An Account of Dr. Acton Roux - Dr Roux

To understand his actions, you must first understand the circumstances that have made the Doctor who he is. Without this understanding, he is nothing more than a monster, as the vicious murderers who receive immeasurable pleasures from the sufferings of beautiful things are. However, Acton Roux achieves no pleasure in pain or death. It is life that fuels him. He must have life - prolong it and preserve it for as far as scientifically possible. His greatest success was a comtesse whose youthful radiance remained with her until her death at the age of sixty. All had said that she had died too soon. None but her husband knew her true age; and none ever would, for after her death, he would disappear. Since that period of his life, Acton had roamed the world, consumed by his need to justify the irredeemable. Few things had moved him since. And yet, some time ago, he began a series of correspondences with a young scientific mind - a woman with a rare gift. They grew closer and his interest in her research morphed into a fascination with her person. The Doctor chose all his patients carefully. He was not a man of instant decisions. No, he took the liberty of watching her. She lived alone, without anything that resembled family nearby. He diligently studied her life until all of her began to take shape for him. Dr. Acton Roux concluded that once he took her away, she would belong only to him. As he grew more in confidence, he possessed a greater need to share his true work with her. Her interest in him fueled his desire. He was not so foolish as to ignore her words. She had grown fond of him, as she would admit in a long conversation, and accepted the invitation to a masked ball as the first steps to what she presumed would be the modern courtship ritual. Roux, however, was not seeking solace in simple courtship. As the guests filled the hall, he stood studying her behind his goggles. Not any person, her family or a future husband, could wish more for her than what resided in Acton's heart. Should she have never met the doctor, she might have found love and be happily so, but all anyone could give her were things of finite quantities. She deserved much more. The beaming young woman wore a white gown that brought notice to her silken red hair. Her face, lit by her starry eyes, was hidden behind a thin beaded mask, but he already knew every angle of her visage. He planted light conversations into the air which she exchanged with beguiling laughter, and they remained in each other's company until the party had subsided. By that hour, Acton had decided that she was his. He invited her for a walk in the garden, and she readily agreed. Far from the lights and the noise of the host's ballroom, he felt that she was ready to see him relieved of his cumbersome mask. She would look upon an ordinary young man, he knew, and she would not understand why he would ever need to hide his face. Yet, she would never know that no woman in recent decades had been so desired by the man in her presence, or that she was about to transcend from the realm of Man to that of the angels. The moment she welcomed the suggestion of a night walk, he had taken permission to provide her with a crystal of crimson wine. With purpose, he led her farther into the night only after her glass was empty. As he removed his mask, she studied him without objection and smiled. Indolently, she would inhale the influence of the heady air and poison, ending her breath with a motion to kiss him. With the scent of evening roses in the air, the kiss was a mere touch. Her lips turned sharply from warm to cold as the proteins in his concoction of fermented grapes played with her heart. Short of both air and blood flow, she fell instantly into a ghostly state. This theft of consciousness, Acton did, to spare the woman of the trauma ahead. He held her tightly, but his expression soon converted from loving to that of focus. Out of the shadows came shrouded men. All had mere seconds to perform their deed. With singularity, they took her shivering form down into hidden quarters where a vat of warm liquid awaited. She must breathe this water to survive. Swiftly, they placed her on the operating table. Scissors sharply sliced through her gown, leaving bare skin ready for the placement of tubes and contraptions. Dr. Acton Roux watched without remark. His mask now replaced by a common cloth over his nose and mouth. She must be preserved, in his eyes, at great costs. The doctor worked quickly but gently. After all was done, he lowered her into the glass vessel. Small pumps forced her lungs to fill and repel the liquid. They would remain working until she breathed them on her own. As often with his patients, this did not require much time. The body's natural need to restore itself resulted in the pumps working passively within seconds. In this state, she could be safely transported to his laboratory. Once there, she would be monitored, and one by one, he would replace her organs with new cells. First would be her skin, then last, her heart. For the brain, he would not touch - he knew not how. In northern France, weeks passed with little progress as her skin cells were slowly renewed. A large change, Acton sensed, was the woman's subconscious wish to be free from the confinement. He was fond of seeing her daily through the glass, excited to prove progress. This emotion he extended during inspection, while she rested on the steel operating table, and he would whisper, "Reste, ma chérie," his voice appeased her, "You will soon be well." Yet, he was not sure of all things. The morning after a long night of rain, he came down to the room to find her no longer breathing. The pumps were active, keeping her alive, yet her body floated insensibly at the surface of the tank. Without help, the doctor removed her from the enclosure. As he carried her, she moved. Acton placed her on the table and watched her stir with the fleeting pride of an artist whose painting had been set aflame. Her waking eyes were on him. They displayed emptiness, but were still as bright as he remembered. With her breathing tube still attached to the liquids, her fluid-filled lungs silenced her. If she could speak, it would be with her eyes. The windows to her thoughts slowly shifted their concentration from his mask to the small dusty window and the streaming light above. Fixed on the light, she ceased to move. In that second, Acton understood that his patient had died. Her corpse remained on the table, and the lost doctor stood above her. The cruel beast and a lifeless beauty, no greater contrast may exist in one spot. Removing his mask, Acton brought himself to the floor, and while his cloaked servants awaited outside, he sobbed for the first and last time in many years.