MADMAN'S DEMISE

10

Monday, August 25th

The day was now here. After two weeks of witnessing emotional breakdowns and repetitive hesitation, the feared Monday lastly arrived.

My reflection exposed the nervousness in me. I breathed as I looked at myself. In and out. Heavily. Slowly. My hands were damp, shaking as I applied the red lipstick onto my lips.

I was wearing a black dress, ending right above my knees. The tight fabric shaping my upper figure and the skirt hanging loosely beneath my slimmed waist. My hair was curled, blonde locks leaning upon my shoulders and making me look slightly older. I wanted to appear as professional as I could in the courtroom. Especially since I was in for a very important testimony today.

I met with Brandon's attorney several days ago, and even if it was just a quick introduction, my first impression of the well-dressed, middle-aged man assured me I could trust him with being a very good counselor.

Roscoe Van Doren was one of the most appreciated attorneys in London, and the fact that I sent an anonymous donation to St: Nicolai to finance the best, yet most expensive barrister, made me feel more in control.

Brandon deserved it, but I couldn't grant him this contribution with my name written on it. It would seem suspicious that his current treating nurse funded his defence, and it would certainly make the staff of the institution, not least Dorothy, wonder why I would do such a thing.

So I wrote a letter and sent the check. Explained in unrecognisable penmanship that I had been a devoted follower of the case ever since it was published seven years ago. An old widow with a big inheritance, unaware of what to do with the money, and who thought the young man deserved justice if what was said about his father turned out to be true.

I pretended to be as surprised as Dorothy when she told me about the subsidy. It was better that way. For the hospitals' sake. For my sake. For Brandon's sake.

I didn't know what do to with the money anyway, and yet there was plenty left. Even if I wanted to work myself for my money, my father was a generous man. He had nothing to do with his abundance other than give to charity and spoil the only family he had. He was no man of luxury and in no need of expensive things. He just loved to work to keep his mind in control and escape the haunting backflashes of my mother. Therefore he insisted on sending me a check every month and granting my savings. And since I already had everything I needed, and what I needed the most now was to help Brandon, that's what I decided to do.

Even if Brandon was not allowed to speak about the case or about the meetings with Roscoe, he told me everything. I knew he trusted me more than any attorney, and even if I was surely not an expert in jurisprudence, he still needed my help to get through the emotional process.

It was hard for him, knowing he had to lie to Roscoe the second he met the man. The man who was going to defend this hated criminal in front of the whole world. But he surely helped him. He told Brandon what do to, how to act, what to say. There was a plan made, all thanks to Mr. Van Doren.

I took one last breath as I gathered my purse and left my home. The driveway to London's High Court of Justice felt an hour long. The nervousness made me feel like I was driving in reverse. One part of me never wanted to get there, meanwhile the other was eager to begin the exciting process...

I immediately registered my presence as I arrived at the big, victorian courthouse, and only a moment later I was led into a room where I was supposed to be seated until my testimony was called.

I didn't even get to see Brandon, and that made my heart ache. He needed me right now, the last minutes before walking into the crowded hall, and I couldn't be with him.

But I knew he was in good hands with Mr. Van Doren. He was a kind, confident man, and with his stout posture, proud appearance and high expertise, I knew he could make Brandon feel safe.

But another thing bothering me was what his reaction would be as he laid eyes on Arthur in the room. It could end up in chaos. But I wouldn't be there to know. I wouldn't be there to comfort Brandon and settle him down if it did.

I sucked the blood off my ragged cuticle. I felt so lonely in here, and the thought of Brandon just made me feel sick. The clock on the wall before me ticked loudly. Every second seemed to feel like a whole lifetime. It was torturing. There was no other sound in the small, squared room, nothing in the surroundings that could keep my mind occupied.

There was nothing on the seafoam-painted walls. No painting. No window. No shelf. There was only the clock, ticking every anxious second like the countdown of a bomb. The clockwork knew as well as myself there was an explosion to come, which made every echoing beat painful.

As the hour hand pointed at eight, and the minute hand moved to point straight at twelve, I held my breath as I listened to the hourly chime.

Now the trial began.

The slow, deep sound coming from the antique clockwork made my stomach turn. It only brought me deeper into the claustrophobic condition and added even more darkness to the already frightening occasion.

I swallowed hard, tied my hands in prayer, and closed my eyes to escape the moment. I parted my red painted lips, and whispered my wishes loudly for them to come true. I wished for Brandon to be calm, I wished for Arthur to keep to his plan, I wished for a successful lawsuit and a good jury.

Both Brandon and I knew now why Arthur decided to do this. But it wasn't until Brandon received that letter from him last week where he explained the reason throughout on paper.

I was right thinking it was about change. But it was not the kind of change I imagined. Arthur didn't do this because he changed into a rather better person. He did this because there was a change in his life. A vital matter, which made him realize he needed to do this for his son before it would be too late.