Snowy Night Campfire (III)

Silence hung over the room. The ripples in the teacup reflected Victor’s heavy breathing. Cobblepot merely mechanically raised the cup and poured water into his mouth, heedless of whether the freshly boiled water might scald him.

"When she was mentally ill, she could hurt you without restraint, because she didn’t know who you were, and she didn’t know who she was herself."

"But when she became a mother again, no mother could accept everything she had done…"

"Maybe she always wanted me to leave." Cobblepot’s tone turned numb. "When she had an episode, she threw everything she could lift at me and told me to get out…"

"But I can’t leave. I can’t leave her." Cobblepot’s voice began trembling again. "No matter what, I can’t leave her. She’s my mother."

Victor closed his eyes. Heavy exhalations came through his nose and mouth. Schiller also sighed softly and said, "When I prescribed your medication before, I suggested that you move into a new apartment. A change of environment would help the patient begin a new stage of treatment and recovery."

Cobblepot shook his head. Tears glittered faintly in the dim light with the motion. "She doesn’t want to leave."

"Why not?"

Cobblepot gripped the cup so tightly that veins stood out on the back of his hand.

"Because of my father."

"According to my mother, she met my father on this street. My father brought her here to meet his family. They ate dinner together, drank sweet wine, chatted beside the fireplace…"

"My uncle sang while everyone else laughed and urged them to dance…"

With that slightly hoarse voice, the firelight in the fireplace rose. Figures gathered merrily around the sofa. Some brought wine, some carried over fruit platters, and when a little folk tune began, everyone clapped along.

A young man and woman stepped into the center of the room and began to dance, their clothes swirling. When the song ended, they held hands and received their family’s praise and blessings, then entered the church hand in hand as well.

Until one of those hands touched the name on a gravestone, and in the cold, rainy night, only a madwoman remained, spinning through that dark, decaying old house, with only the rain singing for her.

"After my father died, my mother blamed it all on him not bringing an umbrella that rainy night. So she would often turn the entire house upside down, trying to find an umbrella."

"But if I actually gave her one, she’d scream and curse as she smashed it with a chair. She said it was cursed. She said we were all cursed…"

"I can’t even remember how long things have been like this…"

"At first, she would drag me along and tell me stories about them all night long. Later, every night, she’d sit silently in the corner of the living room, rummaging through that cabinet she had already emptied countless times…"

"Whenever I tried to stop her, she’d attack me. Later on, the moment I returned to that house, she’d tell me to get out…"

"When she gradually started coming to her senses, I was happy. I thought those days were going to end, but I never expected…"

Cobblepot covered his face with both hands, his shoulders trembling constantly. The sound of sobbing when one could no longer even cry out sounded more like the cry of an owl; in such a heavy atmosphere, it was absurd enough to make one laugh.

And just like that, dawn came. A shriller phone rang, and Schiller picked it up. "Is that so? She’s awake?… All right, we’ll be right there…"

When they left the Cobblepot house, the sun was rising over the horizon. The rain that had fallen all night had filled the air with thick moisture, made even colder by the morning wind. Breathing it into their lungs felt like swallowing chunks of ice.

The car headed for the hospital. By the time the three got out, Gordon had already come outside. Somewhat helplessly, he said, "Get in there. She’s causing quite a scene."

After going upstairs, before they even entered the ward, they saw a nurse standing outside the door, holding an IV bottle in one hand and the tubing and needle in the other. The needle was covered in blood. Another, older nurse was about to go in when Victor stopped them and asked, "What happened?"

The younger nurse sighed. "The lady woke up and pulled out every IV needle in her hand. She lost a lot of blood, and she even used the IV stand to hit people. None of us dare go near her."

The older nurse peered inside and said, "We need to restrain her quickly. Her hand is still bleeding. If the wound opens up again, it’ll be even harder to deal with."

At that moment, footsteps came from the nearby stairwell. Brand arrived with a group of nurses and waved a hand. "Sedate her."

Inside, Old Man Cobblepot’s wife seemed possessed by madness. No matter who approached, she snarled and tried to attack.

Fortunately, she was an elderly woman who had also lost a great deal of blood, so she had little strength left. She was quickly restrained. Once the sedative took effect, she quieted down and lay on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Cobblepot walked in front, with Victor and Schiller following behind. Cobblepot came to his mother’s bedside. Old Mrs. Cobblepot rolled her eyes toward her son, and Cobblepot saw guilt and pleading appear on his mother’s aged face.

"Why are you stopping me… Orr…" Her dry voice came from her throat. Cobblepot’s Adam’s apple trembled, and he was unable to answer.

"I don’t want to stay here anymore… I can’t keep doing that. Don’t stop me…" Old Mrs. Cobblepot began to tremble all over, but she could not move, only remain rigidly where she was.

Schiller suddenly gave Cobblepot a shove and said in a low voice, "Show your mother your arm."

Cobblepot turned back in confusion. Victor also looked at Schiller, but under Schiller’s gaze, Cobblepot still extended his arm and rolled up his sleeve.

His arm was thin and bony, his skin rough, and his complexion carried an unhealthy pallor, but there was not a single wound on it.

Schiller stood beside the bed and told Old Mrs. Cobblepot, "Ma’am, you have catatonic schizophrenia. During your episodes, you imagined that you attacked your son, but we gave you medication, and now you’re awake."

Old Mrs. Cobblepot froze. She seized her son’s wrist with clawlike fingers, then struggled to turn over and used her other hand to stroke Cobblepot’s arm.

It truly was smooth, without even a scar left behind. The lizard-serum healing agent Connors had made did not merely treat external injuries; it could even completely heal the scars wounds left behind.

Cobblepot felt his mother’s arm begin to tremble, then heard her muffled sobs. He did not know whether they came from guilt or relief.

"Mom didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want to do that…"

"You didn’t." Schiller’s tone was so certain that it was as though he was not lying at all. Even Victor rubbed his eyes, wondering whether the Cobblepot he had seen before, covered in wounds, had been an illusion.

"Yes…" Cobblepot took his mother’s hand. "It was all imagination. It’s because you didn’t take your medicine on time, Mom. As long as you receive treatment at the hospital and take your medicine, nothing like this will happen…"

Old Mrs. Cobblepot was already sobbing so hard she could barely catch her breath. Brand sighed from outside the door. "You should leave for now. The patient needs rest."

Old Mrs. Cobblepot clutched her son’s hand tightly. Cobblepot could not leave, so only Schiller and Victor came to the ward door.

Morning sunlight streamed through the window. The doorframe became a picture frame, with Schiller and Victor standing against a golden backdrop.

Victor touched his lips with his fingers. Schiller saw his fingertips trembling. When the emotions he had bottled up all night erupted, the professor, normally so gentle and steady, looked close to breaking down.

His gaze even began to lose focus, as though countless terrifying visions were haunting him.

"If Nora dies…" Victor’s voice sounded like a bowstring snapping. He looked to Schiller with the eyes of someone begging for help. "…Will I go mad like this too?"

Schiller could not give him that answer, because before him stood a living, breathing person—his patient—not some character from a comic or a movie.

His familiarity with the story and the Oracle’s foresight brought him none of the superiority a transmigrator ought to have enjoyed. They brought only deeper sorrow.

Everyone in this world had their own tragedy. No single answer could be the sole solution to tragedy, and therefore, there was no savior.

In Gotham, some performed tragedies, some performed comedies, some laughed madly at tragedies, and some wept over comedies. Some cried while laughing, while others laughed while crying.

No one could make everyone cry, and no one could make everyone laugh. Not even transmigrators or prophets could do that.

This was Gotham, a city that could not be saved.

The golden backdrop within the frame was about to spill over. Suddenly, Victor turned with a shudder, hurried back into the ward, and stared straight at Cobblepot. "Come with me, Cobblepot… Come with me!"

Victor dragged Cobblepot away from the bedside and out of the hospital. The morning light swallowed their figures. At some point, Schiller, who had been standing by the door, had disappeared as well.

Back in the laboratory, Victor swiftly took off his coat, still covered in dampness, and tossed it aside.

He patted Cobblepot’s back, pushed him inside, then walked to the laboratory bench and turned to face him.

Victor seemed to have lost his usual refinement and gentleness. Under the laboratory’s cold-toned lighting, his face looked somewhat neurotic, and somewhat mad.

"Cobblepot…"

Victor looked into Cobblepot’s eyes. Within them was a tenderness, expectation, and obsession that Cobblepot could not understand.

It did not look like a teacher looking at a student. It looked more like a father looking at his son—or rather, like someone saved from tragedy looking toward another tragedy, like one traveler looking toward another across an endless snowy plain.

Then Cobblepot heard Victor ask:

"Cobblepot… do you know how water turns into ice?"

Someone couldn’t laugh anymore. I won’t say who.