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The old Operating Theatre would haunt Thomson’s dreams until his sleep no longer involved the promise of dreaming, and of that, the young man was sure. He could no longer stay at a place like this, where girls like Emily were kept like monsters in cages, and post-mortem photography had no allure. It seemed unfair to wear white to photograph deceased children at their funerals, to celebrate their youth and purity in death, when girls such as Emily had their youth and purity taken away in life. His breath hitched in his throat slightly as he began to settle away his things, moving the large daguerreotype from one corner of the room to the other with some difficulty – for he really was quite incessantly frail and scarce despite the many attempts of the orderlies, his benefactor Bryson and even his mother, to fatten him up. There he looked at it fondly. They had seen some horrors together, and Thomson was no longer afraid to find out what really went on in the bowels of the world, in the deepest, darkest depths of human depravity. He would see it all, and he would photograph and document it. That was a promise he made to himself – and, in part, to Emily.
In years to come, people would see the world just as Thomson did. He had always been an avid fantasist – in fact, Thomson’s parents and benefactor would often scold him, claiming that such wide-eyed idealism was impractical in a boy of his social standing. But he would still prefer to spend whole days, when he was able, losing himself at sea, at battle in England’s long and distant past, or in any other adventure that took his fancy. Battleships, ruins and relics were always a great source of pleasure for a boy, of course, Thomson thought somewhat wistfully – but for him, the greatest pleasure in reading had always come from the stories about people. People were fascinating to him. No wonder he’d been so eager to accept a position photographing the inmates at the insane asylum run by the prestigious Doctor Montmorency Stockill, he thought with a shudder. If only he had known what those photographs would be used for… Oh God, he had been so stupid. Oh, God, the things he had done…
Thomson gasped, almost knocking over the shutter he was busy folding away, and jumped to attention, just as the doctor’s intimidating frame loomed into view, a blunt-looking sterilising tool glittering menacingly in the half-light peering through the half-open windows. “Ah, there you are, young Thomas.” For once, the boy didn’t bother to correct the doctor. Not only had he grown used to his name being mispronounced, but after seeing what the doctor was capable of – Thomson shuddered. He had to get away, simply had to.
“Yes, Doctor?”
“There’s someone here who wishes to speak to you before you leave, boy.”
Doctor Stockill’s lips curled into a sneer, his eyes narrowed, and he turned curtly on his heel. “Do be quick, now.” Thomson’s first thought was of Emily, of course, but why should she want to see him again? Emily may be unwashed and skinny with tangled hair and she may be a patient – patron – inmate in the asylum, but she had quickly become the most important person in his life, in next to no time at all. He loved her vibrant curiosity and how not even the Hell she was going through had diminished it. He loved how she scowled behind the doctor’s backs and how much she cared about the other girls; how she insisted the rats could speak to her and that her name was spelt Emily-with-a-y, although Thomson had never seen any other way of having it spelt. But Emily wouldn’t wish to see him again now. He knew there was a large part of her that blamed him for what had happened with the ring of girls – and he couldn’t say he disagreed. He blamed himself, too.
He bared his breath, waiting to see her small frame standing in the doorway illuminated by the cold, steely lamps. He waited for her to slap him, and he knew he would cover his cheek and walk away quickly, and not give the doctors any reason to punish her further. But Emily, of course, wasn’t there. Instead there was a tall, cold, cruel-looking man, dressed in a dark suit. His fair hair covered one eye; the other was obscured by a navy velvet eye-patch, one which gave him the impression of pirates in his old stories. His skin was as pale as the moon, and there was a ruthless air about him. Thomson, in spite of himself, was frightened. “
Mein Herr,” the man said politely, in what Thomson suspected was his native language, “I have come to enquire as to a favour.”
“A favour?” Thomson, once again forgetting himself, frowned. “Pardon me, sir. Do I know you?”
“Ah, I apologise.” The Count nodded to him with a curt sort of politeness, inclining his head faintly before holding out one gloved hand to Thomson. The boy looked at it warily for a few seconds, before he remembered his manners, and took it. The Count smiled sardonically. Long, white, spidery fingers fastened around Thomson’s and stroked them, in what Thomson supposed he thought was a friendly handshake. “Forgive me, young Sir. I am the Count de Rothsburg, and what I come to ask concerns – ah, one of the patients here – she is a friend of yours, I believe.” Thomson frowns a little, his brow furrowing in confusion. There is, of course, only one possible explanation as to whom this ‘friend’ of his could be. He has had no contact with any of the girls besides Emily, and so she is the obvious choice. But what could Emily have to say to him? How could she possibly know a man like this? “We’re talking about Emily. Aren’t we?”
“We are.” The Count inclined his head so far that Thomson could see where the blond, slicked-back locks met at the nape of his neck in darker curls, then nodded curtly at him. “Young man, I see you’re no stranger to business.” Thomson had backed himself into a corner; frightened, the Count was circling him like a vulture, with an almost cannibalistic smile playing upon his lips.
“Emily is… precious to me,” Thomson decided to venture forward, bravely. “She’s not your ordinary young woman, and if you’re venturing for…services, not only would you not wish to consult me, but you do not wish for the services of Emily, either.”
“Are you sure?” the Count asked, mockingly, deciding to play with Thomson a little now he evidently had the young man on a string. What a darling, he thought, a hand absent-mindedly straying to the brass button of his breeches. He’d be fun to play with, in the meantime, whilst waiting to extract his… not revenge, exactly, it was not so highly prized as all that, but his - his little game, perhaps; taking what he was owed, certainly. “Because it may interest you to know,” he interrupted, before Thomson indignantly interjected, “it is not her ‘services’ I require."
Thomson narrowed his eyes in distaste and mild fear. "I - I don't understand."
"I have a certain collection," the Count answered, quietly, and somewhat wistfully; gazing off into a corner of the room. His attention came back to Thomson quickly, whom he offered a somewhat sad smile, and out of his pocket pulled a selection of tattered photographs held together with red velour ribbon. The first was a photograph of a young woman with a pretty, witty face; she had dark lips and eyes, and she was looking towards the camera with a fond smile; the white smock shirt she wore unbuttoned slightly. Thomson's eyes widened in disbelief.
"Sir, I can't -" Thomson shook his head. "I'm sorry, there's no way - I can't..."
"Dear boy," the Count responded gently, cupping Thomson's face in one hand, and leaning incessantly close, until Thomson was forced to step back to avoid an awkward collision with his nose against the elder man's, "what on earth do you think I'm asking you to do?"
"To - the photographs -" Thomson stuttered, gesturing somewhat shyly to the daguerrotype behind him. The Count's expression was one of extreme amusement.
"No, no. You're mistaken." The Count laughed somewhat jovially, before stopping, his face returning to its earlier cold expressionlessness. His smile was somewhat genial. "Oh, my poor boy, no. This is - was - my first wife. My Carmilla."
Despite the fact that the Count was clearly older than he was, and clearly old enough to have been married, Thomson couldn't help but gasp in audible shock at the thought of the Count ever being married; and here was veritable proof! He did not strike Thomson as a man with whom one could have romantic relations; certainly not a man who would make a suitable husband, although there was something strangely and almost devilishly handsome about the man, he must admit.
"I see," he said, carefully. "She's very... pretty."
"You think so, do you?" the Count circled Thomson a few times, and laughed. "Yes, I did too. And I'm sure you'll agree her beauty only increased."
"I'm sorry?" The young photographer began, but his words were soon cut off as the Count withdrew yet another photograph; it was the same woman, he suspected; but he shuddered in horror to see what the Count was showing him. Thomson was familiar with post-mortem photography; he did not personally understand the 'memento mori' fashion trend, but admitted it paid well, and sometimes the photographs of their deceased loved ones could be a comfort to the family. He himself had taken many of these photographs; using metal clamps to hold the dead person upright as the family arranged themselves, or flowers, or their lost one's posessions, around them.
But what the Count was showing him was different. This girl had not died naturally; it was clearly the work of a foul murder. There was a noose around her neck, for a start, and her eyes were open and almost popping in gruesome horror; inflamed marks on her neck, which the boy assumed were evidence that she had been alive before being suspended from the ceiling; the hanging was the cause of her death, rather than something which happened afterwards. Bruising was evident around the mouth and neck, so he also assumed that the Count - for he knew it was the Count - had attempted to smother her before his attempts proved fruitless and he turned to hanging. Worst of all, the marks on that pretty dark mouth were horrid and cruel. The mouth had been ripped open at the creases, and turned her playful smile into a gruesome gaping sort of grin. Thomson dropped the photograph.
"The latest additions to my collection," the Count was saying, as though he had not noticed Thomson frozen in shock, "were two beautiful twin girls - the last gift from my Carmilla to me - and oh, how much fun I had with them -" Thomson's vision wavered "-one got away, which was a verdammt shame, because what a beautiful display they would have made, side-by-side, identical in death as in life, but..."
"What," Thomson managed to break out, "a-are you saying?"
"I think," the Count replied, slowly, stepping so close that his body was pressed against the other boy's, "you know." He was still speaking; but all Thomson could think of was Emily. Telling Emily that he'd break her out; only to deliver her to the Count's doorstep, and his garish chamber of horrors...
“Do you think you could help me?” de Rothsburg asked mockingly, the moment Thomson came back to reality. The man's cold blue eye bore into his, and his lips seemed to twist in vile, almost perverse amusement. "I promise you, young Sir, I would make it worth your while - a veritable chamber of rewards, yes, I could provide you with anything you dreamed of; money, of course, would be the most obvious choice, but I have an abundance of other possessions... of all variations... and I have connections." Those lips twisted further, into a smirk. "Would you like a girl from the Theatre of Music, sir? Or perhaps a boy, from another? Nothing is off limits. I could travel across the seas..."
“Get out of my s-sight,” Thomson demands, trying his utmost hardest to sound threatening. A stammer still slipped through his lips; although whether it was born of rage or fear he couldn’t tell. But he stood his ground, looking the Count up and down. "I-if you leave now, and never try to trouble Emily again, o-or any of the girls here... I promise. I promise I won't alert the authorities. B-but I... I won't help you in your sick games. You're a monster. A vampire." The boy began to shake, and backed away from the elder man and his looming shadow in helpless terror.
In retaliation, the Count narrowed his eyes somewhat With one swift, fell swoop, the Count grabbed Thomson by the neck and began to throttle him.
Thomson chokes and gasps and feels like he’s drowning; feels the other man’s long fingers fasten tight around his throat. One hand covers his mouth, effectively silencing the younger man, and the Count de Rothsberg’s teeth are bared in a sardonic smile. “Now, now, mein Herr. It would do us no good to disturb the doctor in his work, as I’m sure you’ll agree. Don’t you want to be a good boy for me, hmm?”
The younger boy struggled in his grasp, but the Count’s fingers are long and unwinding and they simply close around his throat once more, squeezing so tightly that Thomson’s hands flew to his shoulders, attempting to push him away with all his might. The other man merely smiled – slow and sadistic – and Thomson wondered if this was how he was going to die. His eyes were wide and glassy with the beginning of tears and the Count merely tightens his grip with a squeeze to his windpipe, carelessly, cutting off the boy’s air supply so abruptly that his throat hitched and made a strangled noise reminiscent of a drowning thing, Thomson’s hands thrashing against him, gripping his leather overcoat weakly before his fingers lost their grip.
The moment the Count let go, Thomson gasped, gulping as though he was trying to force air back into his lungs. His vision blurred before him and his throat ached, the other man’s fingertips still scarlet on his pallid skin. Count de Rothsberg noticed how his cheeks were flushed and glistening with tears, his eyes glassy and empty, and he all but collapsed against the other man, his long fingers brushing against the Count’s upper arms. He considered pushing him away roughly, but he couldn’t help but watch, fascinated, as his full lips opened and closed, gasping frantically for oxygen.
Something sick inside him made the sight fascinating to de Rothsberg. The suffering of the young creature in front of him was simply exquisite, from the fragility of his frail, boyish body, to the slender neck still bared and, most beautifully of all, the quivering of his lips and the dull, broken expression in his eyes, after the panic and pain and terror had all been extinguished. It was like the finest piece of music, more inspiring than a piano concerto, and more beautiful than any piece of art. The fact that he could become one with something so beautiful just by nearly choking a young man to death excited him, and he groaned as a pained moan escaped Thomson. Before the boy could gather enough breath to protest, the Count had seized his slender frame and pulled him close enough that their chests were touching, so he could hear the rapid pounding of his pulse.
The Count leaves Thomson sore and aching and broken, his lips scarlet and swollen, his neck and clavicle riddled with bites he couldn’t possibly hope to hide, and it pained him even to move. The other man’s seemingly endless and painfully firm fingers could still be felt on his flesh, and worst of all, Thomson knew exactly what he looked like. He choked back a humiliated sob and glanced upwards to see the Count in disappearing. He didn’t speak as he slammed the Theatre door behind him, just dismissed him with a wave of a leather-gloved hand, and somehow that smarts more than the red welts and the finger-marks on his flesh. But the Count was gone - he was gone, and he'd heard the doors slam behind him; Emily was safe...
Then Thomson glances downwards and sees a handful of pennies scattered amidst the buttons on the floor, and he has to force himself to breathe again and pick himself up, dusting off his tattered clothes and picking up his equipment. Yes, he would never forget the old Operating Theatre, nor the horrors that went on there.
Munchycat01 Wed 04 Oct 2023 04:18PM UTC
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