themorbidsocialite | A Marsh Guest

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A Marsh Guest

Bugsby's Marshes were home to a wide and varied array of micro- and macroorganisms, the biodiversity one of its most notable features. Yes, a great many of the creatures were incredibly dangerous, but wasn't every environment filled with such risk? Surely, all one had to do to avoid assault was avoid bothering the various animals. Surely.

This was how the Morbid Socialite- Mori- found himself in the depths of the marshes, gathering samples of water, plant life, lichen, and insects to start his research. He was too busy marking notes on a variety of mushroom to notice the eyes on him. The thoughtful hum to themselves and the squeaking of tall boots, worn to avoid staining the hems of their trousers, were enough to hide the sound of something treading through the muck. They only noticed the disturbance when the bugs they'd been surrounded by had scattered. He turned and his eyes widened, finding a second pair staring into his.

"Oh, bloody 'ell."

Screaming echoed across the marsh, likely reaching at least someone's ears.

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"I really shouldn't. I've imposed too much already and you needn't bother yourself with--!" Mori had tried to stand as soon as the bandages were secure, but found himself collapsing with a choked cry of pain, only barely catching himself on the couch. Strained tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, either out of continued pain or out of the realization that he was cornered. They weren't going to be able to back out of this one, but they were also certain they wouldn't be able to handle. The mask of formality had already started to slip in the process of getting here and getting patched up. They wouldn't be able to maintain it all night.

But they had no choice. Not after that fall. He'd just doomed himself.

Maven gasped as Mori collapsed back on the couch, then winced at the look on their face. She waited a moment for what she was sure a wave of pain to pass over, then placed a hand on Mori's shoulder and looked then in the eyes, "Mori, please. This isn't an imposition, this isn't a bother. You're my friend, this is what friends do. I understand the impulse and desire to insist things are fine when they clearly aren't, but you don't have to try this hard to put up such a front, it's okay to admit the truth."

Mori wanted terribly to scream at the thought. The truth? What truth? When had the truth ever been valued more than appearances? When did the diagnosis matter more than bedside manner? Nobody wanted the ugly, screaming, bleeding truth, ripped from his hands like a still beating heart. It was never about the truth! It was about ego and pride and being able to tell yourself you're a good person! Nobody wanted him! Not really! They wanted the Morbid Socialite! They wanted the man skilled in talking their way out of any situation! They wanted the poised, composed, jovial man with a penchant for the melodramatic! Nobody wanted the creature that would sooner rip apart his own sternum and sever his lungs than tell another person how he feels! Nobody wanted the monster covered elbow down in dead blood, unexpressive yet feeling far too much! Too direct, too emotional, too morbid, too much! They were only ever too much and he couldn't stand the idea of the Maven pretending to want that from them!

They wanted to take her shoulders and cry that this wasn't about what either of them wanted, that nobody cared about what was best for either of them. He wanted to open the bag and show her, show Jane Rosewood the skeleton in his closet before she could find it herself, ruin their friendship before it could take root. Their chest burst with the desire to just stop pretending, knowing that doing so, dropping the mask fully, would terrify and hurt the witnesses. He wanted to look her in the eye and tell her that he was about to spit in the face of God and kick His ribs until the holy corpse rotted and the blood salted the earth. He wanted to rip the truth from his stomach like a line of intestines and grind it into the dirt with his heel. They wanted to look the Maven in the eye and tell her that her sympathy shouldn't be wasted.

To the Maven, it was but a moment of thought, eyes flickering across the ground in front. When they darted back up, the Socialite looked at the woman across from him and let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"If you so insist," was Mori's weak, almost emotionless response. Not hateful or sad or scared; simply nothing. Nothing was easier than enthusiasm, even if societal convention forced him to accept. Even if his heart begged him to accept. Nothing was easier. "I cannot guarantee I will be pleasant company."

Despite Mori finally acquiescing to staying, Maven couldn't help but feel disappointed. Just like in the second class, she saw the walls go up around them. Perhaps she pushed too hard.

Either way, at least he was being reasonable and allowing themselves to rest. She gave them a smile, "You were just attacked by a marsh wolf, you can be as unpleasant as you wish, I'll understand."

The Brash Devil popped back in, "Everything fine?"

Maven looked at him, "Yes, they're all patched up."

"Alright, then I'm going to head out and finish the hunt, so it'll be just you two for dinner," he began to get ready to go.

Mori nodded at the Devil, sticking to the script memorized by rote. "Apologies for the interruption and best of luck to you in your hunt."

If there was anything else he wanted to say, it wasn't clear on his face, saved for a better time. Blow out the boiling emotions like a candle, shut it all down, everything under lock and key. Nothing was easier.

The next attempt at standing was with a breath and a slow, careful, deliberate rise from the now stained couch, propped up against the arm.

"Just make sure you're relaxing," Brash Devil nodded at the Socialite, then looked at Maven, "Give him those old clothes I never wear."

"Did you eat at least?" Maven asked.

"Yep, had a bowl just now and a slice of the apple pie that was cooling," Devil walked over, kissed Maven, "Don't wait up, get some sleep." With that he headed out.

When Maven saw Mori trying to stand she hurried to his side, afraid he might collapse, "Careful now, don't push yourself too much."

Mori looked up, meeting her eyes. Just try, his mind told him. He smiled, shaky and unsure, but present. "I'm being careful. I promise. No more collapsing."

There, see? He was not broken. It was not too late. He may have been out of it, but he could keep a handle on this. He could control the outcome.

"Derek mentioned apple pie? That's a New World dessert, is it not? I'm curious to try it." The Morbid Socialite was unsure on their feet, trying to hide their wincing and biting their lip to hide the pain. They could manage. He had to manage. He let the smile fall when she wasn't looking.

"Oh, yes," Maven nodded, "It was a recipe sent to me by... two friends." The way she said that made it sound like there was quite an Exceptional Story behind that, but she merely moved on, "Always difficult acquiring fruit, fresh or canned, but I managed to get some canned apples while out the other day and wanted to make some."

She seemed reluctant to leave, as if afraid he would bolt the second she left. So she held out a hand, "Here, I'll show you where the washroom is and then get you those clothes. Then I'll heat dinner up."

"I do appreciate your assistance, regardless of my capability of self care. You're quite kind." The Socialite took her hand and, carefully avoiding weight on the damaged side, allowed her to lead him to the washroom. Composure, control, force a smile, nod along, just make it to privacy. He could do at least that much before shattering.

Maven led him across the living room, down the hall, and to a specific room, "Here you go. I'll be back in a minute with the clothes."

"Thank you. I appreciate it." The Socialite watched her go, then entered the washroom, leaning up against the washbasin, the door closed. He turned on the faucet, did the necessary washing up, then left it running as he stared into the mirror. Tired. Old. Flakes of dried blood sticking around his eyes where he'd lain his arm. His grip on his mask was loosening.

Perhaps, if he pretended he was doing better, Jane would let him leave early. Mori braced against the washbasin and let his weight shift over to his injured side. Lightning almost immediately shot up the side of him, bring tears to his eyes and nearly cracking his nails with the force he gripped the basin. They bit their lip to keep from crying out in agony. That marsh-wolf did a real number on him and the wounds wouldn't let him forget. He swore under his breath and shifted the weight back over.

There was no pretending around that. They were well and truly stuck in a kind and giving Hell. How else could they manage this time? What did he need to focus on as his priorities?

Firstly, the bag, left on the couch, unlocked, in the open. For now, it was a lost cause. After dinner, he might be able to secure it, but it was currently unguarded. Second, Mori's own mood. Jane was already put off by the quick fluctuations, he could tell. She knew something was up. It would be impossible to keep perfectly situated all through dinner, so to what degree could he allow openness? Thirdly, and of course this would likely arrive as a dinner or brandy topic, the assignment. The crime against nature and the laws of reality. If she asked... Good lord, if she asked... Would he even be able to lie?

Maven went back through the living room on her way to get clothes. She glanced at the mess on the couch and the table beside it. The couch can be a concern for later, but at least she can put the supplies away and put his bag somewhere other than the bloodstained couch. First she'll get the clothes.

The Socialite was being even more obstinate about their facade than usual. She tried not to push them too much because whatever reason they have for this front, it is their business. It did make her sad when people were not their authentic selves, admittedly, but it wasn't her place to tell them how to live life.

But this seemed beyond his mask of upper class pretentiousness, even beyond the frustrating restrains of English pride and decorum.

It felt like Mori was actively hiding something. Probably having to do with why they were in the marsh in the first place.

She didn't want to pry, but it concerned her. She'll have to see if she could talk to them about it over dinner.

She quickly procured some clothes for Mori. Hopefully it would fit them alright. She headed back to the washroom and knocked, "Mori? I brought you a change of clothes."

The Maven's voice broke through the darkening fog of intense thought, bringing the Socialite back to the reality that awaited them. His cheeks felt wet with tears and he quickly scrubbed their existence away. He turned off the water and opened the door a crack. "Ah, thank you. If you would pass them through, I'll be dressed and out shortly."

The challenge of dressing with a severely injured leg was a daunting, yet necessary prospect.

Maven was about to insist on helping them dress, but she knew she was already imposing enough on them. She wanted to allow them some dignity. So she handed the clothes between the crack, but did add, "If you need any help just call for me. I'm going to clean up a bit, then I'll heat up dinner."

"This, I can manage, I can assure you. I have plenty of experience." Such experience being in dressing newly autopsied cadavers without opening the stitches or disturbing the taut skin. "Please, take your time. I will be down shortly."

The Socialite took the clothes and, upon the door closing, very carefully began to dress.

Maven wanted to point out that it's a whole other matter when the stitches are on your own body, but she let it lie. Besides, she had other tasks to do.

She made her way to the living room, putting the medical supplies away. She kept them in a cabinet near the front door in case of any such emergency where she has to grab something and race out of the house.

There was still blood on the floor. There were some unused towels she could use for that. First, she reached over and picked up the Socialite's bag to relocate it away from the bloody couch.

The bag was hefty, filled well to the opening, and it clinked with glass and metal. As well, it smelled heavily of mildew, mud, and a very faint, metallic must, like mummification. In general, it was a hassle to move.

The dressing was taking quite a while and likely would take longer with the injuries, if Mori knew to be especially careful. Surely, he did. He also didn't want the injuries torn open again.

There was plenty of time to see what was in the bag...

What a weird smell. Was Mori collecting samples out in the marsh? Hopefully they weren't destroyed in the confusion.

Oh shoot. If they were, Mori would likely insist on going back out.

If Maven checked she could ensure they were okay. And if they weren't, she could offer to go replace them. She had grown rather familiar with the marsh, whatever samples Mori was getting she was sure she could replace. Anything so they weren't putting themselves in needless danger again.

She wiped down the bag, placed it on a table, and checked inside.

That was a severed human forearm. That was a mummified forearm carefully detached from the rest of the body at the elbow in such a way that it wouldn't be difficult to reattach.

Surrounding it on all sides were various jars of specimens. Living, dead, wet, dried, two burned to cinders. There was also a jar of fresh human skin, evidently a biopsy, with one of the sides charred, the faint embers of a crossed out Correspondence symbol seared into that side.

But there still sat the mummified arm, carefully encased in a pocket of velvet. It was so small...

Well. That would certainly not help the Nightmares.

The thing keeping her from well and truly freaking out was the fact that it was mummified, so clearly this was not the arm of someone recently killed or maimed within the last day or so.

All the same, Maven closed her eyes, stepped back, and took a deep breath.

Okay, she could see why the Socialite was reluctant to have her in his business if he was graverobbing.

She was trying not to think of how small the arm was...

(Why was Mori graverobbing and dismembering child corpses?!)

The skin was... strange, but she had seen for herself that Mori was all scarred up and suspected that they experimented on himself.

(She had little room to judge there, she reminded herself as she looked down at her now permanently green tinged nails from all the kataleptic toxicology research)

The Correspondence symbol was also weird but could be a result of them experimenting for their focus.

That's probably what this all was, stuff from the Correspondence class.

(But why a child's arm???)

Something to ask when they came out.

For now she finished cleaning. Another thing to focus on. She debated closing the bag back up. But no, she wasn't going to pretend she hadn't seen. She would leave it open.

With the remaining time she put the pot back on to gently heat up and changed into a tea gown so she was slightly more presentable for company.

The soft steps of shoeless feet moved at an uneven pace down the hall behind her. A third sound, higher up, accompanied: a hand against the wall. The steps stopped and the moment seemed to last a lifetime before there came a scramble, a heavy thud, and more frantic movement in the direction of the gladstone bag. A pause, a wet and trembling sigh, then the sharp sound of the bag snapping shut, metal impacting metal. It was a biting sound, definitive and intentional and most assuredly made loud enough for the Maven to hear. Nothing else came after. No audible breaths, no footsteps, no word or sound escaped the dreadful, prolonged silence.

Maven heard all of this, of course. As the silence went on she went to check on Mori. Dinner was ready anyway, she needed to let them know.

Mementomori was hunched over the bag, arms braced on either side, one of the wounds on the side slowly seeping once more through the carefully applied wrappings on the half open shirt (having been unable to close it all the way without disturbing the bandages). His face was unseen, blocked by a cascade of hair, the silver patch as clear as day at this angle. He was trembling slightly. When they spoke, their voice was cold, hollow, a shell of social niceties barely held together by a fraying string, a poor actor reciting their lines with nothing behind them.

"I should go. I've overstayed my welcome, clearly. Have a lovely night." He stood, face still shadowed, taking the bag's handle and pulling it to his side as he turned away.

Maven was already moving to block their exit as they spoke. She stood between the Socialite and the way out of the living room, bracing herself so they couldn't push her out of the way, "Mori, stop this. Please, I had only meant to check- I was afraid your samples might have broken. That's why you were in the marsh right? Getting samples for experiments? I was just going to check them, and offer to replace them if any were contaminated."

Dr. Malodrema stopped, swaying as he did to keep the weight off his injured side. He didn't look angry or spiteful, he just looked hurt, tired, his eyes ringed red with the stress of the night.

"Don't pretend you didn't see it," they deadpanned. "I'm no fool, Jane. It was at the top, uncovered, clearly visible. Do you really wish to fight a man with nothing left to lose? Are you certain keeping me here is the hill you're willing to lay upon? Make your assumptions, lay your fears and anxieties at your feet, but do not keep a man from escaping the confines of a place that cannot respect his privacy and is moments from casting stones. I ask, this once, that you move. Please."

"Fortunately for you, the moment I leave here, you will never have the displeasure of directly interacting with me again. You have my word."

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