07-09-2022, 08:54 AM
(This post was last modified: 07-09-2022, 08:59 AM by Tristan Wells.)
[CW: prostitution; probably reference to child sexual exploitation; more might be added]
In private, this was where Tristan’s heart lay: attend to those most rejected by society and make their lives a little better and more humane. Perhaps it was why he had become an alienist. And it was certainly why he had responded to the call for a doctor to do consultations at the Pony. Dr. Whitaker’s example had further inspired him. But when he thought of the public eye, he dreaded it. It hadn’t been easy to start a practice in a new town and he still struggled to cover expenses. He couldn’t afford scandal and he often felt that everything he did was judged twice as harshly.
He had sneaked into the Pony via the back entrance. And then felt sort of bad for the cowardice. He was certain Dr. Whitaker didn't sneak in like this.
He didn’t like this place. The main room was exquisitely decorated, and he had to acknowledge the fine taste of whoever was responsible for it. But when he realized it served merely as a shop window for the ‘wares’, exquisite drapery turned vulgar and warm colours turned gaudy. It was a darker place than an asylum.
He had installed his temporary clinic in one of the small rooms on the ground floor, adjacent to the main room. He had just seen one of the ladies and had stressed to her the importance of using adequate protection. Now he was alone again, washing his hands. Poor lass. She had lived in terror under the late Mr. Carrington’s rule of the place, and was only slowly starting to sleep better. He very much doubted his next patient would be in a better state.
In private, this was where Tristan’s heart lay: attend to those most rejected by society and make their lives a little better and more humane. Perhaps it was why he had become an alienist. And it was certainly why he had responded to the call for a doctor to do consultations at the Pony. Dr. Whitaker’s example had further inspired him. But when he thought of the public eye, he dreaded it. It hadn’t been easy to start a practice in a new town and he still struggled to cover expenses. He couldn’t afford scandal and he often felt that everything he did was judged twice as harshly.
He had sneaked into the Pony via the back entrance. And then felt sort of bad for the cowardice. He was certain Dr. Whitaker didn't sneak in like this.
He didn’t like this place. The main room was exquisitely decorated, and he had to acknowledge the fine taste of whoever was responsible for it. But when he realized it served merely as a shop window for the ‘wares’, exquisite drapery turned vulgar and warm colours turned gaudy. It was a darker place than an asylum.
He had installed his temporary clinic in one of the small rooms on the ground floor, adjacent to the main room. He had just seen one of the ladies and had stressed to her the importance of using adequate protection. Now he was alone again, washing his hands. Poor lass. She had lived in terror under the late Mr. Carrington’s rule of the place, and was only slowly starting to sleep better. He very much doubted his next patient would be in a better state.
