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Mail for Henry Goodsir, Ocean View Apartments #16

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[Mail, phone or text messages.]

The days following the arrival of William Gibson's remains in the lobby of his flat have progressed in something of a fog for Harry. While he hasn't gone away, so to speak, as he'd done on the day of the terrible discovery, he's still felt something of a disconnect with the world around him despite his attempts to engage. There is too much at stake now for him to simply stop participating in his own life.

He has a paper due in one of his courses, something he would very much like to receive a good grade for, but he's found himself unable to write a single word. In an attempt to perhaps jolt his mind into working with a change of scenery, he'd collected his books and his computer, then relocated from his flat to the courtyard between the buildings outside. There are places to sit here, benches and chairs, and he's spread his work across one of the tables and set himself down to properly get the paper written.

An hour has passed and he's managed only a page. Occasionally he'll flip through one of his open books, trying to find the information he's looking for, but before long he finds himself drawn back into himself. Into his memories. The ring he'd taken from Gibson's body has been on a chain looped around his neck, but he's taken it off now and is turning it over in his fingers, studying the flash of gold under the bright spring sunshine.

There's still blood on it. Mere flecks of it here and there. They would be easily washed away if he were to try, but he hasn't. Not yet. It seems appropriate to continue to punish himself in this way, something small and unnoticeable to most. Blood on a ring he was meant to return to London. The blood of a man whose body he took apart.

A sudden gust of wind rises, surprising Harry, and a few of his papers blow off the table. He looks up, frozen for a moment, then ends up rising from his seat, the ring still in his hand, and scrambling after the work before it gets too far away.

Harry is toying with the gold ring he wearing on a cord around his neck, turning it over and over between his fingers as he walks down the sidewalk. He isn't paying enough attention to where he's going, he realizes that the moment he turns a corner and nearly walks into someone else, an apology sputtering out as he jerks his hand, accidentally breaking the cord.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm so... oh no," he breathes as the ring drops to the sidewalk, pinging softly off the asphalt and into the street. He can't lose this ring and he's barely glanced at the man he's run into before he's checking to make sure there's no traffic coming so he can retrieve the ring.

Once he has it back in his hand, clutched tightly in his palm, he looks to the man again.

"I'm terribly sorry," he says again and he thinks he might recognize the man, but he can't be certain. "I wasn't watching where I was going and then... well, I'm very sorry, please accept my apologies."

There are good days and there are bad. Harry tells himself the same can be said of everyone here, even those who haven't come from something horrific and traumatic. He tells himself his feelings, his experiences such as they are, they're no more important than anyone else's and then, eventually, he finds himself giving into his primary physician's suggestion he speak with a mental healthcare professional.

Harry isn't sure why he's been resistant for this long. Unlike most men of his time, he's always had a rather open mind when it comes to afflictions of the psyche, understanding some illnesses to be more than something to be solved with physical science. And yet, when it had come to his own mind, he'd found it difficult to say the things that needed to be said.

But he's making the effort and his physician directs him to a therapist who has experience, he claims, in things that are a little less than natural, which doesn't exactly ease Harry's mind, but it's a start. He figures, if nothing else, he can leave out the parts of the Tuunbaq when he tells his story.

Their first meeting goes well enough and although they haven't gotten into much, Harry still leaves the appointment feeling a little shaky. He stands there for a moment, his hand pressed to the cool exterior wall of the building, and tries to find his balance.

"Perhaps a tea," he says, mostly to himself.

Harry Goodsir feels as if he's floating.

There is ice around him, creaking and snapping under tremendous pressure, and a cold wind whips across a wide open plain of rock and snow. Behind him, the thick fabric of his tent pulls taut, then snaps loose, and he knows none of this is possible. He's in Darrow, just inside the front entrance of his building, a row of mailboxes to his left, but the wind whistles in his ear as he stares down at the bloody canvas bag at his feet.

It leaks red across the snowy ground (the tile floor) and pools around the toes of his wrecked, threadbare boots (his shoes) and Harry doesn't have the ability to step away. Everything doubles, here and there, Darrow and the Arctic, and in the distance comes the echoing growl of a monster nature has never before seen the likes of. Harry lifts his gaze from the remains of William Gibson and looks for Tuunbaq, but instead finds himself looking through the glass window of the front door.

Outside, the cement is bare. The snow has begun to melt. Inside, it's blown across jagged rocks on a sharp wind, the crystals of it like glass against his bare cheeks.

A gold ring glitters on the floor (in the snow) and Harry bends to pluck it from the blood. He had been meant to return that ring to someone, but now he can't seem to remember who. His fingers are wet when he rises again, but Harry has never been bothered by a little blood. He's a surgeon, after all, he's worked on dozens of cadavers, first in his training and then in his duties. This isn't his first body. It's only the first he'd butchered.

A voice comes in on the wind, whistling through the fabric of the tent (the crack in the door) to tickle his ear. "For what should I prepare?"

"To die, Mister Gibson," Harry whispers down at the bag on the floor before he lifts one hand to his face and wipes at the damp streaks on his skin. When had he begun crying? The blood smears on his cheek and he looks down at his hand, at the ring held there, and another blast of wind rocks him.

This one, though, is real. Harry looks at the door and finds it open, an out of focus figure standing there. He had a plan once, he thinks. A bellyful of poison and a shard of glass to his wrists.

"There is beauty here," he whispers, barely a voice at all. "Even now."

One of the many things Harry has learned of in Darrow that he finds he enjoys very much is the concept of a date night. It isn't that he needs an excuse to take Zoe out, but there's something terribly charming about making a particular show of it all, planning the evening, arriving to pick her up and arranging for a movie to be followed by a late night stop at a dessert bar.

And movies are still fascinating for Harry, so he sits in the film, as utterly transfixed as he had been the first few times, occasionally reaching over to take Zoe's hand at particularly tense parts. When they leave, he finds he can't stop talking about it, the plot and the performances and even the beauty of each individual shot. They talk almost all the way to the dessert bar and then he smiles as he leads her inside.

"I hope this is something you'll be interested in," he says as he opens the door and then finds them a table. "People often suggest going out for drinks, but I thought... well, this seemed like a fine idea."

There are other ideas he has, too. While he is in no rush and has no interest in pushing Zoe somewhere she may not yet be willing to go, Harry thinks he might be ready for things he's kept rather off the table. They've kissed plenty and he's grown more confident in touching her, too, but he has more on his mind now and he's rather excited about it.

"And then... maybe you would like to come back to my place," he suggests with a gentle smile.

Harry looks at himself in the mirror before he leaves his flat and thinks about how he wants this meeting with Martin to go. What he wants, more than anything, is for things to be normal between them. It wouldn't be a stretch at all to say Martin is the closest friend he's had since childhood and he doesn't want to lose that due to a few nightmares.

A few nightmares. It's foolish to write them off as such when merely looking at himself in the mirror now tells a different story, but Harry is keen to write that off as simply not having kept up with eating properly. School has become quite busy, especially with midterm exams quickly approaching, and he hasn't properly been preparing meals as his nutritionist had helped him outline. There's not enough protein in his diet, he knows this to be the case, and he convinces himself that's the reason for the shadows under his eyes.

He doesn't want Martin to think he's not sleeping, so as he approaches the coffee shop where they had agreed to meet, Harry pinches his cheeks a few times to bring a bit of colour into them and finds he's grateful for the chill in the air. It makes his eyes water a bit, making them bright, and it's easy to smile when he sees Martin sitting inside.

None of this is Martin's fault and there's no undoing what's been done. All they can do -- all of them, he thinks, John included -- is go forward from here. Harry is certainly willing.

"Hullo," he says when he reaches Martin's table. "Have you ordered already?"

Very soon, there will be a party.

Harry has been giving this a lot of thought recently, not just the idea of attending a party and trying to have a good time, but the possibility of going to a party with someone. And not just anyone, of course, but one particular someone he's found himself quite taken with since his arrival here in Darrow. Were this London, were this still 1848 he would never even allow himself to consider such a thing, but this is not London. And it is a full hundred and seventy years later. The times have changed and he is allowed things he might not have been once.

Besides which, he believes Captain Crozier would want this for him. Perhaps not this particular thing, but he would want a new life for Harry. A new chance. Even some happiness.

And so it is with this thought that Harry makes a promise to himself. The next time he sees Zoe, he will ask if she would like to attend the party with him. Not simply as a friend, but as his date. He would like very much to court her and he knows things are different here, that he doesn't need to follow the same rules, but he can't stray too far from what he knows either. He will have to find a happy medium, a method of courting that will make them both comfortable.

He's not prepared for the first time he sees Zoe after making this decision to be mere hours later. But as he leaves class, his bag carefully slung over his shoulder, a textbook tucked under his arm, there she is, no terribly far from campus. Her hair glows in the sun, as if it's lit from within, and for a moment he allows himself to just look.

Then he smiles and, very nervous, raises his hand in a wave.

The day had begun well enough.

Still without any sort of employment -- though it isn't as if he's been looking -- Harry is out of his flat once more, wandering through the streets of Darrow. The weather is agreeable, warm and sunny with a light breeze, and he's clean and well fed, which are two simple pleasures he still finds himself enjoying thoroughly. Such small things, truly, to have the ability to shower and to have a full stomach, but after three years, Harry knows how much better these things can make one feel.

He starts off in a very good mood, but it happens as he's walking along Park Avenue, enjoying the fresh smell of the blossoms in the trees. A woman just ahead of him turns, sweeping her shining black hair back from her face as she does, and in that instant he sees only Lady Silence.

Even now, Harry doesn't realize that he'd been a little bit in love with her, but the sight of her rocks through him as if he's been struck. Some deep and buried part of him understand he's not really seeing Silence, but the woman bears enough of a resemblance that he's immediately back there in the snow. He sees the blood on her face, the wild and frantic way she had looked to him, then fallen into his arms. It's as if he's living it all again.

All of it. The fire. The screams. The smell of burning flesh. And Silence, falling toward him with blood caking her chin.

Harry takes two steps back, hits the low rock wall of the park and then stands there, utterly stunned. Unable to move. Unable to do anything but listen to the screams echoing in his ears.

The past several days have been utter madness.

The snow had come on so swiftly, blanketing the city, howling wind and freezing temperatures plunging them into a world Harry recognizes far too well. For him, the worst has been the lack of light. While on the expedition, the darkness had lasted terribly long, stretching for as many as twenty-three hours, only for there to be a mere hour of milky sunlight on the very worst days.

Harry had thought he'd left it all behind when he'd come to Darrow, but that same darkness has crept into this city as well, and he spends several long days in his flat, wondering if it's somehow followed him here. Wondering if he's simply meant to die in a world full of ice and snow and shadows.

Eventually, with nothing else to fill his time, he tries using his telephone to reach Zoe. To make sure she's safe and that she has enough food to last if they're indeed snowed in for as long as he anticipates they might be. Edgar has shown him what to do with the telephone and he's sure he's using it properly, but the call refuses to connect and after several attempts, he tosses the phone onto the kitchen table in disgust.

It's a terribly stupid idea, but he doesn't care. There are very few instances in Harry's life when he can claim to have been brave, to have stood for something important, and if one of the few friends he's made thus far in Darrow is in need, he knows he must go to help.

Wearing as many of his layers as he possibly can and dressing himself in the boots he had arrived in, Harry ventures out into the driving snow and makes the very long trek to Zoe's flat. By the time he arrives, he's shivering, covered in snow, but he thinks he's successfully avoided frostbite and he rings the buzzer for her flat with numb fingers, praying to find her safe.

To his credit, Harry really is trying. It seems as though he's here to stay, that Darrow is his new home, and while he still doesn't necessarily believe he's the one who most deserves this second chance, it's his either way. To do anything but make the best of it would be a great disservice to men like Captain Crozier and Captain Fitzjames, and Harry has more respect for them than he does nearly anyone else he's met.

It's not a simple thing, learning how to live in such an unfamiliar place, but with a little bit of help, Harry is getting by. He's found a proper place for Jacko and now she's with other monkeys of her kind at the local zoo, with the keepers having assured him he can visit her whenever he likes, which gives him a certain peace of mind. With the help of a few doctors and Blue's guidance, he's also discovered how to prepare meals that give him the nutrients he requires without any meat. This alone has changed how he feels on any given day and while he's still thinner than he ought to be, his energy has begun to return.

The thought of trying to look for work is daunting, however, he's not sure where he could even begin and so he's set that aside for now, even though he thinks it might help. Because for all he tries to do in settling into Darrow, there are still moments when he's utterly certain he's back in the Arctic. Moments when he can see the fire, the polar lights, the great white bears, and all the blood. All the men he failed, the men who died.

The men he cut up so they could be eaten.

He still doesn't sleep well and despite the weight he's begun to gain, his skin still has a bit of a sickly pallor to it. A doctor has encouraged him to spend more time outside, so he's on a walk now, steadfastly ignoring anything that might trigger another episode of the memories that seem as if they're so much more rich than any memories ought to be.

When he spots Yona not terribly far ahead of him -- though she isn't walking, she's merely standing there, almost as if she's waiting for him -- he smiles and tips his head toward her in greeting. It's nice to see her, the woman who greeted him at his very worst and still stopped to help.

"Good afternoon," he says politely when he's close enough. "It's very good to see you."

After nearly a fortnight, Harry has yet to figure out why he's here and why there's been no sign of any of the other men. Surely of them all, it's Captain Crozier or Captain Fitzjames who deserve this second chance more than he could ever hope to, but each and every long and arduous day creep by without any sign of them, and Harry sinks deeper into his despair. He spends long hours in his unsettlingly modern flat, tracing his fingertips over the twisting scars on his wrists, wondering how it is he cut so deep only to have them heal upon his arrival here.

When he can stand the flat no longer, he walks. The clothes upon his back are unfamiliar, but as close to his own as he could find, trousers in black wool, a shirt of soft white cotton, a vest and an overcoat, though even the chilly spring nights don't quite touch him the way they might have a few years ago. His boots had been filled with blood, both his own and that of other men, and he'd discarded them after finding a new pair that he has yet to properly break in. They make his feet hurt and he has several bleeding blisters he's done nothing about.

It's pain he deserves. Pain he's earned.

Sleep still mostly eludes him. He'll pass out from exhaustion for a few hours some nights, but others go by without him being able to so much as shut his eyes. He ought not to be here. Captain Crozier should be here. Captain Fitzjames. Men deserving of this gift. The men Hickey killed should have this chance. The men Harry butchered for food.

This day feels particularly hard and the flat is nearly unbearable. It's still early evening when he leaves, needing to move. The sun has yet to dip behind the horizon and Harry looks up at it as he walks. When he finally looks away, the after imagine is burned into his vision and he's utterly blind for several long moments, only finally regaining his vision to realize he's very nearly wandered into the roadway. A car speeds by him, honking its horn, and Harry stumbles back two steps, up onto the walkway and pauses for a moment.

Two weeks and he has yet to regain his strength. Eating is nearly as difficult as sleeping. Every time he tries to have a meal, he thinks of Cornelius Hickey dissecting him, carving off pieces from his thin frame, chewing and swallowing the flesh from his thighs as he imagines they must have, and he loses his appetite. But he's paying for it now, his legs shaking as he gets out of the roadway, still not used to the vehicles and speeds at which they travel.

Reaching out, Harry steadies himself against a nearby building and drops his head, trying to catch his breath. He must look a horrid sight, between his state and his clothes, and the length of his hair and beard, but he can't bring himself to care. It's been a very long time since he's been a proper gentleman.

If ever I was a doctor, I am one no longer.

He'd meant those words, meant them deeply, and believes them to his core, no matter what the Captain might say to try and change his mind. It doesn't matter now, none of it matters, because this is the end for him. He'll not make it out of this camp alive, he'll never see the ships again, never see the green grass or hear the calls of the birds in spring or make his mother smile.

Harry Goodsir isn't going home.

The camp is quiet, the others are resting or perhaps listening to more of Hickey's madness somewhere out of earshot. Whatever the case, Harry doesn't care. Let them swallow Hickey's sickness, let them choke on it, like they'll choke on his flesh mere hours from now.

He'd never thought himself an angry man, nor a vengeful one, and even now he's not sure if what he's doing is for the sake of vengeance or some sort of duty he feels to the good of mankind. All he knows is that Cornelius Hickey can't be allowed to leave this place and this is the only way Harry knows to guarantee he dies here with the rest of them.

They're not a very thoughtful lot. They'd brought his medical kit when they kidnapped him, but they hadn't thought to remove any of the poisons inside. Harry takes them out now and pours them one by one into a white bowl, then dips a dry, filthy cloth into the mixture. After loosening his collar, he begins to bathe his skin with the liquid, taking care to cover as much of the surface as he can reach.

His neck and chest first. Then his stomach, back, arms, everywhere he's able. When he's done, he puts his shirt back on, then removes his trousers and the long underpants beneath and bathes his legs in the same mixture. He takes special care with his thighs, knowing they'll start there first.

All he can do is hope the Captain had listened to him. Had understood. If pressed into it, he had to be sure to eat nothing but the soles of Harry's feet.

The bottle of laudanum is still nearly full and Harry considers it for a moment before he uncorks it and downs nearly the entire thing. It's not a pleasant taste, for unlike many doctors of his time, he's no addict. But this will make it easier and quicker, he knows, so he drinks it all before he dresses once more. It won't matter to them if he's presentable, but he cares. Even now, he cares.

They've taken his knives, his tools, but Harry can be resourceful. He breaks one of the larger bottles in a cloth, then extracts the largest, sharpest shard of glass he can find. It's cool against his skin and he lies back on his cot with it in his hand. He does the left wrist first, digging the glass into his skin without hesitation, dragging it down, opening the veins beneath. It's much harder to hold the glass in his left hand. His fingers are already slippery with blood and he seems to be losing sensation, but he still grips it tight and presses the edge into his right wrist, spreading skin, feeling it peel back from the depth of the cut.

It hurts. All of it hurts. His skin and the cuts and his hands. His stomach turns over, threatens to empty, but Harry closes his eyes and sees, as he dies, a beautiful white orchid, a seashell, a crystal. A little blessing, he thinks, his mind supplying him with images of the natural world, the things he loves best and will miss most.

Or maybe he won't miss anything at all.

There's wind on his face. A biting wind. It chills him and yet he's aware enough to note it's not nearly as cold as the weather had been at Terror Camp, not so long ago. Perhaps there is a Heaven, even if Harry has never really been sure if he believes in God. If Heaven exists, though, he imagines it might be something a little like this.

His eyes open and he finds himself staring up at a clear, blue sky.

He turns onto his side, moving cautiously, but his stomach doesn't heave, and his hands don't hurt. Blood still slicks both wrists, but he's not bleeding any longer, and he stares at the closed wounds for a moment before taking account of his surroundings.

There's still snow and ice, but it's different. Warmer. The sun beats down on him, a real sun and not that distant Northern sun that never seemed to warm a single thing, despite the sunburns it still managed to deliver during the summer months. The ground beneath him is different, too. His fingers dig into the snow as he pushes into a sitting position and beneath the snow is grass.

It's the first grass Harry Goodsir has seen in nearly three years. Grass under the snow, still green, struggling back to life as he pushes aside handfuls of snow to simply gawk at what he's revealed.

Grass. The warm sun. A tree, he realizes, not four feet from where he sits. The laughter of a child. A barking dog. Either Heaven or some beautiful hallucination pushed out by his dying brain and Harry laughs, the sound hoarse, as he realizes this is the most likely explanation. He's still dying, he realizes, dropping his forehead down to touch the grass.

He's still dying and none of this is real, but he can smell the grass and feel it against his cheek and Harry doesn't even realize he's begun to weep.