out in the snow for too long - The Terror

[saxloch]

Henry didn’t know what to expect when he was invited to Mr. Goodsir’s tent. If anything, he anticipated that he would be once more examined, that he would cry in front of the man again, and that he would leave feeling vulnerable and insane. He did feel like that at all times now, however, since the diving incident. The image was burned into his eyelids and every time he tried to squeeze them shut so hard that he saw stars, it still persisted, the dark outline drifting closer and closer towards him.

He didn’t want to be prescribed another swig of something that made his head feel as numb as his hands and feet. He wanted it to stop; he wanted to stop feeling both panicked and heavy all at once.

He was not optimistic as he stepped inside the thick canvas hut, still feeling ice cold daggers cutting through the weave of the cloth and landing hard on his covered skin. Henry was tired, he was exhausted and yet he could not settle. A set of candles flickered on the table set up in the corner, one meant to hold bottles of medicine and medical utensils. Mr. Goodsir was sitting at this table, however, a book spread across its surface that he seemed deeply invested in. The candles’ flames glinted off the lenses of his spectacles, and the doctor looked, for once, at peace.

It was not a normal man’s peace, as there was always some tense air about him, but for Mr. Goodsir this was as close to pure calm as he could get under these circumstances. Henry didn’t want to disturb him – he just wanted to sit and take in the sight of him basked in warm light, completely entrenched in whatever it was that he was reading. It almost felt calming to him, seeing one of the most tightly-wound of their crew relaxing if for a brief moment. Like the hand he seemingly always felt around his throat had loosened its grip for a moment, giving him a chance to suck in a full breath.

The surgeon jolted in his seat and looked over to the entrance of the tent, petrified for a second before he spotted the dimly-lit visage of Henry Collins. Visibly, he settled, and that brought a faint smile to his ghostly face.

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