17 SEPTEMBER 1894 - ST. DENIS, LEMOYNE
He put each newly-dusted vial, jar, and decanter up on the mahogany shelves with half-absent intent. There was no doubt about the precision of his inventory even with his mind wandering to far flung scientific hypotheses. He marked the final countdown on his ledger by the light of a flickering lamp.
The sun had gone down, but St. Denis was anything but asleep. Its cobbled streets lined with hissing gas lamps blazed alight forming streaming veins of lucent lifeblood in the once-abandoned city just as the painted sky had darkened and the stars were blotted out by amber-lit smog. It was as close to home as anywhere else he'd seen since departing Liverpool in 1890 on the SS Germanic, an Harland and Wolff Britannic-class steamer, and arriving in New York on a foggy All Hallow's Eve morning.
Since coming to America, he'd found himself faced with all manner of novel interaction. It had been the first time he'd met a Native of any kind, the first time he'd seen a bear, the first time he carried a longarm in city limits, and more importantly, the first time since his arrest in 1881 he'd been greeted as a physician with trust and respect. He looked up from his ledger and took in the room once more, taking a deep breath of the recently-waxed floors and astringent scent of sterilant (a new and miraculous result of germ theory). The office was alive again, and put to proper use. Its chemical heart beat with promise and potential... and, naturally, vice.
Opium - 0
He placed the empty jar on the shelf. Whatever had been left of the stuff was long since gone as soon as Galen had learned of i's existence. While incarcerated, the only thing he was free of was addiction -- it had been a miserable month, more miserable than prison or labor itself. But as soon as he was back in his neighborhood of Whitechapel, the devil was on his shoulder again. He found himself wandering into dim streets draped in oriental cloth and thick with the acrid miasma of black tar opium being languidly imbibed by similarly afflicted souls. He resisted for a while, but the lack of work possessed him. He needed work. He needed his practice again. There'd be no use continuing on like this, an aimless simulacrum of a once brilliant doctor, lest he end up a hollow shadow of himself, like the heaps of addled flesh that lined the gutters of London's underbelly.
He left his inventory where it was, dog-earing his progress and departing to take a seat on the exam chair nearby. He pulled his journal from his pocket and pencil from behind his ear.
17 September 1894
Am I such a sorry man that the memory of prison fills me equally with hope and dread? There is no night I do not dream of those fears -- equal in their dominion over me and yet in utter conflict with each other. I feel torn between two devils. I am at least grateful for the distraction of my work. The office has been cleaned up, and we are nearly done polishing the rest of the woodwork. The coldbox is still broken, but it is not of utmost need. I have found myself utterly engrossed in the works of Paul Ehrlich, of whose recent discoveries I am catching up on from the near-decade I was away. I want to test some theories of my own for internal antisepsis, though so far experiments in vivo have shown that what is toxic to germs is likewise toxic to humans.
I admit, the act of writing does encourage me to lose myself in theory more easily than not. It is better to be consumed with thoughts of science than thoughts of vice. I should write to Mrs. Lemaitre to see how she fares after the drug I gave her. The records seem positive, but I'd like to see for myself.
He closed his journal and stood back up, stretching as the first pangs of hunger hit his stomach. How long had he been here organizing? Surely since mid-day. No customer nor patient had disturbed him, and thus no one to break him free of reverie. He would leave the office, locked up tight for safekeeping, and stroll down to the market to purchase a simple stew to eat before retiring to the greatly discounted room in the Hotel Grand. It seemed they were grateful to see the medical office operational again and had given him a room for cheap until he had lodgings of his own.
Eventually he'd climb into bed and close his eyes, wishing he had a way to stop the memories from playing in his mind until sleep finally took him, and he drifted off into the surreal landscape of dreams.