| 18+ | Damian looked so different with his shirt off and a crop in his hand. He felt more real: no longer wearing the mask of the good doctor, he was the Exorcist, the master over my wildest fears, the stones on the shore over which my ocean of ma...
There were few things Damian hated more than drawing a crowd. A crowd meant questions, and questions of a certain nature could not be easily answered. Why did the woman walk backwards up the side of the house, Dr. Hearst? Why did the man vomit black bile, Dr. Hearst? How could this woman have spoken in tongues of ancient Hebrew, Latin, and Norse, Dr. Hearst?
There was a simple answer, but it was only simple to those who already knew.
As a doctor, he could not simply say it was because malicious demonic forces had possessed their body.
As an exorcist, he knew that was exactly the truth.
As Samara collapsed in the street, falling limply into his arms like a sad little doll cast from its shelf, Damian braced himself for the questions. The woman had drawn a sizeable crowd - damn her -of both worried townsfolk and authorities. He knew he should have moved in sooner, he should have taken her in hand before it escalated to this level.
Octavio was nearby with the carriage, and the moment Samara was down the young man rushed over to assist. His training as a young medical doctor took over at once, and he began to check the woman's pulse, peered cautiously into her eyes, and slipped a rag between her teeth in case she began to convulse.
A trio of police were pushing their way through the crowd, batons drawn. Damian handed Samara over to Octavio. "Get her to the carriage," he said. "Chain her immediately. I've got to do some damage control."
"Yes, sir," Octavio scooped her up and moved her away. The officers narrowed their eyes at him as he did, and Damian rose up to meet them.
"What's all this ruckus?" A massive handlebar moustache quivered upon the lead officer's lip as he took in the sight of the damaged automobile, the faint woman, and Octavio carefully loading her into the wagon. Damian approached him with an outstretched hand.
"Sir. Doctor Damian Hearst of Soule Asylum, at your service." He grasped the hesitant officer's hand, giving it a firm shake. "I apologize for the disruption of the festivities, sirs. I can assure you the patient is back within our control."
The officer gave him a slow, uncertain look up and down. "You're a doctor?"
"I am, sir." Damian reached within his pocket, just behind the pistol he had swiftly tucked away, and withdrew a pocket book wherein was his folded medical license. The officers gathered around to all give it a long look. The mustachioed man glanced once more at the carriage.
"The woman is a patient of the asylum?"
"She is, sir. She was mistakenly allowed to attend the festivities."
The officer folded his arms as one of his comrades made his way over to the carriage, peering curiously within. "And do you have her guardianship papers as well?"
Ah, of course. The very question Damian had hoped they would not ask. "I unfortunately do not have them on me, sirs," he said, shrugging as if exhausted. "When I found that she had been allowed to come out, I did not think to take them with me."
The officer nodded slowly, and withdrew a notebook from his pocket. Fireworks began to explode from Jackson Square, filling the night sky with glittering light, and Damian had to force himself not to jump at the sudden noise. He could feel the sweat on his back, and desperately hoped he did not look as fretful as he felt. He watched as the officer wrote down his name upon the notepad.
"Well, Dr. Hearst," he said. "I would suggest you keep your patient under stronger lock and key. What is her name?"
"Samara." The officer glanced at him a moment, expecting a surname, but Damian only smiled tensely. "I assure you she will be carefully watched henceforth."
"And what exactly is her illness?" The officer tweaked an uncertain eyebrow.
Behind his back, Damian's hands clenched impatiently. "It is a feminine hysteria, sir," he said, the lie rolling easily from his tongue. "She was a, ah..." He leaned closer, and lowered his voice. "She was a whore, sir."
The officer flipped the book shut. "I see. Very well. John, McKilligan!" He snapped his fingers at his fellow officer, motioning them over. "Very good, doctor. I'll have one of my men come 'round the asylum tomorrow morning. We'll need a copy of Miss Samara's paperwork for the report." He tipped his hat before he turned away, shouting at the crowd that was still lingering to disperse. Damian deflated, the tension finally releasing from his body.
Feminine hysteria. Such a ridiculous diagnosis, one he had always refused to give. And yet, he knew that by the power of whatever comradery existed between men when speaking of women, calling one hysterical was a sure thing that could be agreed upon. He despised it, but there it was.
Poor Octavio was sitting nervously in the carriage, watching the sleeping Samara. Their driver, Jacobi, sat in silence holding the horses' reins, awaiting the word to go. Damian gave the man a nod as he climbed inside, barely able to make contact with the dark gentlemen's eyes between the scarf wrapped tightly about his head and mouth. The few times he had seen Jacobi without the wrappings made him happy he decided to wear them: the burned scars across his face were nothing short of horrific.
"Breathe, Octavio," breathe," Damian said, as the carriage lurched into motion and rumbled down the street. There was the sound of cheering outside, celebratory gunshots and more fireworks filling the sky. Damian felt himself lucky that the police likely had other pressing matters to attend to as the night went on and the liquor kept flowing. Octavio let out a huge sigh.
"I thought you-you'd have to kill-kill her," the young man stuttered, patting his sweating brow with the back of his hand. Damian frowned, and reached across the seat to tuck back a strand of blonde hair that had fallen across Samara's face. She looked peaceful in sleep, the tension on her face made soft even when bound wrist and ankle in thick metal cuffs.
"You know the reality of my work," Damian said. "If there is an hope of an exorcism working, then I will attempt that before anything else."
"But she was utterly overtaken!" Octavio exclaimed. "The demon spoke through her, it moved her!" He wiped his trembling hand across his face, shooting wary looks at Samara as he did. "The exorcism should be performed at once, there's no time-"
"There needs to be time," Damian said firmly. "I may not be strong enough alone to save her." Octavio's face paled by several shades, and he looked as if he might vomit. Damian put a hand on his shoulder, hoping to be comforting. "The demon overtook her, yes. But she took back control, alone, without the use of any rites. She is strong. She can fight it."
Octavio nodded, closing his eyes as if to steady himself. The young man was so anxious that it had caused him to drop out of the medical college, and later driven him to a complete mental breakdown. Damian hiring him was the only thing keeping him from the asylum. The other doctors could shake their heads and call the poor boy mad all they wanted, but Damian saw him fight the battle against his own mind day after day, and win.
There was no demon in Octavio, but sometimes the human mind alone could be just as frightening.
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A/N: It's seriously scary to look back on historical records and see how easy it was for women to be committed to an insane asylum o.O I'm super fascinated by asylums, even though they make for such a horrifying read. Maybe that's why the second season of American Horror Story is my favorite!
