A Desperate Chime

A/N: So, I submitted this story for my school's art show. Alot of teachers read it and praised my efforts. When the librarian read it, she asked if I plagiarized it. It must be a good story if someone thinks I stole it XD Enjoy!

The hansom traveled through one of the more destitute neighbourhoods of London. Henry Symond pulled open the curtain of the cab window, and looked out at the street. It was a sorry sight, and he frowned as he saw a young girl, looking no more than fifteen, leaning against a neglected looking building, a wailing infant in her arms. Her thin shawl, wrapped around the both of them, looked unfit to guard against the chill of this November night. He saw a weathered man stumble out of an opium den. The man squinted up at the sky, and looked about his surroundings in confusion. It seemed he knew neither the day, nor his whereabouts. Henry saw two women at the corner, their faces painted garishly, their bodices loose and inviting. One met his eyes as he turned the corner, and lifted her skirt as she gave him a sultry look. He deduced they were prostitutes.

He was driven a good distance from the center of London. The ringing of a bell told him he had reached his destination, on the outskirts of the city. He was eager to begin his report. he bid the driver to stop, and told him to wait, as he would not want to walk home through this area, especially at night, especially well-dressed as he was. He walked quickly over to the man ringing the bell. The man was clearly startled, as he was backing away from Henry.

Henry stopped and said," Sir, may I have a word?" 

The man came no closer, but allowed Henry to explain his purpose, his want of an interview. The man said nothing, but nodded and bade Henry follow him. Henry followed the man to a decrepit-looking building that he knew to be the hostel. They entered, and the man showed Henry to a sitting room. The room clearly was not furnished with comfort in mind, having only the obvious necessities: a small fireplace, a stained wooden table, and two uncomfortable armchairs, one of which Henry sat down on. Henry's host exited the room for a minute or two, and returned with two glasses and a bottle of liquor. He sat in the chair opposite Henry, and placed the bottle and glasses on the table between them.

"Brandy?" He asked, looking at Henry.

"Yes, thank you."

The man poured Henry and himself each a glass. As Henry sipped the drink, he surreptitiously examined the man. He was wearing a long, dark cloak that reached his ankles, and black gloves. The hood of his cloak was pulled well over his forehead, and he wore a black, scarf-like cloth over his mouth and nose that slightly muffled his voice. Of his whole body, only two deep brown eyes were visible, the better to cover his affliction.

He excused himself, turned slightly, and Henry noticed he was uncovering his mouth to take a drink from his glass. He righted himself, and slumped into his chair. Henry took out his writing material and prepared to record the interview.

"Shall we begin?" Henry asked. The man nodded.

"Well then, lets start with your name. What is it?"

The man hesitated, then said, "Francis."

"Your family name?" Henry inquired.

Francis shook his head." I don't use it. My family has left me, and never contact me. I haven't seen them in ages."

Henry wrote down Francis's words. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-four."

Henry was startled by that, He thought Francis older, based on his thin, stooped posture. "Have you an occupation?"

"I did typewriting until recently."

"Why no longer?"

Francis sighed. He quickly retrieved a small blade from beneath his cloak. He put his right hand flat on the table, and plunged the blade into it. Henry cried out, but Francis didn't so much as blink.

He explained," The numbness makes it quite difficult to type." He returned the blade to his cloak. "My productivity lessened, and I was promptly fired. It was an immense kindness I was hired at all. My employer said I should be grateful, considering my condition. And I was."

Henry rapidly wrote, as Francis continued," I wasn't payed grandly, but it was enough to live on. Well, not comfortably, of course, but I could feed myself, at least."

"And now, sir?" Henry queried.

Francis was silent for a good few minutes. He closed his eyes and sighed. Henry waited for him to answer. Instead he said, "Every so often, the others I live here with, one of their appendages falls off. Last week, my roommate George's index finger came clean off after it was caught in a closing door." Apparently he forgot the question, Henry thought.

Henry interviewed for another hour or so. When Henry noticed how Francis's hands shook as he held his glass, he decided the interview was over. He got up to leave, but suddenly, he felt much pity for Francis. Pity, and sympathy, for Francis to be left here with no family or friends. It made him strangely angry that Francis should have to live this way. Perhaps it was the brandy, but Henry felt a friendly warmth in his chest.

"Francis?"

"Yes, sir?"

" Perhaps I could visit again, maybe for tea? I know a bakery where I could get us lovely biscuits and cakes...If you wouldn't mind my company?"

Francis stood up from his chair. In a trembling voice, he said," Yes, sir, you're welcome any time."

Francis suddenly had tears in his eyes. Though only his eyes shown, Henry could tell he smiled beneath the cloth. Henry shook Francis's hands heartily, which very much surprised Francis, and went to find the hansom.

Later that night, Henry went over this account of the interview. Henry noticed Francis never answered his question on how he fed himself. He remembered Francis's statement about the other lepers' lost limbs...With a wave of nausea, Henry realized it. That was the answer.

He thought of Francis, ringing his bell. That chime. It reminded him of the wailing baby in the girl's arms. It's sound repelled you, yet had an insistence which was begging to be heard. That sound, impossible not to hear, yet so easy not to listen to. It cries out, desperate. Desperate for contact, for anyone to take notice, to acknowledge it. In that way, Henry felt that the lepers, the opium addict, the prostitutes, and the young girl with the baby were all alike. Outcasts, desperate for someone to hear them and reach out. To let them know they are alive. To know that maybe there is more to life than just their desperate existence.