Yes, I'm alive...and yes, this is the latest in the Letters from the Lost Man saga!
***
For the first time, I welcome the darkness. Any reprieve from my "waking world" has become something to be anticipated. I'm remembering more and more every time, and I feel like I'll be able to figure this all out if I just concentrate. So, here I am...clearing my mind.
That almost sounds funny. Here in the darkness, I can only assume I am within the recesses of my own consciousness, and it's empty in here. Even when I speak to myself, it sounds hollow, devoid of any real life or thought. Here meditation is easy. I simply relax and let my mind expand into the nothingness. Maybe if it expands enough, I'll reach the edge of this darkness and find myself again...my real self.
***
"Richard!"
Who is that? The voice sounds familiar.
"Richard!"
She isn't calling me, is she? Is my name really...
"Richard?" the young woman prompts with a puzzled expression as she approaches, panting from her run up the grassy hill.
I blink at her a few times. "Jane, I'm sorry...I must have been daydreaming," I explain haltingly in a British accent.
"You must come quickly," she urges. "They've found Elizabeth."
My eyes widen and I take off down the hill while Jane stumbles to keep up. The possibilities of where and how Liz was found race through my mind, and most of them are quite unpleasant. Despite the fact that I can't exactly recall when she went missing and why it's important to me, my stomach twists anxiously, hoping against hope that she's okay.
I burst through the huge double doors at the front of her family's luxurious estate. No one is there to greet me, but I can hear voices in the study to the left. I dash toward that room just as Jane rushes in the front doors behind me. We both run into the study and push our way through a small crowd of family members and servants.
Stretched out on the sofa is the small, delicate form of Elizabeth, her dress torn in filthy tatters, her face smudged with dirt. A doctor kneels before her, examining her thoroughly. After several minutes, he stands and addresses the room.
"She is going to be fine," he reassures us. "She needs some rest and a good bath. She may have a few bruises, but she is otherwise unharmed."
Through the many sighs of relief, a small, shaky voice calls out, "...Richard."
I look past the doctor to see Elizabeth looking up at me weakly. I move past him to kneel at her side. "What is it, my dear?" I ask, taking her hand in mine.
Instead of a smile, she responds with a look of distrust mixed with fear. "How could you?" she asks, tears welling in her eyes.
I can only react with confusion. "I'm afraid I don't understand, love."
"How could you?" she shouts as tears stream down her cheeks in rivulets.
"What is the meaning of this?" her father demands, stepping out of the crowd.
I shake my head. "I assure you, sir, I don't know," I say bewildered.
"Constable, take this man away!" he shouts, his face flushing with anger.
A uniformed man advances from the back of the room and grabs me by the shoulders. "Come on, gov, lets go 'ave a chat," he says firmly.
Reeling in utter perplexion, I can only obey. Certainly there's been some sort of misunderstanding. Once I speak with the constable, this will be all cleared up. Surely Elizabeth is confused by her ordeal. After she's had a chance to rest, everything will be back to normal.
***
"Alrigh', you swine, I'm goin' to ask you once more!" the constable howls threateningly. "Where were you on the nigh' Miss Evansworth disappeared?"
Even with my face in my hands, the stark stone walls of the interrogation room loom around me forebodingly. The dank smell of the place makes me feel a little sick, not because of the odor itself but more that it reminds me of a dungeon...a place I'm sure I'll get to know very soon.
"I told you, I don't remember," I insist. "I wish I knew, but I don't. You have to believe me. I would never do anything to harm Elizabeth. I love her." While I'm not sure why I just said that, it feels like truth on my lips.
"Obsessed with 'er, more likely!" the constable accuses. "An' I suppose you also 'ave no recollection of the little room in you cellar where you kep' the poor girl? Or of the black cloak she described you as wearin' while she begged for you to le'er go? This is the same cloak, I remind you, as the one we found 'angin' in your wardrobe in your very own bedroom in your very own 'ouse!"
I rub my eyes, hoping to awaken from this nightmare. "Yes, constable," I say in a wearied tone. "I quite recall those details, and as I told you before, I have no explanation for them. Perhaps someone is trying to make it appear as though I am the guilty party, which I assure you, I am not."
"So you keep sayin'," the constable sighs. "But the thing is...I don' believe you."
***
"My name is Elizabeth Evansworth. My father is Charles Evansworth, a civil engineer. On 12 July I was reading a book alone on a hill by my father's estate. I heard a noise from behind me. It sounded like a footstep. When I turned to see who it was, I was struck on the head. I do not remember anything for some time after that."
The prosecutor steps toward Elizabeth with a sympathetic expression. "Miss Evansworth, did you see who had struck you?" he asks.
Elizabeth shakes her head. "No. At least, if I did, I don't recall it. I think I was struck before I turned fully."
The prosecutor nods. "Very well. Tell us, if you can, what you remember next," he directs her.
A sadness seems to come over her as she takes a breath to answer. "Well," she begins with a pause, "I awoke in a darkened room of rough stone, a cellar I think. I was tied to a chair. Pieces of my dress had been...torn."
"It's alright, Elizabeth," the prosecutor reassures her. "Go on."
"There was a figure," she continues in a small voice, "a man. He wore a long black cloak with a hood which obscured him from me. He then spoke to me, and it was then I realized who it was."
"Tell us," the prosecutor urges. "Who was it?"
"It was..." Elizabeth pauses for several moments, struggling with the hard truth she is about to reveal. "It was the prisoner. Richard...my own Richard. He spoke to me in a strange manner. He sounded almost foreign, but he could not disguise that voice from me. I know it too well."
The prosecutor faces the jury with a raised eyebrow. "Did he say why he had done this? Why he had taken you?"
She shakes her head resignedly. "No. He simply kept asking me who he was. I told him that I knew it was him, but he went on asking me to tell him about himself...about his life. It was as if he had gone mad."
***
Well, this is different. Somehow I ended up in the middle of this strange, messed-up situation. Who knows, maybe I am crazy. It would be a really convenient explanation for all of this. But, y'know, even though everything seems out of place and completely wrong, I find myself thinking only how this verdict and subsequent sentence is going to take me away from Elizabeth. I can't help but feel like I've made some sort of awful mistake that's taking me further and further away from recapturing my life.
Oh, the judge is talking. I should probably listen to this.
"...has been found guilty of taking by force and carrying away Elizabeth Evansworth with intent to hold her from her family. It is this court's determination that the prisoner was non compos mentis throughout the duration of the crime. As such, the sentence of seven years confinement shall take place within the Greater Wisconsin Mental Institute under the care of Drs. Hanz Spector and Friedrich Golz. Their record for rehabilitation of criminals with mental defect is exemplary."
May god have mercy upon my soul. It might as well be a death sentence...
***
"Don't you worry," a young Dr. Golz tries to reassure me with a slight German accent. "Dr. Spector is a brilliant doctor and scientist. He has made great strides in the study of the brain's role in violent and criminal behavior."
I'm not reassured. What I am is tied down to a table in some kind of laboratory/operating room. I couldn't be further from reassured. As enthusiastic as Dr. Golz is, none of what he's explained to me so far sounds like science or medicine. I'd like to protest, believe me, but my mouth has been taped shut.
"Now, let's just get rid of the rest of this," Dr. Golz mutters to himself as he picks up the sharp razor from the stand next to my bed. He holds the shining metal blade over me for a moment, inspecting its edge. I can only stare up in blank terror. He brings it down and slides it down my wet scalp, shaving off what little hair was left after my earlier trim.
"There!" he exclaims as he finishes. "Now, I will administer something to dull the pain. While it is taking effect, I will go get Dr. Spector and we can begin."
Again, the urge to protest comes on, but I can only watch as Dr. Golz fills a syringe and empties it into my veins. Almost immediately euphoria begins to wash over me. I try to fight it, but every cell in my body urges me to just relax. I barely register the doctor's exit to find his colleague.
The next thing I see is the blurry image of a man's face. The face is long and cracked by a thin-lipped mouth filled with widely-gapped teeth. In the center of the face is a hawkish nose on which sits a pair of round glasses that magnify a set of black, beady eyes. The whole thing is topped by a slick of jet black hair, parted on the left.
"Now, Friedrich," the face says with a distant voice. "We will begin by drilling a hole in the top of the skull."
I feel a cold sensation as something is spread on my bare scalp. Then comes a feeling like someone is rubbing a blunt stone against the top of my head. There is a slow grinding sound echoing everywhere. Red fills my vision. I scream, but the sound is muted by tape and drowned out by the constant drilling. I give in to the blackness.
***
