Page 23 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

“Yes, but only for a short time.”

They turn the light off, leaving the door only a hair’s width open behind them. “Should we call the police?” Mrs. Tully asks, her footsteps quite loud on the stairs. She isn’t accustomed to moving around the house silently like Godfrey.

“No, we should call Miss Balfour, she must know—” Then Godfrey’s words get swallowed by the corridor.

I slip into the bathroom, closing the door silently behind me. On the floor, powdered footsteps lead inside. Even though I knew what to expect, I still can’t stop my disappointment. A few slivers of mirror hang stubbornly in the frame. Each piece shows the room behind me, but nothing more. Blood-splattered shards of glass lay on the floor. I have to take care to avoid them as I approach the basin. I know there is no point in ablutions now, but I feel too uncomfortable in my own skin. Perhaps washing my face might grant me some semblance of humanity.

Once finished, the room wavers in the reflection. Water droplets drip down the nothingness and onto the floor. I might be completely invisible, but water, though translucent, is not.

I find one lonely towel still hanging on the wall, spared from my uncharacteristic paroxysm. I dry myself and, without dressing, slip out of my bedroom, descending the stairs soundlessly. In the foyer, I try to ascertain Godfrey’s location. I hear his voice coming from the Library. He must be telephoning Aphra.

Was she worried? Maybe I should call her. But what would I possibly say? That I am no more and don’t know how much longer I can survive like this? It seems a cruel thing to do. After all, I know nothing about my affliction and can give no reassurances.

Opening the door as silently as I can, I slip out into the night.

Today must have been stifling because even this late, the day’s heat still sweats from between the cobblestone cracks. They might be hot enough to burn my bare feet, but my body doesn’t feel any discomfort.

In a corner, several rats scurry over a toppled bin’s refuse. One particularly large one is dragging a half-rotten cabbage into the night. The air around me is so heavy with smog and humidity that it hangs over everything like a fog. Usually, coal tar and sulphur would coat my tongue so thickly that it was hard to remember the flavour of anything else. Now, I can neither taste nor smell it.

Silently, I wander the nearly empty streets. When the occasional pedestrian approaches, I press myself against the wall to let them pass.

The city around me becomes a blur of flickering lamps, condensation, and filth. I follow no one, emptying my mind of all thought or destinations. The clock chimes, announcing midnight. This is the hour of gravediggers, thieves, and ladies of the night. There is no better place for me than within their midst. What was I but a wretched creature made for thieving and suffering?

With every passing hour, more windows go dark. I pay them no heed, continuing from street to street.

A shuffling sound breaks the monotony, accompanied by a choked-off whimper from a nearby alley. I follow it quietly. A woman lies draped over a crate. Her hand is pressed over her mouth, trying to stifle a moan. Her full dress rustles suspiciously. Suddenly, the fabric moves aside, and a man comes up for air. His mouth is glistening with moisture, and the woman pulls him closer for a kiss.

“I don’t know what I like more,” he drawls. “Your mouth or your other mouth.”

The woman giggles, then he returns between her legs. Her hand goes back, attempting to be quiet but failing miserably.

I watch them for a few more moments before leaving them behind.

I will never experience such a thing. Never have, and now, I’ve lost all hope that I ever will.

What was it like to have another’s mouth on one’s skin?

What would it matter now? I can no longer feel.

I brush a finger over my throat. Nothing.

Maybe it would be different if it weren’t my own hand? Or if it was—

I strike my face as hard as I can. I feel no pain, only the sensation of my head being moved by the force.

I laugh. It was strangely fitting for me to end up here, naked, alone, and mad, wandering the streets at night.

In forty-six years, I’ve achieved nothing. Found nothing. Made nothing. Why would I be surprised to end up as nothing?

Even so, I have no other choice but to wander. I can’t risk returning home. If I were found in this state, it would mean certain ruin for my family and staff.

The strange bottles, the mysterious book. It’s utterly incriminating. Meddling with the occult is bad enough, but I well know I’m a degenerate. An invert. I could not bear the scandal or, god forbid, a trial, such as— It’s better not to speak of it. They were sure to inquire further, find Aphra with her—

No.

I shall not think of it.

I’d rather die here, in squalor and anonymity like a discarded dog. Even if I’m eventually found, no one will know it to be me, and then–