Why do I even try. I just want to live without needing a crutch like this keeping me going on. That’s all.
I was doing good. For two weeks, I didn’t even look at this blog. Not even when I got an email saying my post had been commented on. And the black box with all of Elizabeth’s things had been untouched since I put it back in the attic. I’ll admit that sometimes I was curious about the rest of her journal (I hadn’t read much further than I’d posted) but I never acted on that curiosity.
Then my old boss from the library called me this morning.
Hated how smug he sounded. I think he was trying to act kind and forgiving, but missed the mark. Just made him come out as an even bigger jerk.
He told me that if I reconsidered his “offer”, he’d be willing to think about giving me my job back. I said no. Along with… a lot of other things that I won’t be repeating here. Then I hung up before he could start shouting at me. He called again right afterward…. And then again and again, for two hours. I hid under my bed sheets and tried to ignore the ringing.
I needed something to help me after that…. So I went back to the attic, unlocked the chest, and read the first letter I picked up. The handwriting was terrible, the spelling and grammar equally so. But that didn’t matter to me. It was from a woman, thanking Elizabeth for saving her son’s life. I…. I wish I could be the type of person who could go out and save others. The sort of person who people call a hero. But I’m not. And I never will be.
Read her journal next. Even her prose is so much more confident than I am…. Just reading it didn’t feel as though it was enough. If others read it…. Maybe it would feel more real. I wouldn’t be the only one carrying her stories in my head…. I hope the other people don’t start posting here again…. If they do…. Maybe I can just ignore it…. Pretend it isn’t there….
Been spending too long sitting around. Peace is nice, but I have things which I need to do. Can’t let myself get complacent in it. Went out one morning before sunrise, and found the streets to be deserted. Even that early, it was strange to not see a single person around. Only birds; hundreds of black birds, silhouetted by the gray twilight, along the rooftops. All faced towards me, eyes drilling through my skull. No movement, no sound, just those eyes, staring. Then, the tip of the sun came over the horizon, and the birds scattered.
It was a reminder. Couldn’t idle around forever. Had to get back to work. Letters had been sent out, but it would take time for them to reach their recipients. Using a telegraph barely sped things up; the closest telegraph line was too far away. Any messages had to first be mailed to them before they could send the telegraph.
But there were other things I could do as I waited. I doubted that New Mexico would have huge resources of the information I was looking for, but I had to give it at least a quick look around. Hard to make inquiries while avoiding the topic of what you’re inquiring about. Closest I got to a lead was from Dorian, who told me about a Doctor K. Jeter in Albuquerque. Apparently considered to be the most knowledgeable man in the city; I assumed that if I was fortunate, that would means he’d have at least a passing familiarity with some of the more esoteric theories I needed facts on.
Dorian took me into the city to meet with the doctor. Acted like he would have rather played tour guide for me around the place, but I kept him focusing on the task at hand. Can’t say I wanted to stay in the city any longer than I had to. Too many corners and alleys; kept looking into every shadow for any glimpse of movement. Put me on edge; I might have snapped a few times at Dorian. I should probably apologize to him for that…. Maybe tomorrow.
The doctor’s place didn’t look anything like the clinic I’d been expecting; later I would learn that “Doctor” was a term of respect coined by the locals for his intelligence rather than an official title. The interior was even less clinical in its appearance: seemingly random pieces of machinery were lying half disassembled on the floor, blueprints and plans were nailed to the walls (including a few replica Da Vinci plans I recognized), as well as several neatly organized bookshelves. The doctor was in the middle of it all, tinkering with some device filled with gears. Dorian got his attention with a loud “Hello!”, and when he looked up from his work and saw us, the doctor greeted him with warmth. Unlike his home, the man is exactly as I imagined he’d be: wild and grey hair, wrinkles on the face, and a near constant manic expression, only emphasized by the eccentric gestures he would make while talking. When Dorian introduced us, the first thing the doctor said to me was a comment on my manner of speech. Not uncommon; most people I speak with at least refer to how different I sound from them. But this man was the first not to buy my “It’s just my East Coaster accent” excuse. Apparently that line doesn’t work on people who have been to the east. Brief moment of panic, as I listened to him pointing out how my style of speech was foreign from any English (or any other language) he’d heard before, including the use of words and metaphors no one, even easterners, used. Thankfully he didn’t press the issue, quickly changing the subject mid sentence so he could ask Dorian a question about what he’d been doing in the months since they’d last met. Saved by the man’s short attention span.
I soon learned that having a conversation with the doctor is like trying to catch a rabbit with your bare hands. Just as you think you’ve got a hold of it, it’s suddenly darting off in a new direction. It was only thanks to Dorian being experienced at communicating with him that I was able to keep a handle on our conversation. In between his ravings about a beautiful sunrise he saw last week which just had to be captured in a painting and a monologue on some of his ideas to increase the efficiency of the railroad line going through Albuquerque by 15%, I was able to edge in a few questions. First, I learned that he is perfectly content with being called “Doc”, which is what I shall refer to him from now on. Secondly, my hopes to use him as a source of information proved fruitless, as the moment I began to enquire in a relevant direction, he shot down all ideas with labels of “pointless superstition which can be discarded in this new age of science”. Bit of a downer, that. But that doesn’t mean Doc has no use to me. He’s an extremely talented inventor; talking about his little creations, or his plans for future ones, is the only topic I’ve found which he can stay focused on for more than a minute. We must have spent over an hour discussing technical matters, from the merits of steam power to the potential uses of clockwork. Poor Dorian must have felt completely lost by our talk, as he was quickly relegated to quietly smiling and nodding as Doc and I discussed matters far above his head. There were a few plans Doc mentioned with interested me; he called them “infeasible fancies”, but after some talking, I convinced him to attempt to construct working versions of them. Which means I may soon come into the possession of a few nifty toys.
Didn’t want to leave, but the day was growing late. Look forward to seeing Doc again; maybe that time, I’ll let Dorian give me the tour of the city.
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