24 SEPTEMBER 1894 - ST. DENIS, LEMOYNE
It had been a few days since it rained, so when the skies opened up to raucous cracks of thunder, it was a surprising relief. He made it inside the medical office just in the nick of time before sheets of rain flooded the cobbled streets sending a tidal wave of shit and detritus washing downhill. To Galen, it was as close to home as anything and still a distinct step up from the slums of Whitechapel. Still, he missed it in a way. Writing to his former colleague at Pembroke gave him a sense of closeness to that life and yet emphasized the gulf between them.
He turned his attention to the needle and thread that had been stolen from the cabinet, checking the rest of the inventory for anything else missing, though he found no other adulteration. His mind drifted as he counted -- drifted to the fetid swamps of Bayou Nwa, to the haunting woods of Roanoke, to the darkened alleyways of Saint Denis' red light district. They all shared the same dark static that stood the hairs on your neck straight up and gave you the fleeting thought of far too many eyes watching you from the shadows, shadows which moved ever so unnaturally in the flicker of gas lamps or campfire light.
The country was largely still wild and unknown, ripe for study and -- more importantly -- experimentation. The potential was exhilarating. Somewhere, hidden between the annals of mythos, alchemy, and religion, and the libraries of modern science were the answers to life itself, that singular thread that would unravel the mysteries of God's greatest Work. The promise of such a discovery sent a near-sensual shudder through his core and he desired so greatly to lie down and breathe deep from his trusted opium pipe.
He stood up and went to the door and gazed out at the rain. He lit a cigarette. It was a poor substitute, but the wiser one.