“What a day!” Daniel Fallon, my classmate, sighs in relief as our long day ends.

It's only been a few months since I got admitted into medical school, but I think I may have a nervous breakdown any day now.
After classes ended, I wandered into the main hospital's corridors where most patients and doctors rotate at all hours.
Students mostly stay on the east part of the hospital where academics take place.

Daniel keeps talking about a new nurse recruit till a few nurses hurriedly pull a stretcher through the corridors.
I don't look up from the papers in my hands till I see a familiar face.

The papers fall from my grasp as I freeze.

Daniel blinks at me, slowly picking up the papers.
“What's wrong, chap?”

The nurses whisk away the stretcher into the surgical wards, but not before giving me a clear of the grunting man bleeding through the sheets’ pallor.

Heartbeat slows down, breathing all the more louder.

“Matthew…” Daniel asks, chewing on his lip.

“William, that was him. On the stretcher. He's my… like a brother to me.”
I don't realise what's happening till I somehow end up on a chair with my papers in my lap.

No, it isn't possible. He can't be that wounded. It's not possible.

He does work in the police.

I shiver, breathing shallow and hands running through my hair.

“I'm sorry, Matthew…”
Daniel shaking my shoulder brings me back. He sits beside me.
“There was a gang brawl in the East End. Five injured--”

I don't know how my quivering stops when I ask,
“But William--”

“Three gunshots. May his soul find peace. I'm sorry, chap…”

I don't believe what Daniel says.
I don't believe it when even Doctor Hopkins can't think of a joke.
I don't believe it when Mrs Hopkins clutches onto her son's old clothes.
I don't believe it when Miss Alice follows her husband's suit after giving premature birth.
I only believe it when Doctor Hopkins's eyes redden and William's children clutch onto Mrs Hopkins's numb posture.

These days, older memories always seem to bleed when they touch my skin.
I find what I think is the truth, but do not settle for that as an answer.
Perhaps, that is why I'm sitting in front of Mathilda's mother.

“What is it you wanted to talk about, lad?” asks Mrs Penrose.

The crisp walls peel away into nothingness the more they wait for me.
Taking a deep breath, I finally say,
“Today I'm here as your doctor, not a guest.”

Mrs Penrose's face becomes inscrutable, as she leans into her seat. Her eyes wander over to the window.
“What is it you want to do as my doctor?”

You'll have to unveil what you know. It is about her, after all.

My fingers press into the opposite hands’ knuckles.
“Forgive me, but Miss Penrose gave me the details of your ailment's history,” I pronounce each word slowly, more for my own sake than hers,
“And, with your permission, I'd like to discuss future proceedings.”

A dim light flows into the apartment, wrinkling Mrs Penrose's features.
“If Tilly is the one who told you, then I trust her decision.” Mrs Penrose sighs,
“Tell me what you want to say.”

The world outside goes on: people bargaining prices, horses neighing against their running carriages, a raven's caw mingling with them all.
And I wish I were outside with it.

“The medicines I prescribed you a few months ago were for anaemia, or blood loss you can say.”
More like a low haemoglobin level, but let explanations remain common.
“Though, anaemia doesn't justify those rashes you told me about.” I frown, thinking what would have happened if I'd seen those rashes, instead of only hearing about them.

“There are only marks left of those rashes,” Mrs Penrose sighs.

“Physical symptoms are usually minimal in the latent stage of syphilis, especially in the later phase.” I nod.
“Have you had treatment before?”

Her eyes glaze over at the mention of treatment. Gone off to a land unbeknownst to me.
Gone to a time that was maybe better or worse.
After a while, reality forces Mrs Penrose to come back.
“I did…
After my husband died… I was ill, but I had gathered some money with my… work. No one knew. Could not tell anyone… Let someone else pay for Walter's debts, while I paid for the mercury. I thought, 'If I died, there would be no one left for my children…’”

“But then the signs came back five years ago… They were worse than before… Della was already married happily in Dover… and I didn't want her to worry.” Through her ghostly face, a simple smile manages to lighten it.
“I don't know how, but Tilly and I managed somehow.
Even though I never expected Tilly to do what she did… But I couldn't be prouder to have birthed my daughters at that moment…”

The creaking floorboard, the stove being the only source of warmth, the oiless door hinges all pull me down with their gravity. Gravity stronger than anything I've seen before. They make not question how all of this is even possible.

But her bright brown eyes pull my attention only towards them.

As if stricken out of a trance, Mrs Penrose blinks. She takes a few moments, but goes back to her former tone,
“Pardon me… you were saying, Doctor?”

My head tilts to the bookshelf, as I shift in my shrieking chair. Heartbeat lowers, even though Mrs Penrose having the mercury before gives us more time.

Symptoms have definitely worsened since my last proper conversation with her.

To calm down my heartbeat, I do what I know what I am better at.
“It is quite all right.
Even without the ailment, we all often thrive of past memories…”
The picture of a laughing detective with his children pounds within my head.

Control. Please, control.

My thumb scratches my hand. I keep looking at it, while saying,
“You already know how expensive the treatment.” I meet Mrs Penrose's gaze.
“But it is my duty to tell if this continues, then there's a rare chance of your ailment entering into tertiary phase. A phase in which one forget forgets who they are themselves. A phase in which one becomes physically unrecognisable even to their loved ones.”

Snow seems to descend into the apartment at my saying so, fragile but chaotic.
It falls harshly, even with its leaden speed.
A kettle shrieks, breaking the momentum.

“If prices are the matter, then you can always present your case for a trust fund before the board of governors.”

Mrs Penrose moves towards me-- I stand-- but she waves me off and continues.

I remain seated as Mrs Penrose prepares her cup of tea.
“I know that lad, I do… but we both know how much chance there is of my qualifying for a trust fund...” she says over her shoulder.
“And I am tired, tired of the mercury. Of what it does to me.”
Mrs Penrose turns, whisking the tea. She takes laborious steps to her seat.
“I want to spend my last days without agony, even though most would agree that I deserve it,” she says to the air around her, gaze going out of focus.

I wait for her to say something else, but Mrs Penrose only keeps her focus on the ripples of her tea. Never drinking it nor shaking it further.
“Thank you for your concern, lad.”

Perhaps I should tell Mrs Penrose that it is my duty, that she should try at least once again, that everyone has the right to a healthier life.
But I find myself nodding against my conscious, find myself leaving my seat, find myself walking to the door.
“Thank you for listening, Mrs Penrose.”
I don't know whether she's heard it or not when the door clicks behind me.

Even though only half an hour has been spent at the Penroses, it feels more like a century.
Being outside in the crowded streets does not make me leave that apartment either.

What am I to do now...

Church bells tell me where I am.
They echo and blare about with the withering wind. Reminding of someone who made his way in its graveyard, rather than the altar.
I ignore the man following me ever since I entered the East End, the one with a gash on his forearm.

Frowning, I focus on someone near the graveyard:
A little girl with a moth ridden shawl stands beside the graveyard gates with a basket. A basket full of red and white roses.

The girl narrows her eyes at me when I cross the distance and stand according to her height. She pulls out a few roses when I shake my head, smiling.
“Only one, please.”
The girl blinks but shrugs, showing me her basket. It's almost full.
“Tha's a penny then.”

One of its petals fall on the grey ground, as I pull a single white rose from the batch.

She opens her small palm, several scratches scarring them.
A boisterous carriage flies by, taking her attention towards it.
I quickly press a shilling into her hand and take the rose with me to the graveyard.

“But tha's more tha’ it's worth!” she shouts.

I smile over my shoulder-- shaking my head-- and get enveloped into the only sign of vert in this area.

This graveyard being the only place full of verdure here seems ironic.

Though, the man following me doesn't enter the graveyard.
Two or three persons walk in black, while I find my way through the moss ridden gravestones.
Some patches are as tall and old as a bygone oak tree.
Some are shorter than even a foot. I trek faster through the latter.
That is till I find a new grave. A grave belonging to someone who shouldn't be here at his age.

Jacob Trevor
1862- 1884

I sit on the grass, some of the dirt rubbing against my trousers.
The people seen earlier glance at me, but continue their descent.
The white rose in my hand finds its way in front of the stone.
A squirrel runs about; I remain seated, as if the rose may speak to me.

But then someone's rushed steps quips my ears.
With her head down, her peacock blue cloak glides through the breeze.

My lips part a bit, as Mathilda pulls out a single red rose from her cloak.
She regards it for a few moments-- stopping her fidgets-- taking in its every detail.
I can't look away when Mathilda places that red rose on a grave, exactly parallel to where I'm sitting.

Before I know it, she's already striding towards the exit.
I suddenly stand-- surprising even the squirrel sitting at my side-- and stumble towards her. Skipping through the obstacles in between.

Mathilda whips around-- hood descending down-- when I catch her elbow.

I almost fall onto her, as she blinks, but stabilise myself at the last moment.
“Good uh… afternoon.” I smile, hand sliding from her elbow to her hand.
My grip remains loose, in case she pulls away.
“I hope you don't have any previous engagements?”

Mathilda shakes her head, her grasp becoming tighter.
“I have some time before going back to the shop again.”
“Do you want to say anything, Matthew?”
Her gaze meets mine, her bright brown eyes illuminated like the sort of shine in the dark.
A strand falls from her bun, casting an eclipse.

I pull it behind her ear.
“I wanted to apologise, Mathilda.”

She keeps looking at the gesture when she says,
“What for?”

“There are old wounds, Angel, wounds that have taken years to heal.
I did not want to leave them bare in the scorching sun.”

“For opening old wounds when I sought the truth,” I say, glancing at where she was a few moments ago.

Some time passes and Mathilda doesn't answer.
She looks over my shoulder at somewhere behind me.
If she's figured out which grave I was near before, she does not comment.
Mathilda sighs,
“There really isn't any need, Matthew.” For a fleeting moment, she looks at that she was standing before.
“That day when you came and I was writing, it was my twenty fifth birthday…” I try very hard to not let my ears redden.
“And my father's death anniversary. I never really came here after the… funeral.”

We almost… on that day…
And that must be Walter Penrose's grave...

“Older wounds may have been opened. But-- sometimes-- opening them can lead to healing, despite the initial burn.” Our intertwined hands rock in the wind.

“I didn't peg you as one to my… curiosity seem so chivalrous,” she smiles the faintest of ones when I say that.
If only that smile would remain forever on her lips.

At least this expression doesn't leave her face when she says,
“Now tell me, don't you have any previous engagements? I may have to go now.”

My smile falls a bit.
“Currently only one.
But that is only if you'll allow me to escort you back…” the last word leaves a hopeful undertone, reddening my ears.

Mathilda rolls her eyes, shaking her head.
“Come now, I'm not going to be late because of your theatrics.”

“After you, Miss Penrose.” I wink, and she takes the lead, not without complaining about theatrics again.

My prowler is nowhere to be seen when we pass the gates.
The cawing raven and past lives are still there, but become more bearable.
When we reach her shop, a bit too early, I make a mental note of visiting the flower shop nearby.

I don't quite know what or when I'll tell you, or even if I will. But, for some reason, to imagine you knowing about myself, my whole self, makes me smile.

So yeah, I hope y'all got what roses they are now xD
Just keep in mind: even the original Great Expectations has some gender bending going on (soft spoken male lead with a cold heroine).

And we'll see what happens to Mrs Penrose by the end...

Oh and I also forgot:
I know modern readers who've had 21st century education know what haemoglobin is.
But keep in mind that this is the 19th century, where common scientific facts of today weren't so common to ordinary folk then.

P. S. Syphilis can cause anaemia, so yeah.
Another side effect is reliving in the past too much, which may lead to hallucinations as the central nervous system is affected.
Those who follow me on Instagram (@/mszame) may or may not have seen an embarrassing story regarding this.
And yeah, shameless plugin!

I hope you all have a great week and don't forget to vote ❤️
Love,
MS Zame