Layton One-shot, "Stories End"
Title: Stories End
Author: sweetbreakdown
Fandom: Professor Layton and the Curious Village
Rating: G
Genre: Angst, one-shot
Word Count: 3,876
Summary: Layton Fanworks Meme. Request: Layton gets ill from some debilitating disease, or a stroke. His mind is stil perfectly capable and buzzing, but his body won't respond. ANGST/FRUSTRATION ENSUES. Either that, or the opposite, with something like Altzeimer's disease, where his mind slowly fades into nothing. People around him are affected by his suffering, too.
It began as nothing out of the ordinary. It started so simply, just forgetting where he placed the bread after returning from the store, not being able to remember where the correct spoons were for stirring the tea, even, at one stage, misplacing his beloved hat.
Stage one. Disorientation.
It wasn’t obvious. It was subtle. The Professor walked in and asked what the time was, a cheery smile on his face, though I was sure he’d looked at the clock as he walked in. No matter, I told him that it was quarter passed five in the afternoon. The Professor seemed a little shocked at first, as though he could hardly believe that time flew by so swiftly, before shaking his head and lifting his hat away from his eyes. He commented that he was sure it was still three, but there were still many hours in the day. I chuckled, amused at my mentor’s slight disorientation, assuming that he’d just spent too long on a certain puzzle. I thought nothing of it - everyone is allowed to let time slip away.
Considering the future, I rather wish that I had spent more time with him while he still understood the aspects of time.
Stage two. Decline.
He sat with a paper in front of his face, opposite me at the breakfast table. I was regarding a small puzzle book with great enthusiasm, if I remember correctly (a painful thought, considering the subject of this account) as I was still quite young at the time. The paper in question always had a rather simple crossword at the back, one that the Professor always took great joy and pleasure in completing in a certain time before erasing his pencil scribbling and handing it to me, a pat on my head following. I always knew I could never even come close to the Professor’s time, but the challenge made sitting and thinking of correct words a little more thrilling. This one morning was rather different - the memory pains me.
The Professor placed the paper down on the table, as usual, an accomplished smile on his face, before lifting his little while eraser and carefully removing the light grey lines from the paper. When done, he looked at me and smiled. “Now, Tom, this one is more difficult than usual, so I assume that it would be a slight more tiresome than you would expect.” And then he handed me the paper and stood. When I stared at him, he appeared to be quite flustered.
“What on earth is wrong, my boy?” He asked, a concerned look in his eye.
“You... Called me Tom.” I replied, a slight tremor in my voice. At the time I suppose I was quite worried that he was willing to replace me with a smarter, more dutiful boy. My worries were, of course, unfounded.
“I did?” He pondered, placing his fingers on the rim of his hat as though to distract himself from the puzzle at hand - that itself was unusual. “Well, I do suppose that I did. I apologise, Luke.” He stressed the name as though to reassure me, and in a way it did. I was just a child. I didn’t understand. I didn’t realise that when he patted my head that time, it was absent minded, as though he had greater more pressing thoughts than the slip of an odd name.
I couldn’t predict how that one moment could dampen my entire future.
Stage three. Dictation.
I think I began to suspect at a later point; when he had finished reading another great Sherlock Holmes novel. He seemed quite satisfied with himself, as though he had cracked the puzzle of who had committed what crime before the great detective had. I was quite ready to hear his diagnosis of the story, knowing that his dictation skills would make the book far more interesting that actually reading it myself - I was at the age where all reading was completely avoided if possible. Moving to sit at his feet (I always took my place there when he was in his chair, reading his books. I assume that it had something to do with my slight feelings of being less, not worthy of being before a man of such great mind) I looked up at him. He already knew that I wanted to hear the storyline in his own words, and so he began, his accent washing over me and making me wish I could use words in the same way he could.
“And then, my boy, they found the clue that would prove the murder without a doubt. In the corner of the room, behind a curtain, was a small briefcase. Inside the briefcase was-”
“The murder weapon! Was it really a mallet like you predicted, Professor?” I was always terrible, always interrupting. The Professor took it in his stride, however, merely giving me that smile that cried ‘gentlemen do not speak while others are dictating Holmes, my boy’. He nodded, however.
“Yes. It was indeed a mallet.” I can remember resisting the urge to jump up and cry yes at the fact that I too had thought the same, but there had been a more pressing matter.
“And who was the murder, Professor? Was it the butler o-or was it the man who had snuck in through the window - the man wanting to see the Lord’s wife?” Gentlemen do not have affairs, so the words were changed slightly for my young mind. Of course I know now that the man desired an affair, but that would have been quite strange in my innocent thoughts. I am grateful the Professor thought to change the words.
“It was quite simple, my boy. Once you put the evidence together, it was quite obvious that the murder was Holmes.”
“... Holmes? But I thought he was the detective? And on the night of the murder he was elsewhere with Watson, wasn’t he? How could he have dun it? I-I mean done it.” My quick correction changed the frown and removed the language correction from my mentor’s lips. Still, he seemed quite pensive, and I sat in silence, knowing this look to be one of deep, tranquil thought.
“Of course you’re right, my boy.” He told me gently. “It seems I must have quite forgotten what I was talking about. I apologise - it was the man who had come that night to visit the Lord’s wife. Now,” At this point he stood, and I scrambled to my feet. “Would you please excuse me, Luke? Feel free to read the book if you wish.” The twinkle in his eyes proved that he knew very well that I wouldn’t, and he retired to another room, lifting a book from his desk and reading it with an expression of such seriousness that it made me feel quite out of place. He had seen me at the door, however, and turned to me with a frown.
“Luke, have you seen my hat?” He asked softly, as though he was lost in his own confusion.
“It’s on your head, Professor, it always is.”
“Of course it is. Thank you, my boy.”
Stage four I. Deficit.
It was at this point that I myself realised there was something wrong. I never voiced my worries, of course, seeing as the Professor seemed quite himself for the most part, but there was always a hint of doubt in my mind. I often question if he felt alright, and he always replied with ‘perfectly fine, thank you, my boy!’ with a cheerful, knowing look on his face. But I remember one night I had awoken from a nightmare - a nightmare that was, in fact, my oncoming reality. I wish I had come to know it as such and been able to stop it.
The Professor was sitting at the table, papers scattered around him with notes in his tidy writing on almost every sheet. From where I was I could see that most appeared to be finances of some description, but the fact that the Professor seemed to be so very put out and irritated by it all made me assume that such was not his only problem. The very fact that his mind could only just handle the thought of finances, his own money, when just a month ago I had seen him breeze through the papers with practised ease caused me great alarm, but I had resisted the urge to rush over and question about it. I heard him sigh, and I heard the book close - book? He rose from the table and I rushed to hide behind the door. He moved into the other room, lifting the paper and staring at the crossword.
I moved to the table and slowly opened the book, as silent as a mouse. The page was bookmarked and I read the words - words that send a chill down my spine. Even now I cannot read them without feeling the same sense of fear that I felt at that moment. It was at that point that I knew that the Professor needed help.
‘I fear that I am losing my mind.’
Step four II. Denial.
I waited a week to see if he would mention anything to me - of course now I realise that he would never burden young shoulders with such things - until I confronted him about it. It was during one of our lessons - one of our last - and it was near the end when he was instructing me about the correct way to introduce yourself to a lady.
“You should always remove your hat, even if you are outside -”
“Why can’t you tell me, Professor?” He seemed shocked, but smiled none the less.
“I assume you ask about my hat. That, my boy, is not-”
“No, no! I mean about what you wrote in your book. Last week when you were doing your money thing.” He stilled, his eyes flashing up to meet mine, and the spoon that had been in his hand slipped and fell - fairly symbolic of the way his mind was going, now that I ponder it. A shadow crossed his face at my words and I shrunk back, feeling a sense of dread wash over me as he tugged on his hat a little.
“Luke, it is very rude to watch people when they have no knowledge of you being in the room.”
“That may be so, Professor, but what’s happening? You’re not, I mean... It’s impossible!” The Professor seemed a little lost for words at first - I knew there was something wrong! - before he rose from the table and lifted the teacups from their place and moved out of the room. I followed after him, my gut telling me there was something more wrong that he realised himself. I moved to stand in front of him, blocking his way.
“Professor, why are you going outside with the teacups?” He looked lost for a moment, lost in his own mind, and then he sighed gently, resigned.
“I’m not too sure, my boy. Please remind me where the kitchen is?”
It was then that I became what I knew I’d become when I read those fateful words. I became the Professor’s carer - the person he unwilling relied on.
Stage five. Dementia.
“... Ah-” His mouth closed around a missing word, as though he could hardly grasp it in his mind. I knew he was calling for me, however, and so I turned to him, a forced smile on my lips.
“I’m Luke, Professor, remember?” The bright smile that came to his face told me that, for now, he could, and he motioned me to his side. More words were slipping, fading into nothingness, and we had both taken to him gesturing for what he desired and needed. That morning I had been forced to pick out his clothing for him, seeing as he had been determined to leave his room without his infamous shirt - merely his overcoat and trousers. He motioned at the papers before him and I moved my chair so that I was seated next to him at the table.
“I can’t recall exactly what it is that I need to write here.” He pressed his fingers against the spot that requested a person write their address. Sighing, ignoring the worried look he gave me, I lifted the pencil from his hands and moved the paper towards myself. It needed his signature, of course, but it would be simple for me to ask him to sign it at a later time.
“It’s alright, Professor. I can do it for you.” He seemed about to argue for a moment, determined to do his own papers and such, but my smile won him over and he nodded, letting his hold on the document fall away. I filled in all the blanks that the Professor had missed while he absently stirred his tea, a small smile on his lips. He was quite oblivious to my pain at eing what was happening and I felt my heart sink at the role reversal. Was it really that long ago that I had been the one he had been hiding affairs from? Now he was the child and I was the adult and I detested every second. My love for the man that was akin to the father I never had, however, forced my hand and I smiled.
“Can you sign it there, Professor?” I asked him softly, and he gave me a lost look. “... Just write your name. Just there.” He smiled, nodded, and wrote my name in the spot. “Thank you.” I said, and when he was in the other room with my old children’s puzzle book, I erased it and signed his name for him.
Stage six I. Delusion.
When I wandered in after going to buy some more tea and heard the Professor speaking to someone, I felt a sick dread overcome me. Had he let someone in while I was out - someone who would realise that the legal documents I had forged were questionable - come to arrest him? Dropping the bag at the door I rushed up the stairs, shaking as I opened the door.
“Professo-”
“Luke! It is good to see you’re back. This is Miss Flora. She and I have been entertaining ourselves quite easily - I say, my boy, she is hardly that terrifying! Do introduce yourself!” I stuttered a little at the sight before me, but remembered my lessons and bowed, shakily, a small smile on my lips.
“A pleasure, Miss Flora.” I said softly. The Professor seemed quite satisfied with my weak greeting - I am sure if he had been in his own mind he would be preparing to remind me how to act later. In this case, however, it was myself reminding my own mind about the things I had to do. There was clothing to be sorted, the food that I had bought to be put away and many unanswered letters to have replies written to. I had found that it was quite difficult to imitate the Professor’s hand, but I was forcing myself along. His way of speaking had always been quite addictive and writing as though he was speaking himself was not the most terrible thing in the world.
I moved and sat beside the Professor, pretending to be a part of the conversation. Bit by bit I was drowning in despair as I sat, listening to his winding words and the mistakes he made - “No, no, Professor, it’s a hat, not a puzzle.” - but it was quite easy to play along with his little charade. It was like falling into a blissful dream, allowing myself to forget that my father was losing his mind. It wasn’t too far away, however, and when the Professor looked at me, asking why I hadn’t rose to say farewell to Miss Flora, I was forced back into reality once more, my eyes shaking with the tears that I couldn’t let fall.
“Farewell, Miss Flora.” I said, rising from my seat on the bed and waving at the mirror on the other side of the room.
Stage six II. Defense.
I never truly thought that the day would come where the Professor would forget me. My name, of course, that was expected with the trouble he had at remembering words, but never my face. I can recall it as though the hour has only just passed, but doing so always reminds me of how I felt as though I was dying.
I had hid the Professor’s illness for so long it became natural to me. I told those that asked that he was working on the greatest of all puzzles and they believed me, for they could see in my eyes that I did not tell a lie. It was the greatest of all puzzles - the puzzle of how a man could slip away so quickly and at such a rate. It had been around a year, perhaps a little more, since I confronted him about his note in his book, and since then he had slipped away from me, like sand through my fingertips.
I walked into the room, a tray with tea in my hands, and at first sight the Professor jumped, startled, and backed away a little. Assuming that this was just him being a little worrisome, I placed the tea on the table and moved to his side. I didn’t expect for him to back away, his eyes wide and shocked - filled with such terror that it sometimes causes my already disturbing dreams to be haunted.
“G-Get away!” He cried; his voice was terse and scared. Shocked, I could only stand and watch. “Where is Luke - why is Luke not here? Luke, my boy, do stop playing hide and seek-” He continued in this way for a while, backed into the corner of his chair, shaking at the sight of me. All the rushed fears I had as a younger child returned to me at that point - the fear of being replaced, the fear of not being good enough, the fear of the Professor finding someone better, faster, smarter - someone more. Hands shaking, he turned to me, alarm evident in his expression.
“What have you done with him, young man?” He asked me, and I choked back a sob. How could he forget me, the person that had been at his side for years? I moved forward once more and he let out an odd kind of squeak, almost like a dog being kicked, and I stopped. I had matured over the time I had cared for this man and I didn’t do what a younger image of myself might have done - cried and rushed to hide in some corner until the Professor came and reassured me. This time I stepped forward, placing my hand on his.
“I have done nothing to him, Professor. He’s safe.” At first he flinched at my touch, but then relaxed, letting out a sigh of relief. Slowly, ever so slowly, he moved and placed his hand on my arm.
“Of course he did, my good man. I apologise, Edward, I didn’t recognise you for a moment. Is that tea that you brought? Perhaps we shall share it and read some Moriarty before we retire to bed.” I held back a tearful laugh at his slip - Moriarty instead of Holmes - and nodded slowly, moving away from his warm touch.
“Of course, Professor - quickly, though. I think the tea might already be cold.” Cold like my heart - my cold, broken heart, misplaced at the ill memories of an intelligent man. He smiled, however, and took the tea from my hands.
“I do hope he returns soon, my good man.” He told me softly. “He is much like the son I never had, you see.”
I felt healed.
Stage six III. Desperation.
I had spent a good hour searching a bookcase for the hidden Sherlock Holmes novel that he had requested to read. I’d had to find a small stool to stand on to reach it, and when I did I almost fell. It took about three tries, but I soon grasped the spine and let it slip from between its brothers. Stepping down from the stool, I moved over to where the Professor had been regarding me with an absent smile playing on his lips. Handing the book over, I moved and began to clean up the lunch I had served half an hour ago.
“Edward.” I heard him question. I turned to him and smiled.
“Yes, Professor?” My voice was strained, broken, lost and fake. Fake happiness was far easier to pretend than any other emotion and the Professor never doubted me - I don’t think he had the capabilities to doubt anymore. He could barely do a child’s sliding puzzle anymore, and those things that gave him such joy were now forgotten. I mentioned a puzzle to him and he seemed lost... Another forgotten word and another broken memory.
“I... Why?” He was looking at the book as though I had given him some strange object, and I froze, the tray in my hands close to sliding from my fingers. Setting it down, I sighed, turning to him once more.
“So you can read it, Professor. Remember - the visitor and the mallet?” He seemed opposed to the book and threw it across the room, breaking a vase. He was quite assured that Miss Flora had given him that vase and seemed upset at breaking it for a moment, before turning to me with anger in his tense position.
“Edward... Lies - Gentleman!” He said darkly, and I nodded, understanding his broken speech. A gentleman never tells a lie, so why was I lying to him?
More importantly, why was I lying to myself?
Stage seven. Darkness.
He couldn’t walk.
He couldn’t sit without his head falling to the side.
Without assistance he could not eat, drink or even use the bathroom.
For the most part, the once great Professor Layton sat, muttering to himself in words that were not even English.
Whispers and moans and sighs and grunts and sadness.
He was like that for three years.
I was a broken doll master, a broken caretaker with an equally broken toy.
A toy I couldn’t fix.
And then he died.
---
I found out, months after his death, that he had known aspects of his illness before he died. That book that I had dared to look in once was filled with notations of others, other people with the same problems. If I had thought to read more I might have understood, but it would have never healed my aching wounds. For eight years I cared for this man as he had cared for me and I do not regret being there for him. I regret the pain in my heart and the sadness that seems to enjoy haunting my every movement, but never my time spent with the Professor. I am now working on the greatest puzzle mankind will ever see me attempt;
A cure for the illness that destroyed the mind of my father.
Author: sweetbreakdown
Fandom: Professor Layton and the Curious Village
Rating: G
Genre: Angst, one-shot
Word Count: 3,876
Summary: Layton Fanworks Meme. Request: Layton gets ill from some debilitating disease, or a stroke. His mind is stil perfectly capable and buzzing, but his body won't respond. ANGST/FRUSTRATION ENSUES. Either that, or the opposite, with something like Altzeimer's disease, where his mind slowly fades into nothing. People around him are affected by his suffering, too.
It began as nothing out of the ordinary. It started so simply, just forgetting where he placed the bread after returning from the store, not being able to remember where the correct spoons were for stirring the tea, even, at one stage, misplacing his beloved hat.
Stage one. Disorientation.
It wasn’t obvious. It was subtle. The Professor walked in and asked what the time was, a cheery smile on his face, though I was sure he’d looked at the clock as he walked in. No matter, I told him that it was quarter passed five in the afternoon. The Professor seemed a little shocked at first, as though he could hardly believe that time flew by so swiftly, before shaking his head and lifting his hat away from his eyes. He commented that he was sure it was still three, but there were still many hours in the day. I chuckled, amused at my mentor’s slight disorientation, assuming that he’d just spent too long on a certain puzzle. I thought nothing of it - everyone is allowed to let time slip away.
Considering the future, I rather wish that I had spent more time with him while he still understood the aspects of time.
Stage two. Decline.
He sat with a paper in front of his face, opposite me at the breakfast table. I was regarding a small puzzle book with great enthusiasm, if I remember correctly (a painful thought, considering the subject of this account) as I was still quite young at the time. The paper in question always had a rather simple crossword at the back, one that the Professor always took great joy and pleasure in completing in a certain time before erasing his pencil scribbling and handing it to me, a pat on my head following. I always knew I could never even come close to the Professor’s time, but the challenge made sitting and thinking of correct words a little more thrilling. This one morning was rather different - the memory pains me.
The Professor placed the paper down on the table, as usual, an accomplished smile on his face, before lifting his little while eraser and carefully removing the light grey lines from the paper. When done, he looked at me and smiled. “Now, Tom, this one is more difficult than usual, so I assume that it would be a slight more tiresome than you would expect.” And then he handed me the paper and stood. When I stared at him, he appeared to be quite flustered.
“What on earth is wrong, my boy?” He asked, a concerned look in his eye.
“You... Called me Tom.” I replied, a slight tremor in my voice. At the time I suppose I was quite worried that he was willing to replace me with a smarter, more dutiful boy. My worries were, of course, unfounded.
“I did?” He pondered, placing his fingers on the rim of his hat as though to distract himself from the puzzle at hand - that itself was unusual. “Well, I do suppose that I did. I apologise, Luke.” He stressed the name as though to reassure me, and in a way it did. I was just a child. I didn’t understand. I didn’t realise that when he patted my head that time, it was absent minded, as though he had greater more pressing thoughts than the slip of an odd name.
I couldn’t predict how that one moment could dampen my entire future.
Stage three. Dictation.
I think I began to suspect at a later point; when he had finished reading another great Sherlock Holmes novel. He seemed quite satisfied with himself, as though he had cracked the puzzle of who had committed what crime before the great detective had. I was quite ready to hear his diagnosis of the story, knowing that his dictation skills would make the book far more interesting that actually reading it myself - I was at the age where all reading was completely avoided if possible. Moving to sit at his feet (I always took my place there when he was in his chair, reading his books. I assume that it had something to do with my slight feelings of being less, not worthy of being before a man of such great mind) I looked up at him. He already knew that I wanted to hear the storyline in his own words, and so he began, his accent washing over me and making me wish I could use words in the same way he could.
“And then, my boy, they found the clue that would prove the murder without a doubt. In the corner of the room, behind a curtain, was a small briefcase. Inside the briefcase was-”
“The murder weapon! Was it really a mallet like you predicted, Professor?” I was always terrible, always interrupting. The Professor took it in his stride, however, merely giving me that smile that cried ‘gentlemen do not speak while others are dictating Holmes, my boy’. He nodded, however.
“Yes. It was indeed a mallet.” I can remember resisting the urge to jump up and cry yes at the fact that I too had thought the same, but there had been a more pressing matter.
“And who was the murder, Professor? Was it the butler o-or was it the man who had snuck in through the window - the man wanting to see the Lord’s wife?” Gentlemen do not have affairs, so the words were changed slightly for my young mind. Of course I know now that the man desired an affair, but that would have been quite strange in my innocent thoughts. I am grateful the Professor thought to change the words.
“It was quite simple, my boy. Once you put the evidence together, it was quite obvious that the murder was Holmes.”
“... Holmes? But I thought he was the detective? And on the night of the murder he was elsewhere with Watson, wasn’t he? How could he have dun it? I-I mean done it.” My quick correction changed the frown and removed the language correction from my mentor’s lips. Still, he seemed quite pensive, and I sat in silence, knowing this look to be one of deep, tranquil thought.
“Of course you’re right, my boy.” He told me gently. “It seems I must have quite forgotten what I was talking about. I apologise - it was the man who had come that night to visit the Lord’s wife. Now,” At this point he stood, and I scrambled to my feet. “Would you please excuse me, Luke? Feel free to read the book if you wish.” The twinkle in his eyes proved that he knew very well that I wouldn’t, and he retired to another room, lifting a book from his desk and reading it with an expression of such seriousness that it made me feel quite out of place. He had seen me at the door, however, and turned to me with a frown.
“Luke, have you seen my hat?” He asked softly, as though he was lost in his own confusion.
“It’s on your head, Professor, it always is.”
“Of course it is. Thank you, my boy.”
Stage four I. Deficit.
It was at this point that I myself realised there was something wrong. I never voiced my worries, of course, seeing as the Professor seemed quite himself for the most part, but there was always a hint of doubt in my mind. I often question if he felt alright, and he always replied with ‘perfectly fine, thank you, my boy!’ with a cheerful, knowing look on his face. But I remember one night I had awoken from a nightmare - a nightmare that was, in fact, my oncoming reality. I wish I had come to know it as such and been able to stop it.
The Professor was sitting at the table, papers scattered around him with notes in his tidy writing on almost every sheet. From where I was I could see that most appeared to be finances of some description, but the fact that the Professor seemed to be so very put out and irritated by it all made me assume that such was not his only problem. The very fact that his mind could only just handle the thought of finances, his own money, when just a month ago I had seen him breeze through the papers with practised ease caused me great alarm, but I had resisted the urge to rush over and question about it. I heard him sigh, and I heard the book close - book? He rose from the table and I rushed to hide behind the door. He moved into the other room, lifting the paper and staring at the crossword.
I moved to the table and slowly opened the book, as silent as a mouse. The page was bookmarked and I read the words - words that send a chill down my spine. Even now I cannot read them without feeling the same sense of fear that I felt at that moment. It was at that point that I knew that the Professor needed help.
‘I fear that I am losing my mind.’
Step four II. Denial.
I waited a week to see if he would mention anything to me - of course now I realise that he would never burden young shoulders with such things - until I confronted him about it. It was during one of our lessons - one of our last - and it was near the end when he was instructing me about the correct way to introduce yourself to a lady.
“You should always remove your hat, even if you are outside -”
“Why can’t you tell me, Professor?” He seemed shocked, but smiled none the less.
“I assume you ask about my hat. That, my boy, is not-”
“No, no! I mean about what you wrote in your book. Last week when you were doing your money thing.” He stilled, his eyes flashing up to meet mine, and the spoon that had been in his hand slipped and fell - fairly symbolic of the way his mind was going, now that I ponder it. A shadow crossed his face at my words and I shrunk back, feeling a sense of dread wash over me as he tugged on his hat a little.
“Luke, it is very rude to watch people when they have no knowledge of you being in the room.”
“That may be so, Professor, but what’s happening? You’re not, I mean... It’s impossible!” The Professor seemed a little lost for words at first - I knew there was something wrong! - before he rose from the table and lifted the teacups from their place and moved out of the room. I followed after him, my gut telling me there was something more wrong that he realised himself. I moved to stand in front of him, blocking his way.
“Professor, why are you going outside with the teacups?” He looked lost for a moment, lost in his own mind, and then he sighed gently, resigned.
“I’m not too sure, my boy. Please remind me where the kitchen is?”
It was then that I became what I knew I’d become when I read those fateful words. I became the Professor’s carer - the person he unwilling relied on.
Stage five. Dementia.
“... Ah-” His mouth closed around a missing word, as though he could hardly grasp it in his mind. I knew he was calling for me, however, and so I turned to him, a forced smile on my lips.
“I’m Luke, Professor, remember?” The bright smile that came to his face told me that, for now, he could, and he motioned me to his side. More words were slipping, fading into nothingness, and we had both taken to him gesturing for what he desired and needed. That morning I had been forced to pick out his clothing for him, seeing as he had been determined to leave his room without his infamous shirt - merely his overcoat and trousers. He motioned at the papers before him and I moved my chair so that I was seated next to him at the table.
“I can’t recall exactly what it is that I need to write here.” He pressed his fingers against the spot that requested a person write their address. Sighing, ignoring the worried look he gave me, I lifted the pencil from his hands and moved the paper towards myself. It needed his signature, of course, but it would be simple for me to ask him to sign it at a later time.
“It’s alright, Professor. I can do it for you.” He seemed about to argue for a moment, determined to do his own papers and such, but my smile won him over and he nodded, letting his hold on the document fall away. I filled in all the blanks that the Professor had missed while he absently stirred his tea, a small smile on his lips. He was quite oblivious to my pain at eing what was happening and I felt my heart sink at the role reversal. Was it really that long ago that I had been the one he had been hiding affairs from? Now he was the child and I was the adult and I detested every second. My love for the man that was akin to the father I never had, however, forced my hand and I smiled.
“Can you sign it there, Professor?” I asked him softly, and he gave me a lost look. “... Just write your name. Just there.” He smiled, nodded, and wrote my name in the spot. “Thank you.” I said, and when he was in the other room with my old children’s puzzle book, I erased it and signed his name for him.
Stage six I. Delusion.
When I wandered in after going to buy some more tea and heard the Professor speaking to someone, I felt a sick dread overcome me. Had he let someone in while I was out - someone who would realise that the legal documents I had forged were questionable - come to arrest him? Dropping the bag at the door I rushed up the stairs, shaking as I opened the door.
“Professo-”
“Luke! It is good to see you’re back. This is Miss Flora. She and I have been entertaining ourselves quite easily - I say, my boy, she is hardly that terrifying! Do introduce yourself!” I stuttered a little at the sight before me, but remembered my lessons and bowed, shakily, a small smile on my lips.
“A pleasure, Miss Flora.” I said softly. The Professor seemed quite satisfied with my weak greeting - I am sure if he had been in his own mind he would be preparing to remind me how to act later. In this case, however, it was myself reminding my own mind about the things I had to do. There was clothing to be sorted, the food that I had bought to be put away and many unanswered letters to have replies written to. I had found that it was quite difficult to imitate the Professor’s hand, but I was forcing myself along. His way of speaking had always been quite addictive and writing as though he was speaking himself was not the most terrible thing in the world.
I moved and sat beside the Professor, pretending to be a part of the conversation. Bit by bit I was drowning in despair as I sat, listening to his winding words and the mistakes he made - “No, no, Professor, it’s a hat, not a puzzle.” - but it was quite easy to play along with his little charade. It was like falling into a blissful dream, allowing myself to forget that my father was losing his mind. It wasn’t too far away, however, and when the Professor looked at me, asking why I hadn’t rose to say farewell to Miss Flora, I was forced back into reality once more, my eyes shaking with the tears that I couldn’t let fall.
“Farewell, Miss Flora.” I said, rising from my seat on the bed and waving at the mirror on the other side of the room.
Stage six II. Defense.
I never truly thought that the day would come where the Professor would forget me. My name, of course, that was expected with the trouble he had at remembering words, but never my face. I can recall it as though the hour has only just passed, but doing so always reminds me of how I felt as though I was dying.
I had hid the Professor’s illness for so long it became natural to me. I told those that asked that he was working on the greatest of all puzzles and they believed me, for they could see in my eyes that I did not tell a lie. It was the greatest of all puzzles - the puzzle of how a man could slip away so quickly and at such a rate. It had been around a year, perhaps a little more, since I confronted him about his note in his book, and since then he had slipped away from me, like sand through my fingertips.
I walked into the room, a tray with tea in my hands, and at first sight the Professor jumped, startled, and backed away a little. Assuming that this was just him being a little worrisome, I placed the tea on the table and moved to his side. I didn’t expect for him to back away, his eyes wide and shocked - filled with such terror that it sometimes causes my already disturbing dreams to be haunted.
“G-Get away!” He cried; his voice was terse and scared. Shocked, I could only stand and watch. “Where is Luke - why is Luke not here? Luke, my boy, do stop playing hide and seek-” He continued in this way for a while, backed into the corner of his chair, shaking at the sight of me. All the rushed fears I had as a younger child returned to me at that point - the fear of being replaced, the fear of not being good enough, the fear of the Professor finding someone better, faster, smarter - someone more. Hands shaking, he turned to me, alarm evident in his expression.
“What have you done with him, young man?” He asked me, and I choked back a sob. How could he forget me, the person that had been at his side for years? I moved forward once more and he let out an odd kind of squeak, almost like a dog being kicked, and I stopped. I had matured over the time I had cared for this man and I didn’t do what a younger image of myself might have done - cried and rushed to hide in some corner until the Professor came and reassured me. This time I stepped forward, placing my hand on his.
“I have done nothing to him, Professor. He’s safe.” At first he flinched at my touch, but then relaxed, letting out a sigh of relief. Slowly, ever so slowly, he moved and placed his hand on my arm.
“Of course he did, my good man. I apologise, Edward, I didn’t recognise you for a moment. Is that tea that you brought? Perhaps we shall share it and read some Moriarty before we retire to bed.” I held back a tearful laugh at his slip - Moriarty instead of Holmes - and nodded slowly, moving away from his warm touch.
“Of course, Professor - quickly, though. I think the tea might already be cold.” Cold like my heart - my cold, broken heart, misplaced at the ill memories of an intelligent man. He smiled, however, and took the tea from my hands.
“I do hope he returns soon, my good man.” He told me softly. “He is much like the son I never had, you see.”
I felt healed.
Stage six III. Desperation.
I had spent a good hour searching a bookcase for the hidden Sherlock Holmes novel that he had requested to read. I’d had to find a small stool to stand on to reach it, and when I did I almost fell. It took about three tries, but I soon grasped the spine and let it slip from between its brothers. Stepping down from the stool, I moved over to where the Professor had been regarding me with an absent smile playing on his lips. Handing the book over, I moved and began to clean up the lunch I had served half an hour ago.
“Edward.” I heard him question. I turned to him and smiled.
“Yes, Professor?” My voice was strained, broken, lost and fake. Fake happiness was far easier to pretend than any other emotion and the Professor never doubted me - I don’t think he had the capabilities to doubt anymore. He could barely do a child’s sliding puzzle anymore, and those things that gave him such joy were now forgotten. I mentioned a puzzle to him and he seemed lost... Another forgotten word and another broken memory.
“I... Why?” He was looking at the book as though I had given him some strange object, and I froze, the tray in my hands close to sliding from my fingers. Setting it down, I sighed, turning to him once more.
“So you can read it, Professor. Remember - the visitor and the mallet?” He seemed opposed to the book and threw it across the room, breaking a vase. He was quite assured that Miss Flora had given him that vase and seemed upset at breaking it for a moment, before turning to me with anger in his tense position.
“Edward... Lies - Gentleman!” He said darkly, and I nodded, understanding his broken speech. A gentleman never tells a lie, so why was I lying to him?
More importantly, why was I lying to myself?
Stage seven. Darkness.
He couldn’t walk.
He couldn’t sit without his head falling to the side.
Without assistance he could not eat, drink or even use the bathroom.
For the most part, the once great Professor Layton sat, muttering to himself in words that were not even English.
Whispers and moans and sighs and grunts and sadness.
He was like that for three years.
I was a broken doll master, a broken caretaker with an equally broken toy.
A toy I couldn’t fix.
And then he died.
---
I found out, months after his death, that he had known aspects of his illness before he died. That book that I had dared to look in once was filled with notations of others, other people with the same problems. If I had thought to read more I might have understood, but it would have never healed my aching wounds. For eight years I cared for this man as he had cared for me and I do not regret being there for him. I regret the pain in my heart and the sadness that seems to enjoy haunting my every movement, but never my time spent with the Professor. I am now working on the greatest puzzle mankind will ever see me attempt;
A cure for the illness that destroyed the mind of my father.