funny and i like the date based story

5 March, 1781
    The headaches are getting worse by the day. I tried reading a book but it's not helping. My patient says the headaches will stop after my first transformation -- again I was reminded why he was committed to the Institute... Institute -- HA! What a joke. Everyone knows it's an asylum. the things I see go on in this place...

9 March, 1781
    The headaches have gotten unbearably painful. The full moon is tomorrow... why am I worried? I shouldn't be worried. I am, however, worried about my patient, and with good reason. Although amiable most of the time, he is most definitely insane. He attacked a nurse when she brought him a bowl of soup... with a silver spoon! I made a note in his file that he is only to have access to wooden utensils during the time of the full moon.

10 March, 1781
    I feel different somehow. The pain has spread from my head to my entire body and I have a terrible itch. OH NO, IT'S HAPPENING!

=============================================================================================================

11 March, 1781
    I cannot believe it. My patient was right. He is not insane. He is a were-wolf. How could I have been so blind?? Why didn't i see it? WHY?? And I call myself a doctor...

        To be continued...

Last edited by scifiguy (2009-04-02 22:07:43)

I'm not sure if they had asylums in the 1700s or not, i just picked a date that was a really long time ago. i didn't bother to look up the actual date of the full moon in March of 1781 so it's probably wrong.

I know I probably should've done more research before writing this. The funny thing about this story though, is that I wrote each part literally five minutes before I posted it, I didn't even proofread it. What you're reading is pure unadulterated BS straight from my imagination. I know it would be better if I did but really, I'm too lazy... (LOL)

Last edited by scifiguy (2009-04-07 21:13:12)

13 March, 1781
     I am such an idiot. How I ever got to be a doctor is beyond me, or so I now realize. It's been three days since the full moon, and I appear to still be sane... for now. My patient tells me to be patient (somewhat ironically) and these things eventually have a way of sorting themselves out. I told him to shut up. This kind of thing is not in any medical journal, only old wives' tales that no-one actually believes. Is this what I am now, a myth? A legend? A story told to small children to make them eat their turnip (turnip is absolutely disgusting by the way, why anyone should be forced to eat it is beyond me)

15 March, 1781
     Why. Can't. I. Figure. This. Out??????? There's got to be something... somewhere about how to get rid of this. My patient  keeps telling me to stop worrying and learn to cope. He has no idea how hard it is... well, okay, maybe he does, but still! I'm buying tickets for tomorrow's cricket game, maybe that'll take my mind off of it. London lost four to six last week to Essex. Hopefully that'll take my mind off of everything, at least for a while.

16 March, 1781
     I have been thinking about writing a book, detailing what is obviously my slow descent into insanity. 'Tell me', i said to my patient, 'do you ever get the feeling that you're slowly drowning in a pool of your own insanity?' He replied 'yes, all the time.' This, of course, did nothing to calm me down, I mean, he is supposed to be insane. I know one thing, I'm going to be spending a lot of time at the Institute, whether as a doctor or an inmate remains to be seen...

17 March, 1781
     I have lost all interest in cricket, same with football, same with the paper, same with even my books. Shakespeare no longer interests me. I no longer care what is going on in the world. This sort of thing is not in any sort of medical journal. I simply cannot deal with it. I have gone through my patient's records and pronounced him sane. He will be leaving the Institute next Thursday. Oh, if only I could go with him, I'm sick of this bloody job in this bloody asylum!. It occurred to me yesterday that I never asked my patient his name. He said that his name was Harold, or used to be. He was convinced at first that he was not deserving of such a name, he was apparently suffering an extreme case of severe manic depression. Of course, he says I helped him get past that as soon as the full moon came round and he realized that he was not the only one of his kind. Yes, Harold is clearly sane, me on the other hand, I am not so sure.

18 March, 1781
     Wonderful news! Harold has asked to stay on at the Institute as an assistant. He is more than qualified for the job, but a former patient working at the very mental institution that he was released from is rather eccentric and against standard regulations. Well, (censored) the standard regulations! This is hardly a textbook case. Harold has wonderful ideas about the study of the human mind and how it works. Something he calls 'psychology' or something along those lines. I'm really not sure. He's helping me deal with my 'furry little problem' as I call it which sounds more like a badly behaved pet of some sort than Lycanthropy.



(Author's Note: I know it didn't raise or answer any questions like I promised but it's coming. Sooner or later. Really. Did anyone catch the Harry Potter reference? Next installment will have more about the patient, or Harold as he should properly be called, and his past, how he came to be in the Institute in the first place, and maybe Dr. Nameless will get a name.)

To Be Continued

the HP reference from when Lupin was talking about his days at Hogwarts (or was it a flashback?) and James "called it [his] furry little problem, which gave some people the impression that [he] owed a badly behaved rabbit"  I have an idea, it would probably end the story, but you really can't beat the irony of the situation. I'll write the next "installment" shortly.

24 March, 1781 (addition)
     I returned to my office after tea to find no sign of Harold, except for a brief letter which I will attach to this entry.

Dear Dr. V,
     I need to go away for a while and clear my head. Don't bother looking for me. You will not have any luck. I'm sorry I had to leave like this out of the blue Dr. V. I... don't know what to do right now. I'm lost. I feel obliged to tell you my reasons for leaving. I tell you this in the strictest confidence as a doctor, and as a friend. I beg of you, do not reveal this information to anybody. If they find out, I will end up back in the madhouse, far away from the people who can really help me. Far away, also, from her. V, that woman is my estranged wife, she left me after I was first turned, almost five years ago. She took the children, the house, all that I have. She was... frightened by me, even when I had my transformation under the strictest control. To see her again... and in this state... would be too painful. I am deeply sorry, my friend. If we meet again it will be far away from here. I am changing my name and moving to Germany, I know not what I will do when I get there, but I will soon find out. Goodbye, my friend. Goodbye.

Sincerely,
Harold

To Be Continued...

Last edited by scifiguy (2009-06-07 22:16:09)

(Author's Note: in case you're wondering, Harold changed his name to Karl Freud when he moved to Germany. In the timeline of this story, he turns out to be Sigmund Freud's grandfather (add however many 'greats' may be necessary, I don't have time to figure it out) )

25 March, 1781
     The patient introduced herself as Margaret and spoke in broken french until I told her that I spoke English. She seemed to relax a little after that. I told her that I understand what she's going through and that she's not alone. After three hours of silence, she finally spoke up. "That was my husband, wasn't it?" she said, "that was Harold." I did not know exactly how to reply. If only Harold were here and the situation was different, he would know exactly what to say. I stood there silently for a moment before nodding my head slowly. "Have you known him long?" she asked. I replied that I hadn't known him for very long but he helped me through a very difficult part of my life. She seemed satisfied with that. I asked her how exactly she came to be here and she related a rather tragic tale. Her voice failed her so she wrote it down in the form of a letter, which I have attached to this entry.

Dear Dr. V,
     I am about to tell you the sad story of my life from the point when I met Harold. It all started thirty years ago, I met Harold at a party. The party itself was rubbish, but we could both tell that there was something about the other. Something different. We courted for a while after that and eventually we got married. We moved into a small flat in Surrey and lived there until Harold got a job in central London and we moved so he could be closer to his job. Life was good, we always had enough food, we had a nice comfortable flat, and we had two wonderful children. Five years ago, Harold's job required him to leave town for a month and travel about the countryside. When he returned, he seemed different somehow. More animal-like. He took to going for nighttime walks around London, oftentimes not returning until well after midnight. He was also very flustered, he seemed to become more disorganized and he seemed to enjoy the drink a little more than is proper. At the end of the month, he finally revealed to me his secret, he was a werewolf. I took the children and left the very same night. We stayed at my mother's house for a good two weeks before we received a letter that said he was leaving, and that the house was ours. I know not what happened to him since, but about a week later I was woken by a loud shattering sound. At first I had assumed that we were being robbed, but this was no robber. A large gray wolf walking on two legs attacked my. It did me no serious bodily harm, but rather something much worse. Every full moon I was forced to lock myself in my room and wait the moon out. Or hope it was cloudy. For five years I managed to hide it from the children but in the last month I couldn't take it anymore. I told my friend Letty, and she sent me to a hospital straight away where I was moved from madhouse to madhouse all across Europe, and I ended up here. I regretted leaving Harold as soon as it happened, but I had no idea of where he was or how to contact him.

The night watch tell me that she cries in her sleep, occasionally screaming at the top of her lungs, "Harold, come back. I'm so sorry. Harold!"

28 March, 1781
     I've been having trouble sleeping at night. I do not know what exactly I am supposed to do. Margaret is coping much better than I expected, although she's still not speaking. The police were all over the city last night for some reason. I do wish I knew why, there might have been a murder right outside my flat, for all I know, I sleep so heavily these days. Sometimes... sometimes I get this nagging feeling, as if I'm being watched. I cannot explain it, but it simply will not go away.

Very interesting premise, scifiguy.
  I must admit the main question raised in my mind are if Harold actually turned his wife, or another werewolf took the liberty. Also, the reason for the police scouring the city may prove interesting. The answer to those questions may help to identify where to take the story next.

  I did find a few grammar issues - a few spelling anomalies along with a couple incomplete sentences - but a spell checker should catch those.

  Granted, more action or story progress would help the reader to keep interest, perhaps more detail in conflict between the protagonist and how he hides his secret. It might be difficult to do in this journal format, but it can be done.

  Even so, the story is rather interesting. The idea of following two werewolves, both tied to a certain asylum, seeking out other possible lycanthropes is along the same lines as other stories which I happen to follow. However, your premise is still unique in its setting and its storytelling technique.

  Good Job, scifiguy!