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The Lamp Lighter

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The Lamp Lighter

     The washroom was cold. There was a film of frost covering the small window, clinging to the glass in a chilled whisper. It hid that word of brick and smoke, tucked away this small room from the industrial dragon of outside. Outside, where the snow was stained brown as it fell, and beaten black underfoot. And here, inside, it was cold and white, each tile on the floor an ice slew, carrying away its passengers to the quiet solitude of the frosted morning.
     But it was not entirely quiet. This small alcove was not fully alone, not entirely separate from the world. A tiny sound rhythmically perforated the emptiness, a not yet frozen clock of water, ticking away on a faucet pendulum. It was accompanied by a buzzing soloist, the humming electric bulb handing from the ceiling.
     Suddenly, sound and steam. A near boiling cascade of water tumbled from the pewter faucet handing over the lip of the smooth cream-colored tub. A thin, tall man perched on the side of the tub, his long bare feet brushing the cold floor. He watched the water as it filled the basin, his mind a million miles away.
     There was a light splashing as the man turned off the water and lowered himself into the bath. He sat in the steaming water for a moment, then, slowly, laid back. He held his breath and closed his eyes, allowing his face to be completely covered. And the world was silent.
     The man relaxed. His mind was blank, and he did not move. It was as if he was sleeping, dreamlessly.
     Yet a vision crept into his mind. At first it seemed to be a column of smoke, but it quickly solidified. Even then, it was little more then a shadow, until a sickly pale blue light illuminated it. It was a hulking shadow of a man, wrapped in a long dark coat. His head was covered by a hood, his face lost in its inky shadows. The light came from a great iron lantern in the figure’s hand. With its free hand, the figure slowly reached up, making as though to remove the heavy hood.
     The thin man in the tub sat up with a violent start. He greedily gasped for air, his pale bare chest heaving. His wet hair dripped water down his spine. The water around him had become as cold as ice.
     He pulled himself out of the tub, staggering to the mirror that hung over his sink. He stared at the reflection, searching for something. All he saw was himself, naked and wide-eyed.
     A sigh escaped his lips. On the surface, it carried relief, repentance. But only barely underneath, there was fear. He felt haunted, and truly believed he was going mad. Why else would he have forced himself underwater, waiting for that terrible spectre? That pale lantern had given him such a horrible, sickening feeling of familiarity. Just the thought of that empty hood made his heart jump.
     Yet it also raced with excitement. He wanted to peer into those inky shadows, and then run in fear. He wanted to feel like his breath and heart would stop, if only for a moment.
     Yes, he must have been mad. Why else did he long so much to jump? To fly? To plummet miles and miles down, to nearly die, only to spread wings and take flight, escaping death’s icy clutches?
     Oh, he must have been mad. Crazed, perverse, sick. Everyday, though, he accused other, far saner men of insanity. He theorized that this was really only a mask, only a way to say he was sane. But how could he claim that, when fear was his opium?
     No, he told himself, watching judgmental green eyes stare at him through his own reflection.
     No. I do this for science.
     The unspoken words were bitter on his tongue,
     He took a deep breath, leaning on the sink. He looked once more into his own eyes.  There was nothing there but shame, so he studied the rest of his face, as though in those few seconds underwater, the features he had known for a lifetime had been erased.
     Nothing had changed. He sighed once more, allowing himself a brief moment to imagine life in a different body. A strong, handsome man who was not addicted to fear. Oh, what bliss that would be. To be sane – oh, how he coveted that sanity.
     Now was not the time for idle fantasies, though. He ushered his dreams to the back of his mind, not even allowing himself another glance at the mirror. He quickly tidied up the washroom, emptying the tub and mopping up the water splashed all across the floor by his mad dash to the sink. He dried himself, muttering formulas under his breath. The helped ground him, the cool reasoning pushing the wild imaginations out of his mind.
     When he finished, he left the room light still on and faintly buzzing, and padded barefoot to his dressing-room. He rarely bothered to dress in his washroom; he lived on his own, and his upper hallway had no windows. While he may have balked at any sort of nakedness outside, in the emptiness of his own home, it did not matter to him.
     Unlike the washroom, the dressing-room was dark and warm. It was a small room with only enough space for a vanity dresser and wardrobe, and a small area to dress. Its only trappings of decoration were a coarse, dark green rug and a single, small framed photograph on the dresser. All the rooms in the three-story brownstone were like this, narrow and simple. The only difference between them was the varying amounts of books and scientific papers.
     He dressed quickly and silently. He was not a man of fashion – he did not spend much time on his personal appearance. All his suits were varying shades of brown, and many were identical.
     He chose one of his nicer suits – it was evening, nearly six, and the sun was already setting. However, he was planning on attending a seminar at the University that same evening. A few men his highly respected were to attend, and he deemed them important enough to dress well. A good first impression could very well earn him new funding.
     When he had dressed, he descended the stairs to his parlor. He had some time before the meeting, and he intended to spend it reading, brushing up on key points to make in conversation. He sat in his chair by the front bay window, and opened a physics journal, reading by oil-lantern light. He preferred not to use electric lamps for reading – the buzzing sound was too distracting.
     He was little more then halfway through an article when something even more distracting then an electric light shattered the science – a scream. The man looked up from his reading immediately, ears straining to hear, thinking he was imagining noises.
     But no – another scream pierced the night. It was louder, closer, and feminine. The man stood, leaning into the window bay, looking to the street to see where the scream was coming from.
     He soon saw the source – a young woman came running around a corner, screaming again. This time it was word, instead of just a primal noise.; help. He watched as she neared his window, her head turning from side to side and she looked at each house and begged for sanctuary.
     He was paralyzed, confused. He had never seen this girl before. She looked poor, perhaps a cockney. He, a brilliant man, had no idea what to do.
     Then she passed his window. She looked up at him, crying for help. She looked straight into his eyes, tears running down her cheeks, her face a jumble of emotions. He had never seen such fear, such sorrow, such anger. The intensity of that single look jolted him into action. He jumped away from the window, walking to his entry room in long, fast strides. He unlocked the door, throwing it open.
     The girl was still there in the street, her eyes wide. Neither of the two spoke, but they somehow understood each other. The girl gathered her skirts and ran up the short steps from the sidewalk, into the house. The thin man ushered her into the entryway and gently closed the door.
     He took a minute to study the girl. She was very plain – short and underfed, already darkly freckled, but also tan from outdoor work. Dark blonde hair fell out of her disheveled braids and into her storm-blue eyes. Her face was blotched from crying, and her abdomen heaved as she tried to catch her breath. Her clothes were simple in style and color, undecorated save for her skirt. There, in stark contrast to the dull, graying fabric, was a large red-brown stain.
     When he saw this, his brow creased. He looked back into her eyes; she was still crying.
     “Are you alright, miss…?” He asked, his tone split between concern and distrust.
     “Em-emily.” The girl said between sobs, rubbing tears from her cheeks. “Emily S-solomon, sir.”
     “Are you alright, Emily?” He asked again, in a more gentle tone, “What happened to you?”
     “Oh, sir.” Emily whispered, a hand rising to her mouth. “He… he is after me.”
     “ ‘He’? My dear girl, who on Earth on you talking about?”
     The girl took a shuddering gasp. She wrapped her arms around herself, shaking slightly. A single tear rolled off the tip of her nose.
     “Him, sir.” Her voice became so quiet, he almost could not hear her. “The Physician, sir.”
     He was stunned. He did not raise an eyebrow, his jaw did not drop. All he could do was stare at the girl. He’d heard of the Physician. The name was constantly in the newspapers; every few weeks, a girl’s body would be found in the street, her stomach cut open, organs missing. His own university had coined the name, when a pathologist had noted during a study of a victim’s corpse that the precision of the cuts could only have come from a man with medical training.
     Eventually, the scientist found his voice.
     “How do you know it was the Physician?”
     Emily’s eyes widened, and she began to cry even harder, the sobs shaking her entire body, her tears staining her dress sleeves.
     “Oh, sir,” she whispered, “I’m j-just a… a flower girl, sir. I… I w-was w-walkin’ home, sir… and I see a-a body on the st-street, so I… I go to it, sir… and it’s… it’s a girl. Her b-belly was c-cu-cut o-open… and there were blood and… things comin’ out ah her. And I lean down – to see if she’s still alive – and his m-man g-grabs me, sir. I kn-knew it w-was him, so I threw my basket at him and ran, sir. But I-I kn-know he ch-chased me…”
     At that, she shook, and fell into him. He hesitantly patted her back as she cried into his shoulder.
     “My God, you poor, brave girl.” He murmured, “You must go to the police at once! This may help the officers finally find this monster.”
     She stepped away from him at those words. “No, sir,” she whispered, gently shaking her head. “No – if I go to them, I know he’ll find out. He’ll come after me.”
     “I’m sure the police will protect you.”
     “I’m just a poor flower girl, sir. They don’t care about the likes ah me. Please, sir, please just let me stay here for… for a few minutes.”
     The poor girl, he thought, attacked, no faith in the police… What is this world coming to?
     He had barely finished this thought when he noticed a faint glow outside the door’s top-quarter window. Emily noticed it as well, turning and standing on her toes to peer outside.
     “A lamp lighter,” she murmured.
     The scientist joined her at the window, and, sure enough, there was a hooded man strolling along the street, lighting the tall gas lamps with his own hand-held lantern and a long match.
     “Thank you, sir,” Emily said, “you are a good man, helpin’ out a poor girl like me. I know that bloke,” she pointed towards the lamp-man, “he can help me get home safe.”
     “Are you sure?” He squinted, unable to see the man’s face under the hood.
     “Yes, sir. I’d know him anywhere, he’s an old friend of mine.”
     “…Alright.” He said slowly. “But if you need any help… if you decided to go to the police and need some sort of witness… I work at the university. Ask for Sam Flescher.”
     A few stray tears rolled down the girl’s face, but she smiled. “Thank you, sir. Thank you – you should be sainted.” She gave him another small, sad smile, then opened the door and slipped into the night. Sam watched the black stain on her skirt as it disappeared into the darkness.

     Emily walked quickly to the lamp lighter, entwining her arm into his. He did not seem surprised by this, only nodded under his hood.
     “Hallo, Love,” she said, her mood instantly lighter.
     “Good Evening, Miss Solomon.” The lamp man said in a deep, cold voice.
     “How’s work goin’?” She asked.
     “Busy.” He grunted, gesturing to his lamp, the flame near gone, just a small, sickly pale blue flutter.
Second part of Paper Bird! Sort of. It doesn't really come right after the first story, and it's not really necessary to have read the first part to get this one.

Anyways, I was trying some stuff out with this one. Now, I know I said I was working on a story about the character Maximilian Ansel - and I WAS. But it got waaay too long, and it wasn't really working right, so I'm going to restart that one. This story, however, started as a quick write. As it went on, I tried to see how long I could go without stating the main character's name. The first story introduced him in the first sentence, and I was wondering if I could wait to introduce him until the end. Also, I tried to make it... symmetrical, you could say. A lot of what happens in the beginning is mirrored in the end, and I think it makes for some interesting stuff. And I tried to get into Sam's head a bit more for this one. I really wanted to figure out what makes him do what he does. He's a fascinating guy, but I didn't get to touch to much on it in the first story.

Oh, and I described Sam's house a bit. A little more on that, if you're curious: He lives in a Victorian Brownstone, also known as a row house. It's a very narrow, tall type of building that shares walls with the buildings right next door (which are identical). He has three stories. Story one is the entryway (where people leave calling cards, where he can remove his shoes, etc), a small parlor, the dining room, and a very modest kitchen. Second story is his bedroom, washroom, and dressing-room (really a second bedroom, but he uses it for clothes storage because he's got too many bookshelves in his bedroom). Third story is his library and his office. The city he lives in is called Greenshire.

Emily and the Lamp Lighter popped into my head when I was working on the first story. I freaking love these two, and enjoy writing them so, soooo much. They will show back up, in future stories, I promise. Because I love them, and I like how Emily's personality bounces off of Sam's.

Here, have some more rambling. (God, I'm talkative today) Sam is 32, Emily is 18, as far as ages go. Emily and the Lamp Lighter, like Same and Kahlil, are based on two short stories from classic literature. Guess which ones they are, and you win some purdy drawings. :3
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lordcrazy22's avatar
Very good! I really enjoy reading your works. You really have a talent for writing :D