Re: The McQueen residence and Doctor's Office
While his wife made the breakfast, and his patient and the Marshal talked, Ramsey went upstairs to the bedroom, where he grabbed his wife's shawl. Looking around to make sure no one could see him, he then went to the closet and pulled out a small truck which had some of his clothes still in it: buried inside was a small, half-empty bottle of rye whiskey. His hands trembled while he held it, and sweat poured down his forehead while inside a war waged in his heart to take a much-needed drink, or to toss the damned bottle away and be done with it and all its kind forever. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he considered. Before he even knew he'd done it, the top was off and he had taken a long pull. Fire raced through him from his throat down to his feet, and a feeling of intense shame made his face blush a deep crimson red.
Why the hell had he done it? They were sure to smell it on his breath and ask questions, and his wife, well she just plain always knew. He could not vex her with his drinking, especially with what happened out on that prairie. His child had died in the womb, perhaps the only one he'll ever father, and he'd been as useless as tits on a goose when it happened. Could he have done anything if he'd been sober? Who could tell; all he knew was that when his wife needed him the most he had been useless to her. She deserved better than a worthless drunk who couldn't control his own habit. They had to move on twice because of him: he swore St. Louis would be the last time.
But it was so hard. He could hear it calling out to him, it had a voice for christ's sake, a voice in his head. He could ignore it most of the time, but sometimes, like today...
What was he going to do? He had liquor on his breath, and there would be a cloud around him, he was sure. He looked around the bedroom, then spied his wife's vanity. There were several cut crystal bottle of French-style perfume that she'd brought with her from her home when they'd married. He grabbed the nearest one and gave himself a slight puff under his chin. After thinking about it for a moment, he gave another puff to the shawl, in case anyone wondered how he'd gotten to smell like perfume.
Then, he opened the window of his bedroom, looked around the street to make sure no one was walking past, and tossed the bottle of rye away. He heard it break as it landed, and part of him wanted to slam his head into the door for doing that.
He left the bedroom and went back downstairs; but before he rejoined the Marshal and the O'Dell girl, he went to his storeroom. There he found a small jar of sarsaparilla root chews that he'd bought a week or so ago: they were very strong flavored, and should hide the whiskey on his breath, provided he didn't get too close or kiss anyone soon. He popped one into his mouth and chewed the bittersweet root quickly.
He couldn't live like this anymore. Something had to be done, but what? He'd seen an ad in the St. Louis paper, and he'd torn it out and taken it back with him to Texas. Peterson's Five Star Liquor Cure, it was called, only two dollars, and it was 'guaranteed to work', which as a doctor Ramsey knew meant 'if you're lucky, and it doesn't blind you.' Should he take a chance? What else could he do, turn himself into an asylum? Who even knew where such a place would be out here, he'd have to go back to St. Louis. He was a doctor, he should be able to cure himself, if he had any skill.
But it was complicated. No less a figure than Doctor Benjamin Rush, himself, in 1784, first considered intemperance a disease. If it was a disease, then maybe there was a cure. But church leaders always considered inebriety as a moral failing, a sin detestable to God. Ramsey was no churchy-type; he'd been brought up a Presbyter, like his father and his grandfathers before him in Scotland, but nowadays he felt more like a Universalist: he blended into whatever service was to be had at the time, and was fine with it. Ramsey tried to be a good man, he tried to be a good husband and a good doctor...but he wasn't always up to the task. he knew no man was perfect, but...shouldn't he be better? And shouldn't his wife, who was practically without blemish herself, deserve better too? And his never-to-be-born child...did he have a hand in his or her death because of his failings? What fate did he deserve in the life to come because of that failing - what fate did he deserve now?
He needed to go back; if he was gone too long his wife would suspect - and she'd be right, of course. He'd have to think about what to do later; in the meantime, he would just have to play things along and hope for a bit of luck.
he smoothed his hair back with his hands and rubbed his eyes before returning; the alcohol had done its job, nonetheless: his hands no longer shook, and the voice that pestered him in his head was quiet for now.
But in his heart, Ramsey McQueen hated himself, and wanted to crawl under a rock and die.
Hoping, but not truly expecting nobody would notice, Ramsey turned to head back downstairs...
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:44, Mon 05 Aug 2013.