Work Text:
The asylum was never Josephs favorite place to be. The patients here threw away their lives. They lost their minds, their wits and their love of life itself.
It was easy to put himself into the staff. ‘The Hypnotist’ he was called. Controlling their minds with his watch made it so much easier.
Every picture taken, every spoken word written down with ink and quill, coming away perfect.
He was just returning from his dark room, fastening his cloak around himself when he walked past the physician's office.
Aesop Carl. He was odd, meticulous, and quiet. He didn’t much like eye contact, in Joseph's mind this was an oddity. Almost infuriatingly so.
“Doctor Carl. You’re here late.”
In the background, the faint screams of patients sounded, the electricity running through the asylum dimmed and flickered, Joseph barely looked up.
Poor, Poor Tracy.
Aesop looked up from his desk, gloves sliding over his hands and Josephs nose twitched at the faint smell of formaldehyde.
“Doctor Desaulniers.. I was just finishing up. The later it is, the easier it is for me to focus.”
Aesop's voice was flat, as methodical and cold as he was. Briefly, Joseph could imagine him being as cold and dry with his patients. Not that it bothered him.
To Joseph, the physician was the most interesting thing he’d seen in the damn asylum and he wanted more.
“If you are done, walk with me then?”
He said, extending the invitation to the male before him, yet his tone, as soft as it may be, held an undertone of something that said it was not an ask.
The physician seemed clueless as he fixed his mask, back still turned to Joseph, a movement that made Josephs jaw clench.
“No. I must get back.”
The lingering smell of formaldehyde, embalming fluid and the faintest scent of dying florals. The screams sounded again and Joseph found himself back in his own office, sifting through his photos—he’d many of the staff and patients at the asylum yet…not one of Doctor Carl.
Only blurs, half baked images, a hand or the whisper of his ponytail. The soft blend of pallid, ghostly skin or the stripes of his suit.
It was then, Joseph decided. Aesop Carl would become immortalized in his camera, whether the young man liked it, or not.
Aesop had a hobby, one he kept under wraps, hidden from the walls of the asylum.
Embalming.
It was risky business, but there was a population he could take from—those who were deathly sick. The asylum was a hospital too, for the ones in hospice, dying of terminal illnesses.
It always reeked of chemicals, medicine and underneath it all the faint, sickly sweet smell of sickness and death.
It wasn’t like he was being cruel, they were all on the path of death, one way or another. He was just there to make it peaceful. A simple drug cocktail—it was easy to get, after-all he worked with the sick, and the insane. The hysterics, the elderly, those who were sent off on other crimes.
“And in Leviticus, 18:22 states that you shall not lie with a male as with a woman ; it is an abomination.”
Aesop's steps slowed, careful now and quiet, it wasn’t rare that the asylums priest spread the church's word. Homosexuality was a sin, and even within the confines of an asylum, did the church never cease to spread gods word.
“You must repent, to be saved. The sick will no longer be so, if one simply prays, and be saved.” The priest carried on, one hand over his bible, the other clasping his rosary and there, Aesop saw it.
The workings of a sickness all of his own, the workings of self harm, just barely hidden beneath the sleeves of the priests’ robe. The act of denying life and yearning for death.
He would make the priest's journey a peaceful one.
The man's screams dulled on Aesops ears. Muffled by old leather, shoved into his mouth, it wasn’t the most pleasant but Aesop couldn’t handle the priests screaming. He eyed him with an upset expression, pulling his drug cocktail into the syringe, gently pushing the plunger down, just enough to watch the liquid drip from the tip of the needle.
“I’ve seen your pain, priest. You inflict it so flippantly onto yourself, yet blame others for your own suffering.”
Aesop said, mask pulled up, shoving the priest’s sleeves up, his scratching, marred and reddened skin on full display.
“No praying is going to save you from what you are. But I can guide you. To your eternal resting place.”
A whimper, frail and small. The man was smart enough to know he wasn’t going to get out of this alive, something Aesop internally praised.
“Close your eyes. You will be dead soon.”
And with one final exhale, the man was gone. The drugs affect the man's body easily, overtaking his system. Paralyzing, slowing and stopping. A simple process. But Aesop did not stop there. He sighed and wiped off his hands, replacing his gloves and taking off the leather straps, silencing and binding the priest to the cool, metal table.
“You’ll look human soon enough.”
Joseph didn’t like the winter. It was cold, the wind was biting, the snow was unforgiving. He yearned for a springtime day and wind that caressed the cheek like a mothers soft, doting touch. The sun that is as warm and bright as a brother's smile and a sister's curiosity.
Winter brought Joseph nothing but misery, the chilling reminder of death. Winter took hundreds every year, and not a single one of them appreciated the time they had. Not until they were sick, and their bodies were slowing down.
He looked at the missing posters plastered around the entrance of the asylum. Fading in the winter's cold rain, ink slowly drips down, smudging the poorly taken images. A reminder of what he’d done. He smiled slightly to himself, tearing down the wet pages until they were nothing but wet mush beneath his feet.
There had been a police presence at the asylum for the last few days, the asylum's priest had gone missing. All of his belongings were still at his home, they suspected foul play. This put an unfortunate pause in Joseph's activities. And if it were foul play, as the police had suspected and the poor fellow hadn’t just killed himself far from home, then there was another wolf among the sheep.
And Joseph, did not take kindly to those who encroached on his own territory. He made his way towards his office, pausing as he made his way past Doctor Aesop's office, his nose wrinkling at the smell. He glanced inside, no one there. He peered down the hallway before stepping inside, a small smirk on his lips. Perhaps this would explain the strange behavior of the physician.
His office was clean, neat, and reeked of bleach. He shut the door softly behind him, looking down at his desk. Simple, nothing much to hide, looking closely at his notes he spied the familiar handwriting, spiderweb thin and spindly. Precise, as well. On par for Aesop.
He stood at the sound of voices outside, gaze darting around before he strode to the coat closet tucked in the far corner of the large offices second ‘room’. The door opened and in walked Aesop, followed by two medical staff escorting a patient inside. He recognized the silhouette—a patient in the burn unit—suffering from a terrible fire, with two other patients. Passed, but not this one. Victor, that was his name. Victor Grantz, a mute young man.
Aesop thanked the nurses as they left, sitting down and gesturing for Victor to do as well.
He looked, tense from where Joseph hid. As if there was something he was going to do he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to.
“This is just a regular check up. Your body is recovering well despite the burns..”
A silence followed and Aesop nodded, tapping the clipboard he held in his gloved hands, showing it to Victor.
“You know I’ll have to do this.”
He said quietly, standing up and procuring a syringe from his pocket, resting a hand on Victor's shoulder. It seemed like the young man understood, hands moving in quick, almost frantic movements.
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt.”
Aesop said, his voice was..different. Still flat, and monotonous but Joseph swore he heard the soft undertone of assurance. And guilt.
He watched, unblinking as Aesop relaxed Victor on the examination table and inserted the needle into his arm.
He realized then, that it was Aesop too. He was the wolf, sinking his fangs into the lambs of Joseph's flock. Feasting on their flesh, and taking them for his own. Yet, there was no anger. Instead a fascination, a sick one as Aesop closed Victor's eyes and smoothed out his hair. It was then he turned, cold gaze on the closet.
“I know you’re there.”
Aesop turned, syringe resting on the examination table as Josephs frame emerged from his coat closet. As he stared at the hypnotist he noticed his expression. It looked…pleased. And he stood straighter, looking back down at Victors now lifeless body.
“Its you,” Joseph breathed out, chuckling softly. Aesop hadn’t the faintest idea what the man standing before him thought was so funny. He’d just been caught murdering a patient.
“He wanted to go. I just helped him.”
Aesop said, turning now to face Joseph entirely only to find himself face to face, Joseph leaning over him with a glint in his blue eyes he had not yet seen before. His skin crawled, and his eyes darted away, stomach churning.
“Did you do the same to the priest? How are you going to explain to the staff why their patient is gone?”
Joseph was calm, it was throwing Aesop off. His voice sounded like that of a wolf in sheeps skin. It sounded like the way death felt when it was at your doorstep earlier than you wanted to admit.
“I have my ways. You aren’t going to report this.”
A statement. Aesop knew, this merely confirmed his suspicions. Joseph was the reason those missing posters were up around the hospital. Joseph gave a little shrug, a small smirk tugging at the edge of his lips.
“No, but I do want something in turn, for my silence.” Aesop frowned beneath his mask, sighing softly. “What is it?” Josephs response, as mundane, only made Aesops spine straighten. “Your photograph.”
The dark room of Joseph's studio was drab, it was dark, and drenched in a red so dark, Aesop was only reminded of blood. It smelled like chemicals and the damp air was thick with moisture, and Aesop spotted multiple buckets that were the culprits of the colliding scents.
It had been two weeks since Aesop had started giving Joseph the time of day. His little model for Josephs silence. Yet the both of them knew Joseph did far worse things than just take photographs of the people whom happened to go missing.
“Why?”
Aesop asked, looking at the dozens of photos, each in different stages of development. A hum, and then an arched brow came from his counterpart, smiling down at the finished photos. Shots of Aesop sitting and modeling or photos of his hands, his office, the scalpel he used.
“Why what? Why do I kill? Not for differing reasons as yourself.”
His response was vague, and it made Aesop frown. This was irritating, he was being purposefully vague.
“Tell me, Doctor Carl, do you recognize anyone in these photos?” Joseph sat Aesop down at a table and held up multiple photos. Figures, it looked like, blocked out, a little blurred. When Aesop stared for too long it felt..odd. Like the pictures were calling out to him. He pushed the photos away gently, disregarding the irritation painted on Josephs features. “No. They’re just models.” At least, that was what he told himself.
“Are you sure? Look again.”
Aesop felt his skin crawl, it felt sinister. The way he’d turned the conversation around to something entirely different, looking more closely now at Aesop as he looked back at the images. “These are just models, what are you..getting at?”
He looked up, and the dark room was..gone. Aesop stood, looking around at the white abyss that suddenly engulfed him. Ripples scattered across the floor and he felt so..small. Like he was shrinking, there were screams that echoed. They tore through his mind like succubi in weak mens dreams. He clutched at his ears, eyes wide with a panic seen in that of prey when the beast is about to devour him.
Silence.
“Doctor Carl..?”
Josephs voice was sudden. Something Aesop clung to as he blinked, the white faded and he stared up into Josephs blue eyes and vaguely concerned expression. He smirked, he looked .. smug. As if he had won a game Aesop had no clue he was playing.
“What did you see?” Aesop could barely speak, sitting up slowly, adjusting his mask and pulling his gloves back on, hiding the red scratch marks gouged into his skin. He could only describe it with one word. “Hell,” Aesop shuddered and sat up, staring at the hypnotist as if Joseph had brought him there. “It was hell.”