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Birmingham, 1919
After Isabella and Nicholas had returned from their little outings, they had both taken showers to clean off the dried blood and dirt. Their old dirty, blood covered, clothes had been thrown into the fireplace, where Nicholas had lit a fire while Isabella was showering.
The duo were currently seated on the dining room floor, clad in their respective bath robes, with numerous papers and books and pencils scattered around them.
The room didn't even look like it used to, there were so many pieces of papers all over the hardwood floor, making it barely visible. The dining room table was pushed to the corner of the room, and the chairs were placed on the table, to make more room on the floor for their papers, books, sketches, and pencils.
Nicholas was sitting with his legs crossed as he looked through a copy of the 1917 Birmingham Census Records. That he, Isabella and their friends had 'borrowed' two years earlier, 'forgotten' to return and 'hid away' in Nicholas' bedroom.
The original purpose for obtaining the records had been to try and figure out where Eric's father – who had walked out on his family the month after Eric was born – had disappeared to, but instead of finding a place they figured out that Eric's father had recently died. Isabella had been the one to decide that they should keep the Census Records, because there was a chance they would need it in the future. As always, she was right, and they found a need for the 1917 Birmingham Census Records again.
"Walsh. Walsh. Walsh..." Nicholas mumbled as he scanned the pages. "There's like two hundred men with the surname Walsh in this stupid book."
"Fuck." Isabella huffed. She sat with her back against the wall with her knees bent, a sketchbook laid against them.
While Nicholas was looking through the population records, Isabella was drawing up sketches. Of the priest who tried to right her. Of the doctor who tortured her for months. Of the nine men who assaulted her. Of the psychiatry doctor who drugged her to hell. Of the nurses and doctors who aided in her torture. Of the nuns who watched as she was dragged into the priest's office.
One by one she was drawing up every person that had any part of her suffering. Every person that had ruined her light personality. Every person that had ruined the sunshine that used to light on every person. Every person that had killed who she used to be.
"... John Reuben Walsh... Lionel Walsh... Mark Andrew Walsh, Morris Walsh... Owen Walsh... Peter Walsh, Peter Walsh, Peter Jim Noah Walsh... Rowland Walsh... Tom Andrew Walsh... Walter Walsh, Wiliam Michael Walsh, William Walsh, William Edmund Wash, William Francis Walsh..." Nicholas sighed as he rubbed his head. "I know you and your brain, but please, there are so many Walsh's?"
