth bower
Where no clouds of fate o'er the sweet prospect lour,
Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower,
When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.
– P.B. Shelley
She found herself in the middle of a roaring tempest, sharp gusts of wind and heavy gushes of rain assailing her body from every side – or were it pangs of guilt and stabs of dolour lacerating her heart? Lucy braced herself, building a mental wall against all the intense emotions that raged in Renfield's head, not allowing them to affect her in any way. She had to stay focussed, determined to find her servant's self which surely was trapped somewhere inside this subconscious gale of feelings. Searching for any sign that would lead her to him, she let her inner eye wander through the black, lightning nerved clouds, through the teal, white-crested surges that seemed to pile up miles high into the open floodgates of heaven.
With time, her sight cleared, and images emerged before her, melting into fragments of memories. She could see through Richard's eyes now, hear with his ears: Impressions of Dr Seward's austere appearance. A younger dark-haired woman with a husky voice making an appointment at the psychologist's office. A dirty, decrepit slaughterhouse full of corpses.
It did not take long until Lucy could as well feel her servant's past emotions: The sheer horror when he had first encountered Dracula, the devotion to the great cause he had promised him, the obsession with which he had spied on Vanessa Ives. Then, devastation and despair when he had been imprisoned in Bethlem and his Master had left him, and most relieving delight when she herself had rescued him. Guilt and remorse when he had disobeyed her, and agonising angst when he had fought Dracula's presence. Covetous lust when he had fantasised about her and satisfaction when he had butchered the swans and drained the waiter boy.
Now, Lucy expected to experience his worry of getting caught, the fear of being imprisoned again that she had thought had driven him to frame John Clare for his crimes. But to her great surprise, fear was not what she found, but morbid jealousy, truculent envy, outright hate! These had been his motives for what he had done to the poet?! Discovering Richard's darkest, most sinful side was a stab to her heart!
She could not go on through his memories, for it would have been far too painful to share his destructive emotions. Instead, she carried on searching for his consciousness again. Finding the right path within this complex mind of his was, however, much more difficult than she had assumed, for Richard himself did on some occasions not seem to be able to distinguish dream from reality.
When Lucy got a glimpse of a bedroom, then of a garden she was very familiar with, she knew he could never have been there. It was her childhood home, the Westenra house. How could he harbour these images in his head? For a brief moment she thought she saw the pages of a notebook, filled with twirly writing... Then suddenly, deep, dark emotions descended upon her again, proving even more intense than her servant's loathing for John Clare. He desired her now more than ever, longed to have her for himself, craved to possess her... just as he had back then! In this deepest abyss of his subconscious, in this very hellhole of his mind, Richard Renfield had taken on the role of the devil's brother, of Dracula himself. While the tempest raged around them, he became the rain and the wind and the thunder and assailed her in the shape of the blackest shadow.
Shocked and afraid, Lucy almost lost control, was almost obliged to withdraw her mind from this abyssal chaos, but then suddenly, she beheld a strange apparition: The figure of a woman clothed in white robes, lying still as if she were unaffected by the storm, motionless as if she were laid out for her funeral. Approaching the body, Lucy felt sheer shock rise within herself, for she was looking down upon her own lifeless features, her own corpse. What was she to make of that? What was an image of herself, in the form as she might have appeared when her family had deemed her dead, supposed to mean, here in Richard's mind?
Richard... Only upon a second glance did she now notice a second figure in the blackness, no longer driven by dark desires, but small and crouched, kneeling beside the body, face buried in his hands. Like his physical self, he did not react when she addressed him, when she mentally reached out for him. For a long moment, Lucy did not know what to do. How else could she try to get a connection to his consciousness? How could she bring him back from his mourning over her past self and into the world of the living again?
Then, suddenly, an idea sprang to her mind. She would do exactly what she had done back then: Rise from the dead. As soon as the thought became manifest within her, she found herself lying on the bier, taking on the perspective of her image. Although horrifying fear, helplessness and despair in the face of being buried alive instantly returned to her, she again withstood all these emotions, arming herself against every disturbance. This time, no one would sink her into the grave and close a sarcophagus' lid over her. Here, she was not drained, weak and paralysed, no, she was strong enough to stand up! Slowly, her eyes fluttered open and she half rose from the uncomfortable planks. As of its own, her hand found her servant's bent head and she stroked through his hair.
"Richard, look at me," she spoke in a soft tone. "I am not dead, you see?"
And indeed, she had reached him with this, for he raised his head and his astonished, tear-blurred gaze met hers.
"You are... alive?", he whispered in a bizarrely choked tone, somewhere between hopefulness, disbelief and relief. "Can it be true?"
"It is true," she answered, calm and collected, then in a welcoming gesture opened her arms. "Come here!"
And without hesitation he threw himself into her embrace.
A pained scream left Fenton's wide open mouth, followed by a rattling intake of breath, while Dr Jekyll still clasped the scalpel, forcing the blade deeper and deeper into the vampire's flesh. With the shock of the perilous harm, the fire had faded from the boy's eyes and he appeared much more human again. He stood there motionless for an excruciatingly long moment, clenching his opponent's hand, seemingly paralysed by the sight of his own life effervescing between his fingers, making it impossible for Henry to withdraw his weapon.
"Francis, let go of him," Victor addressed him, trying to sound appeasing. "Let go of Henry, calm down, and I will treat your wound."
Fenton's gaze flickered from the alarming red his chest and hands were drenched in to Frankenstein's conciliatory expression to Jekyll's determined black eyes and back again. There was so much blood! And as soon as the mortal wound withdraw his blade, there would be even more. Despite his supernatural abilities, Francis doubted this wound would heal on its own. He would need treatment, he would need help...
But he did not trust these mortal butchers, no matter what they promised! With all his vampiric strength, Fenton wrenched at Henry's hand, tearing the scalpel from his chest in one fell swoop, then backed away and crouched down in a defensive position, blue eyes searching the room for a way to escape.
There! The roof light! Two steps and the night creature was upon Jekyll again, one grasp at his shirt and the boy hauled himself up, using the tall man's shoulder as a springboard, leaping up and forward, right through the window glass, which burst into pieces with a deafening noise.
Sergeant Gainsborough had already been about to leave his observation post at Hampstead, when a burly figure beneath the trees caught his attention. The tall man stood there as if rooted to the ground, his head turned towards the Godalming mansion. After some time, he withdrew a sheet of paper from his pocket and the young sergeant got a glimpse of his pale, pitted face.
Gainsborough's eyes widened in shock. It was John Clare! His reason beclouded by his eagerness to make a mark as an ambitious policeman, he almost abandoned his cover to confront the murderer right away, but then he remembered how unnaturally fast the bastard had run from him and his colleagues last time. Alone he would stand no chance against this madman. He would have to content himself with watching him, until he would find an opportunity to call for reinforcement.
His keen gaze fixated on his target, Gainsborough observed him crossing the street and shoving the paper into the letterbox. The policeman would really have liked to know what it was the wanted culprit had written to the strange aristocrats, but he had no time to investigate this, for Clare threw the white marble building a last wistful glance and left the estate again, heading down the street. Concealed in the shadows of the overhanging branches, Sergeant Gainsborough followed the murderer noiselessly.
Both Drs Jekyll and Frankenstein had to duck their heads as sharp shards of glass rained down upon them, covering the entire laboratory with a layer of risky crystals. When they eventually dared to look up again, soft snowflakes fell from the dark night sky, tumbling in through the destroyed roof light. The vampire boy was gone. Beyond retrieval.
"Damn!" Henry exclaimed, while dusting the spiky fragments off his ruined clothes. "This is all your fault, Victor! How could you release that demonic brat?!"
"I released him because you threatened to kill him!" Frankenstein defended himself with a growl.
"What difference would it make if I had?!" Jekyll hissed back. "That creature has given us no information on anything that would help me recover my memory!"
An expression of deep sadness replaced the anger on Victor's gaunt face, and he took a shuddering breath.
"It would have made a difference, Henry," he uttered in an almost broken voice. "The difference of you becoming a murderer."
A low rumble of boiling rage made its way up the chemist's throat at that, and he took a vigorous step towards his friend, seizing him by the lapel of his worn-out waistcoat.
"Enough!" he spat. "I am tired of your accusatory rubbish! I do not need to justify my actions to you!"
"Please, Henry, calm yourself!" Frankenstein tried to appease his friend for the umpteenth time this evening, while he placed his hands against his lacerated chest. "Let me treat these wounds and then we can discuss what to do next about – "
"Spare me your moronic advice!" Jekyll roughly shoved him away, causing him to stumble backwards. "I have tried all your foolish ideas and absurd options! All of them failures! None of them leading to anything!"
"I am sorry," Victor replied weakly. "My only intention was to help you."
"But the intention is not enough!" Henry yelled, his voice, cracking in sheer fury, echoing from the walls like thunder.
A shiver ran down Frankenstein's spine, when he beheld the chemist's contorted features, the mask of white-hot rage wilder and ghastlier than ever on his face. The physician swallowed the lump in his throat, remaining silent.
"This would be all," Jekyll stated, calmer again and with a deadly serious undertone. "You will never see me again, Frankenstein!"
With that, he turned on his heels and exited his former friend's decrepit attic forever.
When Renfield came to, he found himself in his Mistress's arms and his mind was no longer spinning with a thunderstorm of devastating emotions. Instead, he beheld the fiery colour of her hair he had buried his face in, he could hear her steady pulse and smell her sweet scent.
"Oh, my beloved Lady Lucy, thank you! Thank you so much!" he breathed. "You saved me again, you released me again, from another prison."
Although he wanted to hold her tight, to forever rest his weary head on her shoulder, she gently but firmly shoved him away.
"You are welcome, Richard," she spoke, her voice bell-like as always, but not without a bitter undertone.
A strange feeling of unease rose within him when she stood up, averting her eyes and turning her back on him. After his breakdown on the stairway, she had comforted him, kissed him, even given him a share of her very life. Why was she so reserved today?
"Get dressed and go for a walk," Lucy ordered, in plain bitterness now.
"Mistress...?" Renfield addressed her, bewildered, eyes wide and brows knitted.
"You heard me!" Lady Godalming hissed, while her cerulean gaze fixated some indefinite spot beyond the window bars. "Leave the mansion. I need time and space to think on what I have seen inside your mind."