HELLO.
"Contrariwise," continued Tweedledee, "if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn't, it ain't. That's logic." Through the Looking-Glass; Lewis Carroll
| Hello. | Goodbye. |
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Through the Looking-Glass; Lewis Carroll |
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Saturday, August 22, 2009, 5:47 PM
He could hear the raucous cawing of the whores in the room upstairs; he could hear their desperation as they played the same dangerous game of seduction they danced night after night. The tavern door was thrown open; his vision, so used to the darkness, was blinded sharply for a moment. He could discern a bulky figure stumbling out into the street, uttering a stream of colourful obscenities as he attempted to regain his balance. The door slammed shut behind him, cutting the light over the gutter, exposing the river of filth and throwing its contents into disconcertingly sharp relief. James heard the drunk utter a surprise curse concerning an unfortunate someone's mother; there was a splash and a loud groan. James felt his stomach turn at the noises and give another acidic protest of hunger. The door was flung open once again. This time, James could make out Will's tall, lanky frame as he stepped over the worn threshold, a limp figure clad in white draped over his left shoulder. He picked his way over to the wagon; in the light it was now apparent that the drunk had fallen into the gutter and now lay there unconcious, his mouth open as if to catch the water flowing from the drains on the roof above him. Will lay the figure in the back of the wagon before climbing into the front next to James and picking up the reins. The door to the tavern slammed shut as the wagon started in a slow crawl up the street, the poor beast in the harness scrawny from hunger and nearly faint from exhaustion. James turned back to gaze at the figure. The woman had been dead for at least a day; James could make out the ashy pallor of her skin in the weak light emitting from dirty windows as the cart pulled along its gloomy path. He could see that the front of her gown was spattered and crusted with scarlet blood. Once again, he felt another sharp jolt of sorrow for her fate. Clenching his fist, he forced himself to turn away. He needed the money the anatomy lab would pay, in order to finish medical school. He was so close, and it would be pointless to give up now. The devastation wrecked by the latest wave of the consumption had thrown open a lucrative opportunity for him to fulfil his dream - vital, despite how dark - especially from the countless impoverished households desperate enough to sell off the bodies of dead family members in order to feed the ones lucky enough to remain alive. Yet he still wondered who she was. How long she had survived in such squalors before her life had expired in such evident agony. Or had the end been quick? Who had been there with her, if anyone had been? Who had been the last soul she had set her weak gaze upon before she had fallen into silence forever? What had her life been like? Could her death have been prevented? James knew that everyone - Will, the professors, the other students at the school with their neat, starched navy uniforms trimmed with silver velvet and adorned with ostentatious gold buttons - would tell him to swallow his grief. The woman's death would be yet another step closer to preventing other demises like hers. A worthy sacrifice. Besides, as those rare ones sensitive enough to feel the slight twinge of moral guilt would echo, the poor woman's suffering was over. She would be at peace. But did that construe enough reason for the disgrace she would need to endure even after death? To be spliced open, dissected, observed and experimented on? And what if they made mistakes ? - he knew they always would. And then what? Another failure, a quick rebound and then on to another unfortunate soul, splice, dissect. Even if they did succeed - and it was worth all the sacrifice no matter how much - then what? Small steps, he chided himself. They could not expect to save the world all at once. Very ironically, that had been his dream when he'd entered medical school. He considered himself lucky - having been able to go to school, a good family with parents of learning who'd been infallible guardians and who'd nurtured him well and encouraged pursuit of his scholarly beliefs. Sure, they had not been especially rich or well-off - but he'd been able to make it this far, while he shuddered to think of the poor woman's tragic life. How old was she? The worn, haggard lines on her bony face and streaks of white in her dark, tangled curls were testament to age but he'd noticed that her physique and build was supple and lean. He knew she'd died young - perhaps even about his age. The wagon gave another sharp jolt as its worn wheels crossed an uneven cobblestone. Will clicked his tongue, trying to soothe the horse, while James quickly checked over his shoulder to ensure that the cadaver had not fallen out of the cart. No - the figure was still there, stiff, cold. James noticed that underneath the loose white gown, the woman was nearly skin and bone; in the dim light from a second-storey window he could see that her ribs jutted against the thin muslin of her garment in a grotesque, hideous manner. Had she been hungry? For how long? Who was she? Who had she been? He tried to suppress the next involuntary wave of sorrow, but he felt the tremors of grief for her fate. But, he repeated in a drolling monotone, over and over again in his head, trying to quell the surge of emotion and outrage - he needed it. They needed it. It was crucial, vital, that they could move on, especially in such dark times. There was no time for stopping, no forgiveness for faltering. No room for thought about anyone, anything else. |