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The asylum was a prison, truly. Renfield had never felt more trapped.
The refusal of his request — to be discharged, released at once — weighed heavy on his chest and made his shallow breaths even more painful. Despite his best efforts, he could not steady his shaking hands and clenched them tightly into fists. He felt untethered from the world around him, hanging in suspension, waiting for the horrible things that were to come — waiting for the horrors he could not prevent.
Moonlight was streaming through the window, illuminating the desk faintly. On it lay the paper he had wanted to pen his confessions on, torn apart by the pressure of his own quill. It was a futile idea, but Renfield had wanted to try it regardless. Helplessness surrounded him like a cloak when it failed, and the quiet resignation to his fate he still desperately fought against was enough to make him want to scream into the silent night.
It was not his fault anymore! He had tried warning them. He had done all he could, useless as he was in here, like a rat in a cage, to be ogled and probed at Dr. Seward’s liking as if he was nothing more than an experiment to him. He had tried warning them!
Renfield had poured what was left of his soul into his plea for release, basing his arguments on indisputable logic, striking the appearance of a sane, respectable gentleman in manner and speech. It should have worked! And even when he did not succeed by his first line of reasoning, with dignity and poise, it should have worked when he flung himself to the floor at the Doctor’s feet, imploring him, begging the man who had tormented him so for the past months, with tears streaming down his face.
At the very least, the good Doctor should have caught it when he invoked Lucy — ‘by your love that is lost,’ he had said — but somehow even that did not register clearly in his mind or was unable to pierce the cold, stone fortress that his heart had become.
His stern refusal of Renfield’s one most pressing request made an icy chill run through him that was usually reserved for his Master. Their similarities were striking.
The thought of Dracula made Renfield shiver, cold terror gripping him anew. He was devoted — of course, he was — but his reverence was accompanied by sharp, stinging fear and whispers of doubt that, although faint, had never left him.
His Master was unyielding and set on attaining his wishes no matter the circumstances. His expectations were high. Renfield did not dare think about what would happen, what Dracula would do to him if he failed in his duties to him. It was hopeless to placate him, and impossible to escape his fury.
In the end, the adoration, the reverence, the love Renfield offered him was inconsequential to his Master — his heart squeezed painfully at the knowledge, a wet shimmer of tears accumulated in his eyes again at the thought — and returned only in the most wretched form. Renfield was a servant for Dracula, one he would dispose of without a second thought once he got what he wanted, and return him to his freedom utterly void — both of life and soul.
As would happen to the Harkers, one marked by and the other having caught the interest of his Master.
Ultimately, it would be Renfield’s fault when it happened, for he had let him in, giving him the chance to gauge his hunger for his preferred victims. Renfield would be responsible, no matter how hard he tried to place the blame on Seward for denying his request, when sweet, kind Mrs. Mina Harker was drained of life.
He could picture her pale face perfectly, the closed eyes and pale lips — the countenance of a dead woman; one who had been so very courteous to him and treated him with the first ounce of kindness he had been given in such a long time.
Renfield sobbed, gasping breaths escaping him in the stillness of night. Leaping up from his bed, he ran with unsteady legs to the locked door of his room and began pounding on it. “Attendant!” he screamed, sure his yell would be heard by the man undoubtedly dozing on the other end of the hall, “Attendant!”
Footsteps rushed towards him. Renfield ceased his pounding as the door opened, a wide-eyed and slightly disheveled attendant staring at him in mild alarm. “What is it? What has happened?” the man said in a rush, looking around the room and then at Renfield, ascertaining that the patient was not hurt or in any danger.
“I request to talk with Doctor Seward,” Renfield said immediately. The urgency in his voice made the attendant nod at once, and he was in the motion of turning away from the door to fetch the Doctor when he frowned as if only then understanding the circumstances he was in.
Taking a deep breath, he answered, “It is the middle of the night, Mr. Renfield. Surely this can wait until morning, don’t you think?”
“I assure you,” Renfield began, placing his shaking hands on the doorframe to steady himself, “I promise you, it is a matter of great importance. I implore you, I beseech you— Doctor Seward is an insomniac. He will still be awake at this late hour, I promise you that. It is a small thing for you to do to convey my request, nay, my need! I have to speak to him. It is a matter of life and death, man, can’t you understand?”
“Mr. Renfield—”
“Please!” Renfield cried, “I beg of you.”
The attendant frowned again, this time with something akin to compassion, or pity perhaps, at the tears of desperation silently making their way down Renfield’s face. It did not matter, for he turned with the whispered reassurance that he would be back presently with Doctor Seward and that Renfield should calm himself while he notified the Doctor.
With a shuddering breath, Renfield looked at the darkness beyond his closed window. The image of Mrs. Harker’s lifeless body had spurred him on to action, in a futile attempt to avoid the inevitable. If he could only warn them of the danger that was to come! Why was he cursed to maintain his silence?
“Renfield!” Seward’s voice was sharp as usual, and yet exhaustion clung to his tone and the air around him when he stepped into Renfield’s room, closing the door behind him softly. “Whatever is the meaning of this?”
The spectacles on his face were slightly askew and his hair a mess, making Renfield wonder if his call perhaps had woken him from a bout of sleep at his desk. Seward worked himself into a stupor for his asylum but held no sympathy, no care for the people entrusted to him. His patients were nothing but scientific objects to him. Seward had pushed their humanity out of sight during their treatment, turning himself into a detached professional who lost sleep over their general well-being without caring if they were truly well .
“Doctor,” Renfield began, giving him what he hoped would be a grateful smile, “thank you for coming. I must speak to you of” — ‘my Master’s plan,’ he wanted to say, but the words were stuck in his throat, choking him — “of important matters.” He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and resumed, “I trust you have not forgotten my request, nor the vigor with which I have brought it forth. It is very important, Doctor, grave ly important that I leave this asylum, this house, at once.”
Seward looked wholly unconvinced and, sighing deeply, adjusted his spectacles, as if about to descend into one of his long-winding monologues to justify his decisions.
“There are lives at stake,” Renfield rushed out, willing Seward to understand, “your friends, the H—” he choked, feeling a phantom pain squeezing his throat, “danger, Doctor! Here, they are—” Not protected. I have let him in. “My Master, I—” cannot disobey him. “Not alive, Doctor! They will not be alive!”
“What nonsense are you saying, Renfield?” Seward eyed him quizzically, cocking his head. The gravity of the situation had not dawned on him. He did not believe him.
Renfield started shaking harder, the trembling of his hands now so pronounced that even Seward’s eyes flickered toward them. He narrowed them in confusion, but Renfield did not care about the Doctor’s curiosity now. He could hardly think through the panic taking hold of his mind. The heart in his chest felt like it wanted to tear itself free. The rushing of blood in his ears drowned out everything else.
“I need you to listen!” Renfield hissed frantically, taking a few quick, unsteady steps toward Seward.
The Doctor flinched back immediately, slamming his back against the wall in his haste to put as much space as possible between himself and Renfield. His hand shot up to his chest, eyes widening when he realized his whistle was not on a chain around his neck.
Renfield stilled as soon as he recognized the fear in Seward’s eyes. Raising his hands slowly in a placating motion he said quickly, “I apologize.” Then, with more composure and every bit of sincerity he had, “My excitement got the better of me, I apologize, Doctor Seward. I did not mean to frighten you.” His heart was still beating painfully hard in his chest, his lungs not cooperating to take in a deep breath of air.
Clearing his throat, Seward pushed himself off the wall and looked at him. “I will not and I cannot grant you your request, Renfield. I thought I had made that abundantly clear already.”
The room started to constrict around him. There was no air to breathe and the floor seemed pulled out from under his feet. Existence was spinning and suddenly Renfield was falling, falling untethered into an abyss.
“Come now, Doctor,” Renfield said in a light tone, concealing the all-consuming panic rising in his chest. The longer he talked, the more the sharp edge of desperation made itself known in his voice. Madness. Now he knew it came from the devouring feeling of helplessness within him. “Come now, come now. I beg you to reconsider!”
Seward frowned. The clear, cold eyes behind his spectacles narrowed, and as his collected, aloof gaze met Renfield’s beseeching one, the latter could swear he could read the Doctor’s answer ‘then beg’ in the dim glint of his eyes.
Without another word, Seward turned and left, leaving Renfield in the silence of the moonlit night. He would not be alone for long.