𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐦

Act I, Scene III

"How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a weary world."
~ William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

__________

Dr. Reed's eyes narrowed. He pressed his lips together, and the skin between his eyebrows creased. The cues were subtle, but Lucy could see that he was in turmoil. A great battle between caution and need was waging in his mind.

He didn't know if he could trust her. However, so depleted was his energy, that he now had no choice.

An impasse.

At last, Dr. Reed let out a weary sigh. He turned toward the staircase on the far side of the room and began moving toward it, his footfalls slow and unsteady.

"This way," he said.

The uttered words sounded strained and hollow.

Brow knit with worry, Lucy followed, remaining close enough to break his fall should unconsciousness take hold.

The climb up the stairs proved slow and painstaking, but Lucy was far too anxious to be vexed. She'd found another of her kind...and he needed her help.

As the pair passed through a series of narrow, dim hallways, Lucy could hear the anguished cries and moans of the hospital's patients. She suppressed a shudder. This was not a place one came for treatment. This was a place one came to die.

"Is it true Joseph Merrick lived out his last days in this hospital?" she asked, her voice sounding flat in the claustrophobic corridor. "I remember reading about him in the papers."

The inquiry served only as a means to distract herself from the gruesome sounds bombarding her. Lucy's ears and nose were now far too sensitive for these surroundings.

It was several seconds before Dr. Reed responded. "The infamous 'Elephant Man'? Yes, poor soul. He passed on in 1890 — several years before I arrived here."

He spoke like a man mumbling in his sleep. Lucy realized it was advantageous to them both to keep him talking.

"He passed at a very young age, didn't he?"

"Twenty-seven. Or so I was told."

"Good lord..." she remarked. "Only six years older than I. Poor soul, indeed. I can't imagine dying so young."

"You already have."

Lucy froze mid-step. He was right.

Dr. Reed ceased his lethargic trek, stopping afore an unassuming door at the end of the hallway.

"My study," he said. He held the door open for her. "Please."

Lucy entered.

The room was cramped but tidy. Furnished with a work bench, several medicine cabinets, a wardrobe, a bookcase overflowing with medical textbooks and charts, and a large desk. The desk was old, but well-preserved, and the chair behind it had been used often enough to strip the varnish from the wood.

Dr. Reed closed and locked the door behind her. A hand pressed to his forehead, he crossed the room and collapsed onto the worn wooden chair. Eyes closed, he leaned forward and rubbed his temples.

"How can I help you this evening, Miss Penn?" he asked.

Standing opposite the weary doctor, Lucy shook her head, bewildered. Even in his precarious state, he was still offering aid rather than asking for it.

"I suggest we set that aside for the time being," she said. "Instead, let us discuss how I can help you."

"You... You cannot help me." Dr. Reed's tone was resolute.