The Tattered Apron

Dear Mother

It was raining as usual in London, the sky rumbled and other than that the only sound heard was the splat of drops on the brick grounds. Bridget sunk into her hood, guarding a paper bag under her cape as she rushed down the streets. To any drunken man who saw her she probably appeared as a ghost of some sort; A small figure in all black going the speed of light. She was sure to give anyone a fright. 

Not too far off, she spotted that large, ominous building in which she learned to hate. She thumbled about, trying to grip the keys between her wet fingers before quickly opening the large, heavy wooden door before slamming it shut behind her, the sign that read ‘Fogg’s Asylum’ nearly shook off the wall. The girl was quick to dispose of her soaked cape, her red curls covering the navy fabric of her gown on her shoulders. She slipped her black boots off, her legs shaking as the cold of the stone ground shot through her stockings. She neatly tucked everything away in the dimmest corner before setting out down the hall.

The soft patter of her feet were thankfully not enough to wake the patients as she creeped down the long, dark and cold corridors. The walk to the ‘secure’ wing always felt like an hour long, turning corner after corner and up six flights of stairs just to pass through another few hallways. But there, at the end of the hike was the door she needed. Once it was in sight she picked up her pace, practically running as she yanked the keys from her chatelaine and pushed them into the hole and hurried to open it.

Once Bridget entered the dark abyss of the cell she carefully pushed the door shut and glanced around, “Toby?” she called out. She took one step forward only to feel her foot squish in a puddle. She pulled a small matchbox from the paper bag she continued to clutch to her chest and struck it to illuminate the room. The singular window that was placed so high you couldn’t see out acted as a waterfall for the falling rain outside, pooling all around the floor of the cell. In the corner, the boy shook, curled into a ball with his hair plastered to his forehead from how soaked he had gotten, “Toby,” she sighed, not minding the water enough to run over to him.

“C’mon, love,” she blew out the match before helping him stand and stumble to a drier spot in the opposite corner, “here,” she thought quickly and lifted her skirt, untying her petticoat and slipping out of it to wrap it around his shoulders. As he nuzzled into it, leaning closer into the corner of the wall, Bridget searched the floor, reaching for a cracked bowl that was tossed aside. At the sight she sighed, “You threw something again,” she huffed, “you said you wouldn’t.”

“They tried givin’ me a needle again,” he hissed.

“Did they succeed?”

“...yes,”

“So it really was no point in throwing this then, eh?”

He merely grunted as she took the matchbox between her teeth to prevent it from falling into the water and pulled a loaf of bread from the bag, tucking it under her arm before crumbling up the bag and placing it in the bowl. “Don’t eat too quickly now,” she said, seeing Toby’s wide eyes when he saw the bread before she passed it to him. As he dug in, savagely eating the bread, Bridget struck another match and set flames to the bag, letting warmth fall over the room before she slid against the wall beside the boy.

“Gotta share, I haven’t eaten all day either,” she said, ripping a chuck of bread off.

“I ‘aven’t eaten in four days,” he scowled at her.

She sighed softly, “Sorry,”

Toby nodded, too invested in the loaf to accept her apology vocally. As they sat there, legs pressed together for warmth, a small squeak was heard approaching them. The tiniest grey mouse scurried over at the scent of food. The poor things must be as starved as any other patient here. “Poor dear,” she muttered, placing a few crumbs in her palm and letting it come up and eat off her. With narrowed brows, Toby watched, his face slowly turning to a soft expression. A bolt of lighting lit up the room, scaring the little creature back into a corner. Without it there her attention fell to the boy, “What?”