Read me! Pretty pretty please?
From the Journals of Amadeus Arkham:
In the years following my father's death, I think it's true to say that the house became my whole world. During the long period of Mother's illness, the house often seemed so vast, so confidently real, that by comparison, I felt little more than a ghost haunting it's corridors. Scarcely aware that anything could exist beyond those melancholy walls.
Until the night in 1901, when i fist saw a glimpse of that other world. The world on the dark side. That was the moment when i first felt truly alone.
Many years later when i became aware of the significance of the beetle as a symbol of rebirth, I realized that she was simply trying to protect herself from something in the only way that made sense to her. But even then I think I understood that mother HAD been born again, into that other world. A world of fathomless signs and portents. Of magic and terror. And mysterious symbols.
I return to the family home on a cool spring morning in 1920, shortly after mother's funeral. She opened her throat with a pearl-handled razor. In the end, perhaps, it was for the best. I have to believe that. As the only child i am to inherit the house and the acre of land upon which it stands.
Alone in a gloom that smells of dust and childhood, I dedicate myself to the prevention of such suffering as my poor mother knew. And i begin to make my plans.
For the first night in twelve years I spend the night in my old room. I do not sleep well. My dreams are haunted my beating wings. And outside, far off, a dog barks on and on through the whole restless night.
Next day, I return to Metropolis, where my family and i have been living for some time. Im working at the State Psychiatric Hospital and one of my patients today has been referred to me from Metropolis Penitentiary. His name is Martin Hawkins. "MAD DOG" Hawkins.
I listen as he tells me how he was beaten and sexually abused by his father. I ask him why he chose to destroy only the faces and sexual organs of his victims. And i ask him why he cuts his arms with a razor.
After two hours , he is taken back to the penitentiary to await trial. How many more like him must there be? Men, whose only real crime is mental illness, trapped in the penal system with no hope of treatment. My course is clear.
I tell my dear Constance and little Harriet that we will shortly be returning to my family home in Gotham City, there to begin it's conversion into the facility for the treatment of the mentally ill.
That night i dream i am a child again.
Lost in a funhouse i find myself in The Hall of Mirrors. There are strangers in the mirrors and i freeze, not daring to go any further. Not through that door. At last my father comes looking for me. I beg him not to take me into the tunnel of love. We return by the way we entered. That night i dream that the mirror people have escaped from the glass and come looking for me. I wake, sweating and adult, and for a moment. Just a moment. I feel as though Im back. Where i belong. Back in the old house.
In the fall of 1920, I am invited to Europe. I finally meet Professor Jung in Switzerland. And in England, I am introduced to the so-called "Wickedest Man on Earth"--Aleister Crowley. I find him charming and highly educated. We discuss the symbolism of the Egyptian Tarot and he beats me at chess.Twice. I run out of french cigarettes in the Mid-Atlantic.
I arrive home in time for Christmas and find the conversion of the house to be well under way. Constance surprises me with a wonderful addition to my aquarium. Japanese Clown Fish are a fascinating species. When a dominant female dies, one of the males will actually change sex and assume her former role. For some reason, i am reminded of the french name for the victim of an April Fool prank. Poisson D'Avril. April Fish. I experience and inexplicable frisson of deja vu. And then the telephone rings.
It transpires that Martin Hawkins has escaped from the Penitentiary and the Police would like my considered opinion as to his state of mind. I tell them he may be highly dangerous and leave them to it. It's not my problem. Not tonight. Harriet is enchanted by the cuckoo clock i have grought her from Switzerland. I pray that it might take her mind from the bad dreams. Then i remind myself that all intelligent children suffer bad dreams. And she is so very intelligent. And perfectly beautiful. I almost wish she need never grow up.
Spring is a decietful season and April 1st, 1921 is cold. Mercilessly cold. I see my wife first. My dear Constance. Her body is in pieces. Harriet lies nearby, indescribably violated. Almost idly, i wonder where her head is. And then i look at the dolls house. And the dolls house. Looks. At. Me.
Slowly, methodically, i put on my mother's wedding dress and i kneel down. I kneel down in that nursery abattour. It all seems perfectly rational. Perfectly, perfectly rational. Later i find myself sobbing, choking, retching into the lavatory bowl.
Is this what it all comes down to--all our dreams, hopes and aspirations? Nothing but Vomit?
Oh God, im afraid. Im so afraid.
I think i may be ill.
In spite of everything, the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane opens it's doors officially and on schedule on November 1921. One of my first patients is Martin Hawkins. "Mad Dog."
He delights in recounting to me every detail of the atrocities he inflicted upon Constance and Harriet. He giggles and drools and tells me they begged him to abuse them. He calls my daughter a whore.
And i listen.
I treat him for six months. I am praised for my courage and compassion. And on April 1st, 1922--one year to the day-- I strap him into the electroshock couch. And i burn the filthy bastard.
It is treated as an accident. These things happen. There is ozone and the smell of burned skin in my nostrils.
But i feel nothing.
---
whee!! La lang! just felt like sharing to you a pretty story from a very pretty graphic novel! It's not yet finished though. whee! ^_^
In the years following my father's death, I think it's true to say that the house became my whole world. During the long period of Mother's illness, the house often seemed so vast, so confidently real, that by comparison, I felt little more than a ghost haunting it's corridors. Scarcely aware that anything could exist beyond those melancholy walls.
Until the night in 1901, when i fist saw a glimpse of that other world. The world on the dark side. That was the moment when i first felt truly alone.
Many years later when i became aware of the significance of the beetle as a symbol of rebirth, I realized that she was simply trying to protect herself from something in the only way that made sense to her. But even then I think I understood that mother HAD been born again, into that other world. A world of fathomless signs and portents. Of magic and terror. And mysterious symbols.
I return to the family home on a cool spring morning in 1920, shortly after mother's funeral. She opened her throat with a pearl-handled razor. In the end, perhaps, it was for the best. I have to believe that. As the only child i am to inherit the house and the acre of land upon which it stands.
Alone in a gloom that smells of dust and childhood, I dedicate myself to the prevention of such suffering as my poor mother knew. And i begin to make my plans.
For the first night in twelve years I spend the night in my old room. I do not sleep well. My dreams are haunted my beating wings. And outside, far off, a dog barks on and on through the whole restless night.
Next day, I return to Metropolis, where my family and i have been living for some time. Im working at the State Psychiatric Hospital and one of my patients today has been referred to me from Metropolis Penitentiary. His name is Martin Hawkins. "MAD DOG" Hawkins.
I listen as he tells me how he was beaten and sexually abused by his father. I ask him why he chose to destroy only the faces and sexual organs of his victims. And i ask him why he cuts his arms with a razor.
After two hours , he is taken back to the penitentiary to await trial. How many more like him must there be? Men, whose only real crime is mental illness, trapped in the penal system with no hope of treatment. My course is clear.
I tell my dear Constance and little Harriet that we will shortly be returning to my family home in Gotham City, there to begin it's conversion into the facility for the treatment of the mentally ill.
That night i dream i am a child again.
Lost in a funhouse i find myself in The Hall of Mirrors. There are strangers in the mirrors and i freeze, not daring to go any further. Not through that door. At last my father comes looking for me. I beg him not to take me into the tunnel of love. We return by the way we entered. That night i dream that the mirror people have escaped from the glass and come looking for me. I wake, sweating and adult, and for a moment. Just a moment. I feel as though Im back. Where i belong. Back in the old house.
In the fall of 1920, I am invited to Europe. I finally meet Professor Jung in Switzerland. And in England, I am introduced to the so-called "Wickedest Man on Earth"--Aleister Crowley. I find him charming and highly educated. We discuss the symbolism of the Egyptian Tarot and he beats me at chess.Twice. I run out of french cigarettes in the Mid-Atlantic.
I arrive home in time for Christmas and find the conversion of the house to be well under way. Constance surprises me with a wonderful addition to my aquarium. Japanese Clown Fish are a fascinating species. When a dominant female dies, one of the males will actually change sex and assume her former role. For some reason, i am reminded of the french name for the victim of an April Fool prank. Poisson D'Avril. April Fish. I experience and inexplicable frisson of deja vu. And then the telephone rings.
It transpires that Martin Hawkins has escaped from the Penitentiary and the Police would like my considered opinion as to his state of mind. I tell them he may be highly dangerous and leave them to it. It's not my problem. Not tonight. Harriet is enchanted by the cuckoo clock i have grought her from Switzerland. I pray that it might take her mind from the bad dreams. Then i remind myself that all intelligent children suffer bad dreams. And she is so very intelligent. And perfectly beautiful. I almost wish she need never grow up.
Spring is a decietful season and April 1st, 1921 is cold. Mercilessly cold. I see my wife first. My dear Constance. Her body is in pieces. Harriet lies nearby, indescribably violated. Almost idly, i wonder where her head is. And then i look at the dolls house. And the dolls house. Looks. At. Me.
Slowly, methodically, i put on my mother's wedding dress and i kneel down. I kneel down in that nursery abattour. It all seems perfectly rational. Perfectly, perfectly rational. Later i find myself sobbing, choking, retching into the lavatory bowl.
Is this what it all comes down to--all our dreams, hopes and aspirations? Nothing but Vomit?
Oh God, im afraid. Im so afraid.
I think i may be ill.
In spite of everything, the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane opens it's doors officially and on schedule on November 1921. One of my first patients is Martin Hawkins. "Mad Dog."
He delights in recounting to me every detail of the atrocities he inflicted upon Constance and Harriet. He giggles and drools and tells me they begged him to abuse them. He calls my daughter a whore.
And i listen.
I treat him for six months. I am praised for my courage and compassion. And on April 1st, 1922--one year to the day-- I strap him into the electroshock couch. And i burn the filthy bastard.
It is treated as an accident. These things happen. There is ozone and the smell of burned skin in my nostrils.
But i feel nothing.
---
whee!! La lang! just felt like sharing to you a pretty story from a very pretty graphic novel! It's not yet finished though. whee! ^_^