| I_Guy |
Date: Wednesday, 04/Feb/09, 2:52 AM | Message # 1 |
Heads
Posts: 1792
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The year, 1891, Dr. Barnard Douglass Eastman contemplated giving up on his career. The reasons were many. He had gone as far with his career as he could, everyday became the same blurry displeasure, and it seemed his occupation offered him nothing new. As a young man he was energetic and enthused to be accelerating the latter of his career. But he soon realized its reality. It became not at all what it seemed. He began to understand that no matter how much he tried to help people, they could never be helped if they didn’t let themselves be helped. Patients determined that they will never get better, never will and the doctor realized this. If a patient had no hope, then Dr. Eastman had no hope for them either.
At the age of forty he founded a state hospital. It had been his goal for a long time. He had always wanted to help others who could not help themselves. He remained the hospital’s head doctor for fifteen years. Through that time, he grew increasingly intolerant of the patients and eventually became detached from them all together, along with any sympathy. The majority of the patients suffered from mental issues that prevented them from functioning properly by themselves. This tired the doctor. It became the same thing everyday. He knew he could really do nothing for them except strap them to a bed, or lock them in a room where they might break their skull on the wall. Dr. Eastman wanted to retire and drain his life away doing something he actually enjoyed, which was acoustic music. He never got married and he never had children. He desired a family, but with age, his chances subtracted. His career was his life, and he hated it. He would often reminisce and think about his youth, how he used to be so fascinated with being a mental health physician, but in time it somehow became his only dread. People around him became weary and fearful in his presence. He knew it, but he didn’t care. As much as he wanted to get away, he couldn’t and he knew that as well. Gravity began to pull his skin to the ground. But it wasn’t too long before something came into his life, a woman, or rather, a patient.
She stepped in from the dusty outside. Dr. Eastman turned from his convenience. He ceased explaining to an assistant nurse almost immediately. The woman approached the front desk. Dr. Eastman stood close. He observed her from under his bushy eye brows. Initially he noticed the curve of her physique, then her powdery face. Her brunet hair was wrapped in a bonnet and a scarf wrapping her neck. He wondered what could possibly be her ailment. She stood at the counter for a moment, a point at which the doctor realized she was unassisted. He quickly responded to the counter. He spoke with an unusual smile, a smile that appeared to pain his face, and looked as if at any moment was going to fall off. “How may I help you miss?” His smile carved further up his scruffy cheeks distinctively and slowly. She spoke shyly, “I was referred by Dr. Stevens? He told me to come here?” The doctor’s eyes turned to his ears and he protruded his lips while morphing his eyebrows thoughtfully. His head progressed back and forth into an acceleration. “Mmmm… I don’t know anything about that. But I can be sure to look into it. Though we’ll be happy to take you in. What is your condition?” “Well I’m not exactly sure in fact. I don’t even know if I have one. That’s why I was sent here.”
“So you want me to diagnose you?” “If you can, yes.” The doctor stared at her deeply. He looked into his time book. “What‘s your name?” “Virginia Dorsey. O. R. S. E. Y.” The doctor made a note in his book. He shut it and read his pocket watch. “Come with me.”
They proceeded down a hallway. The doctor gradually fell behind her as they stepped. The woman slowed uncomfortably when she noticed his fall behind. She didn’t quite look back, but could hear him. A haunting energy built behind her. She could feel it. She felt hunted.
For the several weeks that passed, the doctor tried to diagnose her. After every attempt he found himself where he started. Her symptoms where peculiar and they gradually grew worse. At first, she went through extreme periods of exhaustion and fatigue. But then she would often faint. Several random days of unconsciousness eventually pursued. Then the worst began to happen. She began growing violent, and would go into convulsions occasionally at moments of her violent aggression. Dark rings around her eyes formed and her skin grew more pale by the day. The doctors heart began to crumble. He would beg her to try to imagine herself getting better. Although some days he could not talk to her, for she could not comprehend. Yet, some days she was completely fine. He eventually contacted her family and convinced them to let her stay in the hospital permanently until she could get better, which proved unlikely. She became the doctor’s world. She was so beautiful and such a modest person, the professor carved out every inch of his heart for her.
We all know that each of our end is near; the question is do we accept the end of our living existence, or do we accept our existence as dead men...
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| I_Guy |
Date: Wednesday, 04/Feb/09, 2:52 AM | Message # 2 |
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Heads
Posts: 1792
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As she grew worse, the professor did as well. He often lost sleep and often lost lunch or dinner on account of his dedication to her recovery. His employees could see it. Gossip spread about the professor, mostly negative. The doctor could often be seen wondering around outside the hospital talking to himself and talking to the plants while picking and chewing at them, even into the night, about solutions to Ms. Dorsey’s illness. His employees grew distressed. They were growing ever more weary of the doctors mental health. They could not determine if it was his growing old age or if it was truly the stress of an obsessed mind. He appeared to disregard all other patients, focusing on Dorsey alone. Patients would be screaming at the top of their insanity and at the top of their insane lungs, but it would not faze the doctor. He would simply ignore them and walk past. Every fifteen minutes he would check on Ms. Dorsey, and talked to her as if she was conscious enough to hear him. In fact, he always spoke to her plainly and casually as if she had no illness, often asking her questions and telling her stories. For two years this dragged on.
She finally died in 1893. When an autopsy was performed the coroner removed a baseball sized tumor from her brain. The doctor attended her funeral and gave his condolences to her family. In a way they blamed him, asserting that he permitted her to rot alive. She was interred into an elegant burial crypt above ground. For many years after, the doctor visited her crypt at least once a week. He decorated the inside with candles and brass ornaments. The cemetery watchman often observed the doctor entering the crypt usually with an acoustic guitar and two wine glasses. At night, he could often hear strange melodies echoing within the stone walls. The doctor always kept the crypt beautiful, rather by scrubbing the outside or polishing on the inside. It was of elegant carved stone, but over time the doctor began insisting on providing a better one. He eventually convinced her family to let him build another, of which they allowed, for which he did. With his bare hands, he laid it from the ground to above his head. It was much larger than the previous and much more spacious inside. He built it around the old one and disassembled the old one from the inside. As the years went on the cemetery watchman noticed that the doctor began coming less frequently. Eventually, he noticed that the doctor hadn’t visited for over a month. He then noticed it again the next month. He presumed the doctor either finally let go, or there was something wrong in the sense that something wasn’t right.
Out of pure curiosity, he stood at the crypt door. He searched through a large ring of keys to obtain a single skeleton key. He unlocked it. The heavy wood door hummed as it opened. It was dark. He lit a lantern hanging outside the door and entered. The room was mildewed and reeked of sour must. The air was stale, stagnant, and cold. A couple inches of water collected on the floor from a previous rain. He journeyed in, taking large slow slushy steps. He inspected the room. He found many broken wine glasses and several wine bottles overturned. He turned to the casket. He stared a long time. The lantern made the room glow a warm orange. Through the flicker of the light, he reached to the casket. The door stiffly creaked open. Just as the worst feeling told him, it was empty. The flame of the lantern perished when it broke on the watery floor. The watchman removed himself quickly. Through hours of difficulty, he notified the family, who had moved. Within a couple more hours, they notified the police. (Is it just me or does the story move a little too fast right here?)
They all stood huddled outside the doctors door, the officers, the family, the watchman. They banged. They warned. No one replied. They opened the door and entered. Across the room sat the doctor in a chair before a cold dusty fireplace. He was bloated and dead. After further search, they found the golden horror for which they sought, but dreaded. In the doctor’s room on the bed laid the dry shriveled corpse of Ms. Dorsey. She laid stiff on her bony back. On the wall above the bed were masks, many of them. They were made of paper and plaster, and painted in different likenesses of the woman. Wrapping her body was a wedding dress and a brides gown. Except, her dress was oddly pulled up. And between her legs was a hollow rubber tube extending up into her pelvis. No one said anything, just silent locked stares. More eyes crowded into the room and only contributed to the aghast scene. The officers backed away slowly in disgusted revolting horror.
The doctor was later determined to have died of heart failure. Ms. Dorsey, or rather, Mrs. Eastman, was finally, after sixteen years of disturbed peace, permanently laid to rest. And finally after the majority of seventy-three years of unhappiness, the doctor was laid to rest nearby. There was no crypt for him, into which anyone could visit. There was no fancy public burial. There was only a cold, dark, lonely casket, in which only the night crawlers could visit. And indeed they kept him company. This is basically a detailed outline for a short film I plan on doing.
We all know that each of our end is near; the question is do we accept the end of our living existence, or do we accept our existence as dead men...
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| s0dr2 |
Date: Wednesday, 04/Feb/09, 1:57 PM | Message # 3 |
OGs
Posts: 2772
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good job! 
"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbour. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." - Mark Twain
Message edited by sodr2 - Wednesday, 04/Feb/09, 5:32 PM
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| EmSeeD |
Date: Friday, 06/Feb/09, 7:53 PM | Message # 4 |
Heads
Posts: 11464
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wow man that's awesome and it would be a great film too, maybe it does move a little too fast where you said it does. but it's really good.
http://chirbit.com/emseed
http://youtube.com/siwooot
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| Watcher |
Date: Thursday, 12/Feb/09, 1:51 AM | Message # 5 |
Watchers
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i really only got a chance to overview it. a few things jumped out at me from the first paragraph: [quote=I_Guy]The year, 1891, Dr. Barnard Douglass Eastman contemplated giving up on his career.[/quote] i'll be blunt, this is a really weak intro. [quote=I_Guy]Through that time, he grew increasingly intolerant of the patients and eventually became detached from them all together, along with any sympathy.[/quote]
[quote=I_Guy]He desired a family, but with age, his chances subtracted. [/quote] these just weren't worded correctly. idk. other than that, reads well so far. keep working on it and i will finish reading it later. i'm saving it on my PC now so i can finish reading it.
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| I_Guy |
Date: Thursday, 12/Feb/09, 11:17 PM | Message # 6 |
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Heads
Posts: 1792
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Thanks for the con-crit. It's sought.
We all know that each of our end is near; the question is do we accept the end of our living existence, or do we accept our existence as dead men...
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