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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Mar 1, 2024 6:03:47 GMT -5
Chapter Eighteen – The Naturals
Beatrice could not help but think about them, even now. Her every waking moment was consumed by thoughts of those poor lost souls, their minds drifting hopelessly in time, lost in a breeze or a dream.
She let her hand play tentatively on the soft wooden beam, her fingers drumming restlessly as she tried to hold her thoughts together for a second, letting the tension build as she paused her action for those delicate few moments.
Beatrice could feel the heat from the lights above her, making her sweat under the heavy leather of her captain's garb. The necklace was slung on a delicate line around her neck, and she lifted her hand to feel the pendant with her fingers. The metal was burning hot in her hands, a comforting warmth that set her ease, and she toyed carefully with the thin wisps of metal that held the doors of the pendant shut.
'Fiona' said Harry, calling out to her from across the way. 'I need you to give me an answer.'
Beatrice let the necklace drop down to her chest, her heart beginning to beat faster at the sound of his voice. He had made her jump, but it wasn’t that, no. She had been expecting that. It was something else, a strange feeling that was bubbling up inside her, a boiling unease and discomfort.
'You can't just keep on ignoring what's happening.' Harry spoke again, as he began to move towards her.
Beatrice turned towards him, and with it the dark chasm of the audience came into view. She could not see their faces, only milky white shapes that filtered through the gloom. She wanted to pause, to search for his face in the crowd, but she knew it would be a forlorn hope. Anyway, Beatrice wasn’t sure if she wanted him there or not. Perhaps it was best not to dwell on such things.
'Harry.' she spoke, the word handing between them as she looked into the eyes of her co-star. 'You're the one who is ignoring things.'
'I don't understand.' he replied, and Beatrice felt a dizziness begin to radiate over her, the room spinning gently round and round. She had felt this feeling so many times before, it was not unusual, especially of late, but why did it have to be happening now?
'That's exactly the problem.' Beatrice said, and as he reached out to take her hand she turned, pushing herself away from him. As James spoke she set her hand onto the wooden beam and tried to keep her balance.
'It's not that which is the problem. It's not that at all.' she spoke, and suddenly Beatrice remembered the words that Rasmussen had said to her back at the facility.
They say that when you die, your life begins to flash before your eyes.
'I…' As Beatrice spoke, she could feel a sharp pain in her brow, an intense heat and pressure that set her mind afire.
'I…' The scar on her eyebrow was burning hot, a heat to match that of the pendant on her chest. She held the necklace in her hand once more, the fire of its presence helping steady her physical form, though her mind continued to spiral.
‘I know what…’ she said, but she could not finish the sentence, the words that were meant to be unspoken. As her co-star leaned in towards her, and she felt his lips press against hers, the room spun away, disappearing.
In that moment, the heat in her forehead exploded, her mind and heart combining, and she could feel it all. The fear, the joy, the passion and the pain. She remembered her brother's smile, the wind whipping through her hair, the smell of salt and sweat. The pain of the machine, water choking and filling her lungs, the sound of the beast roaring through the sea. The feel of a child in her arms, the feel of him inside her, the pain of her death. Sand, bone, blood. Her mother drowning as she watched, weak and helpless. All her failures, her one success. A lifetime of memories flooded her mind, consumed her, filling her soul.
And then his lips left hers, and they were gone.
The lights went down, the curtain closed, and the players left the stage.
The rest of the evening passed in a haze. Beatrice could not have said what truly happened next. She just smiled through it all, waiting for it to be over. Her mind was not really in it. but that seemed to be the case more often than not nowadays.
It had been a few weeks since her visit to the facility and her encounter with Dr. Rasmussen, but time made no matter to her, not anymore. Every moment of every day, the things she had seen and learned there were with her, the thoughts playing over and over in her mind like a record stuck in a loop. There are some things that are too big, too difficult to comprehend, and it was taking so much time for her to process these things.
The problem was that while so much of her brain was focussed on trying to decipher and understand these things, everything else was blocked from her perception. She was floating through her life, unable to truly experience what was going on around her.
Beatrice had spent so much of her life wanting to be an actress, to take to the stage and inhabit the life of someone else, and now she was finally realising her dream, she seemed to have no time or appreciation for what was happening to her. The opening night had come and gone, passing her by without a moment of appreciation or congratulation from her own mind on what she had achieved. She had simply breezed through the performance, her thoughts as far away from the production as she could ever have imagined.
A few nights ago Bertrand had proposed to her, something she had not expected or fully considered, but she had nonetheless accepted. She could not lie, she was happy to be betrothed to such a wonderful man, but she had not been able to truly make her decision with any real justification. Beatrice had asked herself that night if she truly loved him, and she came to realise that even if she concluded that she did, she would not be able to trust her judgement any more. There were bigger things for her to be thinking about. And so she had accepted, but only because it seemed the right thing to do, rather than because her heart had truly wanted her to.
But he knew nothing. Bertrand, her fiance, knew nothing of what she was feeling, of what she was experiencing, and of what she had learned. She wanted to tell him, to explain, but how could she? She could not even explain it herself. But it was a barrier between them, a secret that she knew would have to be exposed if they were to spend the rest of their lives together, yet how this could ever come to pass Beatrice could not say.
When she reached her dressing room, she stared at the bouquet of flowers that were sat on her dresser. Bertrand had brought them for her before the start of the performance, and she had said thank you, kissed him, and said how beautiful they were. But when she looked at them now, Beatrice had no recollection of their appearance. The colours and shapes were strangers to her, and she knew that once she stopped observing them, their existence would fade from her mind, a memory destined to always be forgotten.
As she undressed, Beatrice could still feel the heat coming from the scar on her forehead. She scratched irritably at the old wound, and remembered something else that Rasmussen had said to her.
You have been touched by the beast, he had said. She was still not sure what that meant, even after everything she had learned, but she could guess. Her father had tried to warn her that there were things that she was better off not knowing. Perhaps he had a guilty conscience, or perhaps he simply could not live with whatever things he had subjected upon his own daughter.
Beatrice began to gather up her things. The rest of the cast were due to be celebrating with drinks and chatter, but she knew that she could not endure such things, not at the moment. She pulled on a coat, and left her dressing room as quickly as possibly. She had promised to meet Bertrand by the stage door, but as she moved through the tunnels and crenelations of the theatre, Beatrice realised she did not even have strength enough for that. She needed to be alone, to have some time to think, to get her head straight.
In order to avoid him, she would need to head out of the main entrance, which meant she had to worm her way through the thronging congregation of theatre goers as they made their way out of the auditorium, stopping to mingle in the main lobby. With her make up removed, and her body swallowed up in the form of a long black coat there was little chance of recognition blocking her departure.
When she finally pushed her way out of the glass doors and into the open air, the noise and hubbub of conversation and merriment was replaced by the chill wind of autumn. and the sound of tyres screeching against rain and tarmac.
The heat of the summer had finally broken, and there was a chill to the night that cut through the fog in Beatrice's mind. The rain had brought with it a renewed freshness to the air, and Beatrice took a long, deep breath. As the air filled her lungs, she could feel something starting to steady itself inside of her. It was only now that she realised how much her arms had been shaking.
As her head cleared, Beatrice noticed two figures stood ahead of her, talking excitedly to one another. The noise of the rain made it hard to hear what they were saying, but the two men were only a few feet away, at the bottom of a set of steps that led up to the theatre. One she recognised immediately, his arms gesticulating wildly as he spoke, a serious but nevertheless genial look upon his face. The other man was a stranger to her, and as she moved towards the pair of them he turned towards her, his eyes fixing her with a strained look of curiosity.
He had a kind face, thinning hair and a large square nose, and there was something about his demeanour that had Beatrice uncomfortable. His eyes were imperious, and he looked upon her as though she were the most extraordinary thing he had ever seen.
‘So.’ spoke the stranger. ‘I see that I have wasted an afternoon.’
He was not addressing her, of course, but Rasmussen, who shrugged casually, as if the whole thing was insignificant.
The stranger check a watch on his wrist, and raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Or evening, even.’ He smiled, and turned formally to the both of them ‘Good evening, then. Dr Rasmussen, Madam.’
‘Goodbye, Jean.’ said Rasmussen. ‘I do hope you will reconsider.’
‘And I hope that you will learn to listen to reason.’ Jean grimaced, but Rasmussen seemed not to notice.
With that, Jean moved away from them, into the night, and Beatrice and Rasmussen stood in silence, watching as the figure disappeared into the rain. Only once Jean was gone from sight did Rasmussen turn his attention back to her.
‘So, my dear, how did it go?’
‘You didn’t come?’
Rasmussen shook his head. ‘Ah, no, I’m rather afraid that something came up - Or, rather has come up – and so I was unable to relive myself of my duties ‘
Beatrice nodded, not wanting to enquire any further. She could feel the cold starting to move into her skin, as the tiny droplets of rain began to catch softly in her hair. She would catch her death if she stood out here much longer. She smiled at Rasmussen
‘Well, I must get going. It was nice seeing you.’ Beatrice said, although she was not sure if it was true.
‘Oh, I think you misunderstand me, Miss. Baudelaire.’ Rasmussen was shaking his head. ‘The something that delayed my egress… Well, I was rather hoping that I could be counting on your able assistance?’
Beatrice sighed. She looked at this strange man, standing in the dark of night, his eyes earnest and full of sincerity, and pondered what could possibly be going through his head. Beatrice did not doubt the man’s intelligence and conviction, and yet there was nothing about him that she could trust. She knew what he was doing, and that meant he was capable of anything. She wanted no part of it, nothing to do with it all, but here he was, and yet here he was, asking her for help, drawing her in.
Perhaps he knew that she could not refuse.
Beatrice felt so tired and weak that the journey to the facility passed by in a blur. She stared blankly out the window of the car at the pinpricks of street lights, and when the view had diminished to nothing but the dark she continued to gaze out into nothingness, her mind wandering far away from any conscious though.
It was nearing total darkness when they arrived, but that made no difference. Here it was always night.
The patient was laying on the floor of his cell when they entered, his eyes staring wildly up at the ceiling. His head was shaking back and forth, his body seeming to vibrate without any clear cause or reason. When Beatrice knelt at his side, there was no reaction, no sense of understanding or acknowledgment of the uninvited visitors to his presence.
Beatrice placed her hands on the man’s head, and she could feel the heat from his fever burning against her skin, scaring away the cold from her fingers.
‘Shhh.’ she whispered comfortingly, and she could hear the man’s breath’s beginning to grow frantic and rapid. ‘Just relax.’ She said, though she doubted that he could hear her whilst in this state. Regardless, it made her feel better to dispense what little comfort she could.
Beatrice closed her eyes, the better to aid her concentration, and tried to focus her thoughts as best she could. It was difficult, like trying to open a door without a key and no discernable lock in which to enter it. She was not truly aware of what she was doing, or how she did it, but somehow she always found her way in.
The man’s shaking subsided, his eyes drew shut, and she was there.
A lifetime flew before her eyes. A field of tall grass, the sound of beaten metal, the scents of spice and meat. A heavy book of faded parchment, and a man shouting orders in a harsh voice. The feel of bruised limbs, a woman's kiss soft upon his lips. Dancing and adrenaline, the cold shock of icy water, a bone breaking beneath him. Fear and disappointment, the heady rush of drink and smoke, pain and an overwhelming despair that made tears form in Beatrice's eyes, and then it was done.
Beatrice fell back with a start, sticking out an arm to stop herself from falling backwards. The scar on her brow was burning with an intense ferocity, and the room was spinning around her. She steadied herself for a moment, waiting for her breath to come back to her.
The patient's rapid movements had stopped. His eyes were still wide and vapid, but he seemed to be calmer, and she knew that after a while he would be able to sleep and start to recover. It would be several days before he regained consciousness though. It was always the same.
If Beatrice had felt tired before, then now she was completely exhausted. For her to share her mind with the thoughts of another was bad enough, but now it had happened twice in the space of only a few hours. Perhaps she would need to sleep for several days to recover as well.
‘Is it done?’ Rasmussen asked.
Beatrice nodded, and the motion set a wave of nausea crashing down upon her.
‘I need water’ she said, her voice dry and cracked. She closed her eyes as the dizziness took control of her once again, but she could her shuffling footsteps heading away from her, and she knew that the good doctor had gone to fetch her a drink.
She could feel the cold stone of the floor, and the heat radiating from the patients’ body. She would have fallen asleep were she not so uncomfortable.
Rasmussen returned a few minutes later, standing in the doorway with a glass of water. He held the glass out at arms length, as though afraid to move too close towards them, to cross over the threshold of the cell.
She took the glass, and as the water filled it her mouth she felt renewed, the last vestiges of the man’s thoughts washing themselves away from her.
‘So.’ said Rasmussen, breaking the silence between them. ‘He’s back with us, then?’
Beatrice nodded once more. It hurt a lot less than it had the last time.
‘It’s a curious thing.’ said Rasmussen, still hesitating in the doorway. ‘The substance seems to have a strange relationship with time. It is constantly reinventing itself. Its properties are in a constant state of decay and renewal – as each of its elements die, that process causes its relative opposites to become renewed, thus ensuring its continued regeneration. When it enters the bloodstream, it seems to have a similar effect on the patients. Their minds become detached from the physical self, the past giving way to the present, and to the future. One feeding into the other, over and over. It really is an extraordinary thing to behold.’
Beatrice knew this all already, of course. Rasmussen was still in the doorway, and Beatrice had watched as he had spoken, lost in his own world of theories and understanding. Yes, he understand the consequences, and what the patients were experiencing, and yet he did nothing.
‘I know what you’re thinking.’ said Rasmussen. ‘And if there was any other way, truly, then I would not hesitate to grasp it with both hands.’
Beatrice did not doubt what he was saying, but to her it made no difference.
‘I know it must be hard for you to understand.’ Rasmussen continued.
‘I am -’ he broke off, failing to find the words.
‘ - I am truly sorry for what is happening to these people.’
‘But not sorry enough to stop?’ It was more of a statement than a question, yet Beatrice was desperate to know what his reply would be.
‘Well, that’s where I think you could do some real good.’ He smiled, gesturing at both her and the patient. ‘With your remarkable… well, for lack of a better word, ‘qualities’ you can help to put all of our patients at ease. And not only is that good for them, it’s good for us. I have already begun to see a marked improvement in-’
‘But It doesn’t make any sense.’ Beatrice cut him off at this, waving her hand at him as she rose up from the floor. ‘Why is any of this happening? Why is it that I can ‘settle’ these people, or whatever it is that you call it?’
‘It’s not an exact science.’ said Rasmussen. Shaking his head. ‘But that is exactly why you must continue. The more data that I can accumulate, both from the patients and yourself, then the closer I can come to understanding the truth.’
But that was no answer at all. Beatrice did not understand how she could do what she could, reaching into the minds of strangers and calming their thoughts, rearranging the strands of their consciousness like the books on a shelf. The power that she had scared her, and the thought of continuing to meddle in such things was not a comfortable one.
But the opposite was a prospect no less daunting. All her life she had felt these strange thoughts and stray dreams, and now she was beginning to understand that they were parts of someone else's mind, inhabiting her own. The feeling had been intensifying for the last few months, and she did not know where it would end, how much worse the symptoms may become. Rasmussen could be the only person that could help her to gain control, or to stop her sanity from slipping away through her fingers.
Rasmussen said it was because she was touched by the beast, whatever that meant. She could ask him, but she did not know if she would get an answer. And there was a part of her that felt she was better of not knowing. Some things were best left answered.
But there was one thing that was bothering her, something that she needed to ask.
‘How did you know?’ she asked Rasmussen, her face now level with his.
‘I’m sorry?’ he replied, a look of puzzlement settling onto his face.
‘That first day, when I came here, you were waiting for me. You knew that I was coming, that’s for certain. And yet the only person that knew I was coming here was my father, and I doubt very much that he would have done anything about it, so my question is – How could you possibly have known that I was coming?’
Rasmussen smiled at her. ‘Oh, that. Well, I didn’t know, you see. Or at least, I didn’t know until I was told that you’d be coming.’
‘Okay.’ Beatrice nodded. ‘Told by who?’
‘Well.’ said Rasmussen, with a shrug. ‘By the boss.’
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