Plotted starter for @blindingempathy
“Unhand me, do you have any idea who I am? I’m William Cavendish, the Earl of Cornwall!”
“I’M THE KING OF SPAIN! I’M THE KING OF SPAIN! I’M THE KING OF SPAIN! I’M THE KING OF SPAIN!”
As the man in the next room is triggered by William’s outraged outburst, predictably the guards swiftly exit to deal with the reprobate, who, William realises, as his nose begins to wrinkle, has just began throwing his own faeces through the bars of his door. At least the men here are separated by thick walls, William has heard that the women here are herded together like wild cats and kept in communal groups, held at close quarters.
Sitting back down on the hard slab of concrete they seemingly consider fit to be a bed, that is covered in a thin blanket so worn and dirty it isn’t fit for a dog, Cavendish runs his hands through what remains of his hair, shaved significantly shorter at one side it seems. Hissing air through his teeth as he encounters some badly broken skin near his temple, he sighs heavily as he hears his door being locked, an indication that he will remain in his cell for the rest of the day. With stark resignation, he endeavours to plead his case again tomorrow, despite the punishment that may ensue as a result.
It has taken three full days to piece together his ordeal, though some fragments of memory still remain painfully far from his grasp; robbed by a strong cocktail of opium and laudanum. He vividly remembers arriving at the docks in Chicago after three weeks at sea, having travelled to visit his cousin Robert, who had written to him detailing a lucrative sounding business proposition. Upon arrival however, had found no sigh of the Robert, nor any record of him at the port office his letter had identified and so, William had endeavoured to stay by the docks in a small guesthouse for the week, hoping to meet with his cousin soon.
The opium den Cavendish had found himself in, certainly wasn’t to his usual standard in London, but it had sufficed to pass the time, thought it had presented them with the perfect opportunity for abduction. It was there they had snatched him, striking him hard across the head before dragging his dazed body into a waiting coach. In truth, William has no idea how long they travelled for, though he does remember them removing his clothes and finery, his necklace and rings, leaving him in nothing but a thin night shirt and woollen socks. With a dry razor they had cut and hacked at his hair, though admittedly, after being plied with laudanum, he remained too inebriated to fight them off.
His arrival at Arkham Asylum, a place he has now learned houses the criminally insane, was in the dead of night, transferred surreptitiously to a cell under a cloak of darkness and heavy rain. The physician he spoke to on the night of his arrival, who handed him his uniform, addressed him as William Taylor before confirming his transfer from another prison, one William had never heard of. The life they continue to recount to him, of an English expat, living in Chicago, who brutally murdered his brother, wife and two children, is not his own and yet they firmly insist that it is, insisting too that William Cavendish, is merely an alter-ego he has invented as the result of a psychological break, one brought on by the horrific nature of his crimes and his desire to separate himself from them.
What William does not know however, is that his transfer papers are forged and the real William Taylor lies drowned at the bottom of the Chicago River. The letter from his cousin Robert, too, is also forgery, for William’s cousin left Chicago to travel South to Africa over 3 months ago. Both crimes are acts belonging to a carefully orchestrated plot, enacted by men employed by Cavendish’s long estranged wife, Catherine.
Unbeknownst to William, his name has been retrospectively added to a ship’s manifest as passenger, the document relating to a ship bound for Chicago that has already sank, enough evidence for his wife to prove his death and claim her inheritance, while Cavendish is left across the sea, to rot in Arkham for another man’s crimes. William may not know the exact details of this plot so foul, but given the nature of his journey to the asylum, he does know corruption is definitely afoot.
With his head bowed, cradled deeply in his hands, he looks up to witness a woman at his door, carrying what seems to be a bowl of food.
