Henry Goodsir (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
naturalmisery) wrote2019-03-27 02:43 pm
naturalmisery) wrote2019-03-27 02:43 pm
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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.
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.