Page 8 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

“That is correct. It might be an issue with my tools. Or, possibly, I am simply overworked and have forgotten the precise spot to tap.” He nods at each word as if trying to convince himself. “Yes. I am certain,. He continues to nod, reaching for his notebook to read his notes. “Let me inspect your samples. It won’t be a moment.” He leaves the room.

I’m left shirtless and alone in Dr. Faust’s surgery. This entire situation seems like a gag from the moving picture they discussed at the barber’s. Perhaps the handsome young man covered in blood is about to enter this room to chop my legs off at the knees.

I glance at the door. It remains shut.

I lift my hands and observe them carefully. Long fingers. Short flat nails. All is as it always was. I run the tip of my finger over my bare arms. I feel the air rushing into my lungs, sense the heat of my pulse and my heart beating a touch too quickly. I can’t be dead. It’s preposterous.

With nothing else to do but wait, I pull my shirt back on and lament that in his hubris, the doctor lost one of my garters when removing my hose. I crawl along the floor until I see a faint burgundy shimmer in the shadows of the examination table. After clothing my feet, I slip on my shoes and fasten my tie. In the corner, a skeleton jeers at me through bared teeth. I jeer back.

Just as I slide my arms into the sleeves, Dr. Faust enters the room again. Clearing his throat, he rubs his hands across the coat and tries to put the kind of confidence on his face that lacks any substance.

“Your samples are perfectly fine.”

Perfectly fine health. Perfectly fine samples.

“I consulted my colleague as well, and he agreed with my findings. But if you prefer, you can ask another’s opinion.” He clears his throat, but appears confident in his statement.

I look at him carefully, trying to ascertain if he’s lying. Not that I’m an expert in such matters. My gut, though, believes him to be sincere. With nothing else to do, I stand up, put on my hat, and reach my hand out to his.

“Well, then.” I shrug. “Thank you and…” I trail off.

“I will telephone you once I hear back from the board, Mr. Balfour. I assure you.”

I try for a polite smile, nod, and leave the room.

The sun is much too bright when I step onto the street. I cover my eyes, cursing that I forgot my tinted glasses at home. As I force my body to acclimate to the outside world, everything feels askew. It’s louder than I remember. The smells are too pungent. I feel utterly wrong, and yet—

A gentleman bumps into me, mumbles an apology, and scurries off. Brushing my coat off, I straighten myself, then check my watch and see that I still have plenty of time before I need to prepare for tonight. Perhaps a brisk walk might help shed whatever wrongness insists on clinging to me like lichen.

The day is unusually hot, but the mild breeze brings some relief. The city must agree with me because the streets are filled with strolling couples. Some slowly walk arm in arm, while others sit underneath the flowering trees in the park.

I will never stroll with another, never touch a man… No. Not in public. I avert my eyes and hold my fists so tightly that my knuckles waxen. Something grows. Bigger. Quicker.

This wasn’t right. It’s as if I’m being suffocated by my own flesh. This once familiar body seems to no longer belong to me. But who or what is taking hold of it, then?

I’ve never been slovenly before. What could have possessed me to sleep for more than a day? It’s all too peculiar. I will never forget the look in my eyes after I awoke. The wildness. The anger.

If you asked me only a few days ago, I would have told you with complete conviction that I had no angry bone in my body. Even as a youth, I was a calm sort of fellow. My sister was sometimes prone to tantrums, as all small children are, but never me. Not once. I recall my governess praising me for my temperament on many occasions. And even then—

My body gets jerked back roughly, and I nearly fall to the ground from the force. Luckily, I manage to keep my balance, but someone is holding onto my collar. A young man is standing close—improperly close. With eyes aghast, his hand is on my shoulders, as if he’s making sure that I’m still there.

“Are you alright, man?” he says breathlessly.

“Perfectly fine,” I reply, squaring my chest, utterly bewildered by the situation. Then I notice more passers-by staring at us with shock painted on their faces.

“You nearly died there, mate. Saved you by a hair,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.

I turn, and indeed, there is a motorcar right beside me. And inside this motorcar sits a very frightened driver. He’s gesticulating wildly, presumably mumbling apologies.

I turn back to the man, whose hand is still on my shoulder.

“Are you sure yer alright? You must have gotten a real shock.” He pulls away but looks at me expectantly, waiting for an answer.

Yet I do not feel shocked. My pulse is steady and unobtrusive, and my breath comes as slow as ever. I listen closer. There is only silence. No relief. No wonder. No fear.

“I’m well. I suppose I owe you my life,” I say, trying to put a level of gratitude into my voice I do not feel.

“It’s nothing, mate. Be safe.” He smiles shyly before continuing on his way.