Ophelia's Flowers.
Dr. Stockill / Gender Neutral Reader
Fandom: The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls.
No Spoilers.
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Ambiguous yan - can be read as platonic or romantic.
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Content Warning: Reader is gender neutral but is ‘feminine’ in appearance/attire; detailed as having long hair and wearing a dress.
Please proceed with caution if such descriptions may make you uncomfortable/dysphoric.
(If there’s anything else I need to add please let me know.)
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“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance.”
Thin herbal leaves speckled by soft purple flowers join the wreath that lies upon your head.
“Pray you, love, remember.”
The doctor’s thin lips echo the immortal words of Shakespeare, whispered under his breath. The office is eerily silent and it let you hear every syllable.
“And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts…”
Indigo and yellow petals are laid in your hair. Tucked amongst the braids woven with a tenderness unfound in this damned building.
“There’s fennel for you, and columbines.”
The Ophelia Gallery has returned. One of the asylum’s yearly ventures: a show for the masses, or perhaps a warning to all the women who are just one misstep away from being thrown in to it. Locked away for some pitifully small offence.
“There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me.”
The little yellow specks on thin green stalks are added to the adornment. Stockill’s fingertips are wrapped around the stem; placing it carefully behind your ear.
“We may call it 'herb of grace' o' Sundays.”
Dr Stockill’s spindly fingertips curl around another stem, snapping it with the swiftness of a guillotine. He slides it into his waistcoat pocket, beside the stem of wilting violets.
“- Oh, you must wear your rue with a difference.”
A pair of nails presses into the skin under your chin, while the fingers they belong to tilt your head slowly. Dark eyes scan over his work; an artist searching for a spot on his canvas to add another stroke of colour.
"There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets,"
At the mention of those flowers, your gaze darts down to the wilting purple flowers in his waistcoat.
"But they withered all when my siste-"
Your eyes flick up; meeting his abyssal stare.
He pauses, before calmly correcting himself. The alteration smooth enough for the mistake to be ignored. Yet, it did not escape your notice.
"But they withered all when my father died."
He concludes his speaking as The Mad Ophelia, the illusion of her visage shedding from his voice. In her place, the true persona of The Callous Doctor Stockill.
With the silence of the room restored, you stand from your chair, assuming that this is your cue to leave. To join your fellow inmates outside in the crude display of the Ophelia Gallery.
But you barely take a few strides before you hear-
"I did not grant you permission to leave." The doctor's stern voice cloaks the sound of your footsteps.
In an instant, you stop in your tracks. You do not have the courage to turn around; do not have the courage to meet his eyes again.
As your nervous hands twirl and twist the overgrown strands of hair on your head, one of the flowers falls to the floor. Despite its weightlessness, the thud of it hitting the wooden planks is agonising.
Internally, you curse yourself. The cursing turns to anxiety. Anxiety to panic.
Racing thoughts worsen with every step the doctor takes towards you. Until he is directly behind you. His shadow blanketing your form.
"You will not be going out there." Stockill states calmly, while his spider-like manoeuvres return the fallen flower to its rightful place.
"Why not..?" The question leaves your lips before you can think to stop it.
There is a second of stillness.
"You are in no position to ask." The doctor replies firmly. He is the superintendent of this Asylum. He does not need to justify himself to a mere patient.
But soon, he takes a breath, admission bubbling in his throat. He wishes to confess with the fervour of a sinner to a priest. The words like a river battering against a breaking dam.
"Those people out there... the weak, depraved, people of this city... they do not deserve to look upon this."
The doctor divulges, his voice is quieter than you have ever heard it. His hands place themselves upon your shoulders, slowly turning you to face him. He is puzzled by his own wish to admit this all... but he does not have the will to stop himself.
"The women would be disconcerted and disgusted by you, while the men would care only for what lay beneath your robes." He continues as the light of the room hits your skin and illuminates his work.
His expression twitches ever so slightly, in what seems to be anger. Or maybe disgust? You wonder whether that look is directed at you, the people he was describing, or himself.
"And so, you will stay here." The doctor announces, his normal volume flaring up like a violent breeze. It nearly makes you jump.
"Here?" you repeat.
"Here. In my office. Or perhaps my laboratory should I need to venture down there." Stockill clarifies, a touch of irritation is his typically vacuous tone.
"Am I understood?"
The man's question is hardly that: a question. Instead, it is an extension of his command. A rhetorical statement, demanding compliance.
And, with a small nod in response, you comply.
The doctor's hands loosen their hold on your shoulders. You hadn't realised how harshly his nails were biting into your skin; forming dents in the fabric of your dress.
"Good." Dr. Stockill comments coldly. Yet, somehow, there's a touch of approval laced within.
After taking a final glance over your features; the ghostly white dress that hangs over your figure; and the flowers laden in your hair; he lets go. The creaking noise of wooden floorboards resounds as he leaves your side.
"Now, I have to fetch some supplies from elsewhere. Necessities for my work. I will be back shortly." He informs as he straightens the cuffs on his shirt. Stockill's earlier anger and disgust are replaced by an eerie calm, like vines covering a building; hiding it away, as though it had never existed in the first place.
The hinges cry with a mouse-ish squeak as the door opens, the doctor disappearing into the asylum's labyrinth of corridors.
He leaves the door unlocked.
It lay ajar. The latch not clicked into place. A move too foolish to be made by the precise and meticulous physician.
It leaves you with one conclusion: this is a test.
The door taunts you. Tugs on your sleeves. Nags you to leave... Urges you to run from this room, to the company and sanctuary of the other inmates, far from the constricting grasp of the doctor's web...
But, despite your fear, you remain.
You sit back down upon your chair.
You adjust the petals he laid in your hair.
And you listen to the muffled sounds of the Ophelia Gallery outside.
As you wait for him to return.
Just as the doctor knew you would.
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