The Will of Claude Ashur by C. Hall Thompson Lyrics
1
They have locked me in. A moment since, for what well may have been the last time. I heard the clanking of the triple bolts as they were shot into place. The door to this barren white chamber presents no extraordinary appearance, but it is plated with impenetrable steel. The executives of this Institution have gone to great pains to ensure the impossibility of escape. They know my record. They have listed me among those patients who are dangerous and "recurrently violent". I haven't contradicted them; it does no good to tell them that my violence is long since spent; that I have no longer the inclination nor the strength requisite to make yet another attempted break for freedom. They cannot understand that my freedom meant something to me only so long as there was hope of saving Gratia Thane from the horror that returned from the fresh-rotting brink of the grave to reclaim her. Now that hope is lost; there is nothing left but the welcome release of death. I can die as well in an insane asylum as elsewhere.
Today the examinations, both physical and mental, were quickly dispensed with. They were a formality; routine gone through "for the record." The doctor has left. He wasn't the man who usually examines me. I presume he is new at the Institution. He was a tiny man, fastidiously dressed, with a narrow flushed face and a vulgar diamond stickpin. There were lines of distaste and fear about his mouth from the moment he looked into the loathesome mask that is my face. Doubtless one of the white-suited attendants warned him of the particular horror of my case. I didn't resent it when he came no nearer me than necessary. Rather, I pitied the poor devil for the awkwardness of the situation; I have known men of obviously stronger stomach to stumble away from the sight of me, retching with sick terror. My name, the unholy whisperings of my story, the remembrance of the decaying, breathing half-corpse that I am, are the legendary in the winding gray halls of the Asylum. I cannot blame them for being relieved by the knowledge that they will soon shed the burden I have been--that, before long, they will consign this unhuman mass of pulsating flesh to maggots and oblivion.
Before the doctor left, he wrote something in his notebook; there would be the name; Claude Ashur. Under today's date he has written only a few all-explanatory words. "Prognosis negative. Hopefully insane. Disease in most advanced stage. Demise imminent."
Watching the slow, painful progress of his pen across the paper, I experienced one last temptation to speak. I was overwhelmed with a violent need to scream out my now familiar protest to this new man, in the desperate hope that he might believe me. The blasphemous words welled for an instant in my throat, sending forth a thick nasal sob. Quickly, the doctor glanced up, and the apprehensive loathing of his gaze told me the truth. It would do no good to speak. He was like all the rest, with their soothing voices and unbelievable smiles. He would listen to the hideous nightmare that is the story of Gratia and my brother and myself, and, in the end, he would nod calmly, more convinced than ever that I was stark, raving mad. I remained silent. The last flame of hope guttered and died. I knew in that moment, that no one would ever believe that I am not Claude Ashur.
Claude Ashur is my brother.
*To be completed shortly*
They have locked me in. A moment since, for what well may have been the last time. I heard the clanking of the triple bolts as they were shot into place. The door to this barren white chamber presents no extraordinary appearance, but it is plated with impenetrable steel. The executives of this Institution have gone to great pains to ensure the impossibility of escape. They know my record. They have listed me among those patients who are dangerous and "recurrently violent". I haven't contradicted them; it does no good to tell them that my violence is long since spent; that I have no longer the inclination nor the strength requisite to make yet another attempted break for freedom. They cannot understand that my freedom meant something to me only so long as there was hope of saving Gratia Thane from the horror that returned from the fresh-rotting brink of the grave to reclaim her. Now that hope is lost; there is nothing left but the welcome release of death. I can die as well in an insane asylum as elsewhere.
Today the examinations, both physical and mental, were quickly dispensed with. They were a formality; routine gone through "for the record." The doctor has left. He wasn't the man who usually examines me. I presume he is new at the Institution. He was a tiny man, fastidiously dressed, with a narrow flushed face and a vulgar diamond stickpin. There were lines of distaste and fear about his mouth from the moment he looked into the loathesome mask that is my face. Doubtless one of the white-suited attendants warned him of the particular horror of my case. I didn't resent it when he came no nearer me than necessary. Rather, I pitied the poor devil for the awkwardness of the situation; I have known men of obviously stronger stomach to stumble away from the sight of me, retching with sick terror. My name, the unholy whisperings of my story, the remembrance of the decaying, breathing half-corpse that I am, are the legendary in the winding gray halls of the Asylum. I cannot blame them for being relieved by the knowledge that they will soon shed the burden I have been--that, before long, they will consign this unhuman mass of pulsating flesh to maggots and oblivion.
Before the doctor left, he wrote something in his notebook; there would be the name; Claude Ashur. Under today's date he has written only a few all-explanatory words. "Prognosis negative. Hopefully insane. Disease in most advanced stage. Demise imminent."
Watching the slow, painful progress of his pen across the paper, I experienced one last temptation to speak. I was overwhelmed with a violent need to scream out my now familiar protest to this new man, in the desperate hope that he might believe me. The blasphemous words welled for an instant in my throat, sending forth a thick nasal sob. Quickly, the doctor glanced up, and the apprehensive loathing of his gaze told me the truth. It would do no good to speak. He was like all the rest, with their soothing voices and unbelievable smiles. He would listen to the hideous nightmare that is the story of Gratia and my brother and myself, and, in the end, he would nod calmly, more convinced than ever that I was stark, raving mad. I remained silent. The last flame of hope guttered and died. I knew in that moment, that no one would ever believe that I am not Claude Ashur.
Claude Ashur is my brother.
*To be completed shortly*