09-04-2026, 07:41 PM
(This post was last modified: 09-05-2026, 09:40 AM by Tristan Wells.)
(CW: Reference to violence)
He hadn’t slept, though he was sure he had experienced several nightmares. The tranquilizer had worn off, but the tension in his body hadn’t. Every sound had seemed alien and dangerous and had startled him. The sound of the wood-clogged fishermen making their way to the harbour had inflicted hot, racing panic. He had gotten out of bed, put on his shoes and paced the floor.
The pain seemed worse than last night. Was he certain he hadn’t broken anything? No internal bleeding? No brain damage? No damaged vision? It was hard to tell in the dark, but he had blown out his candle when frightening shadows leapt along the walls ready to pounce at him, and he dreaded lighting it again. His ribs were killing him with every breath. He felt his side as gently as he could. Bruised definitely, but no clear fracture. He examined his liver, his kidneys, his stomach. All the while, a cynical voice in the back of his head wondered why he bothered. If he lived, how was he supposed to face the days that lay ahead? To face the world?
But there was no internal bleeding. He was quite certain. And as the walls and ceiling crept from black to grey, and the hustle and bustle swelled outside his window, he recovered a sliver of reason. He was not in fact going to die and he needed a plan. There were things that needed to be arranged. He had a responsibility.
With great effort and a handful of curses, he managed to get dressed. Then he examined his face in the mirror. He shuddered at what he saw. He did what he could to clean it up, but there was no way he was going to be able to hide it for a couple of days at least. The bruise around his eye would take longer, he suspected. He didn't plan on seeing patients – (he wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to open the door in the first place) -, but there was Pippa. She was in such a delicate state as it was.
Pippa… He remembered John. What had he said? It was all a blur. Didn’t matter. Pippa should go away, go to the Zimmermans and they’d not approve of John anyway. Pippa had to go. Today. That was what all that mattered now.
But he spent the morning avoiding her. His breakfast was untouched. He sat in his practice with the door locked as if he was seeing patients. He sat alone in a trance.
It wasn’t until later that morning, after another dose in his veins to stop himself from absolutely losing his mind, that he made his way up to the guest room. He had insisted Pippa would take it, for he did not want her to climb the stairs to the attic any longer in her condition, and she was no longer a housemaid. He knocked but did not enter.
“Pippa? Please don’t open the door. I think I’m ill and I don’t want you to catch it in your state. I’ll write to the Zimmermans and ask them to take you in while I’m recovering. If you could start packing…”
He hadn’t slept, though he was sure he had experienced several nightmares. The tranquilizer had worn off, but the tension in his body hadn’t. Every sound had seemed alien and dangerous and had startled him. The sound of the wood-clogged fishermen making their way to the harbour had inflicted hot, racing panic. He had gotten out of bed, put on his shoes and paced the floor.
The pain seemed worse than last night. Was he certain he hadn’t broken anything? No internal bleeding? No brain damage? No damaged vision? It was hard to tell in the dark, but he had blown out his candle when frightening shadows leapt along the walls ready to pounce at him, and he dreaded lighting it again. His ribs were killing him with every breath. He felt his side as gently as he could. Bruised definitely, but no clear fracture. He examined his liver, his kidneys, his stomach. All the while, a cynical voice in the back of his head wondered why he bothered. If he lived, how was he supposed to face the days that lay ahead? To face the world?
But there was no internal bleeding. He was quite certain. And as the walls and ceiling crept from black to grey, and the hustle and bustle swelled outside his window, he recovered a sliver of reason. He was not in fact going to die and he needed a plan. There were things that needed to be arranged. He had a responsibility.
With great effort and a handful of curses, he managed to get dressed. Then he examined his face in the mirror. He shuddered at what he saw. He did what he could to clean it up, but there was no way he was going to be able to hide it for a couple of days at least. The bruise around his eye would take longer, he suspected. He didn't plan on seeing patients – (he wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to open the door in the first place) -, but there was Pippa. She was in such a delicate state as it was.
Pippa… He remembered John. What had he said? It was all a blur. Didn’t matter. Pippa should go away, go to the Zimmermans and they’d not approve of John anyway. Pippa had to go. Today. That was what all that mattered now.
But he spent the morning avoiding her. His breakfast was untouched. He sat in his practice with the door locked as if he was seeing patients. He sat alone in a trance.
It wasn’t until later that morning, after another dose in his veins to stop himself from absolutely losing his mind, that he made his way up to the guest room. He had insisted Pippa would take it, for he did not want her to climb the stairs to the attic any longer in her condition, and she was no longer a housemaid. He knocked but did not enter.
“Pippa? Please don’t open the door. I think I’m ill and I don’t want you to catch it in your state. I’ll write to the Zimmermans and ask them to take you in while I’m recovering. If you could start packing…”
