Don't look at me with those eyes…
I, too, wanted to change things up a bit if I could.
It's not like I served it in its original form either.
Did I cut it?
Well, sort of.
"P-please… save me!"
For a moment, I even considered grinding it into powder.
But…
What if the potency wears off?
Sure, it's dried and crispy, but if you feel inside, there's still some moisture, right?
And that moisture—do you think it's just water?
It's cerebrospinal fluid, likely containing a weakened strain of the rabies virus.
If I were to grind it into powder and it got ruined, this patient would just end up eating a useless piece of dried dog brain. That's why I decided to give it like this.
"I'm doing this to save you, you know."
"Yesterday! You bastards said the same thing while cutting off my arm!"
"Uh, well. That was…"
Yeah, I guess they did.
They probably had even more confidence than I do now.
That guy, whoever he was, must've been the epitome of a 19th-century doctor, right?
But I'm different, okay?
Even though I'm holding you down with brute force, prying your mouth open, and shoving something inside…
This is different, I tell you.
"This is different!"
"Bullsh— Ugh! Ugh!"
It didn't really work.
He's thrashing around like he's about to die.
I'm telling you, if you eat this, you'll live…
'Will he live?'
Well, there's a chance he might not.
It might already be too late…
Or the virus might not be weakened enough…
But at this point, there's no treatment that would give him a better chance of survival than this.
"Pinch his nose."
"Okay."
With that thought, I pinched the patient's nose to cut off his breathing and shoved the piece of brain into his open mouth.
Then I covered his mouth until he swallowed.
If he can't breathe, he'll have no choice but to swallow.
Besides, even if he spits this out, it's not over.
Why?
Because the dog was pretty big.
The brain was quite large…
"Ugh… Ugh."
The patient seemed to realize this too. After glancing at the remaining pieces, he tearfully swallowed what was in his mouth.
'Good.'
If I had to feed him this three times a day, it would've been a real nightmare…
Fortunately, this brain piece is a kind of weakened vaccine.
It's meant to train the immune system to produce proper antibodies, so one dose should be enough.
Somehow, both syphilis and this treatment ended up being one-time things…
'Lucky, I guess.'
I can only call this pure luck.
If all medical treatments were this simple, everyone would be in internal medicine, right?
Considering that real internal medicine treatments are usually long and tedious, I'd say I'm pretty lucky.
Well, I guess I'm already a lucky guy for getting a second chance at life.
"Ugh… I should've just died at home."
Thinking that, a smile naturally crept onto my face, but the patient seemed to interpret it differently.
He's probably misinterpreting my intentions in the worst way possible.
I'm trying to save your life, and you'd rather die?
What kind of nonsense is that?
Though, I guess after being forced to eat a piece of dog brain, anything would seem suspicious.
"It's over now."
"My life is over."
"No, I mean the treatment is over. Let's just monitor the wound from now on."
"Uh-huh."
"Don't worry, I won't hurt you."
With that thought, I examined the patient's arm.
Even on second look, the state of his upper arm was enough to make anyone sigh.
What on earth…
Who came up with the idea of cauterizing this with a hot iron?
Even in the Middle Ages, they wouldn't have done something like this…
'Well… most of these guys don't even wash because they're afraid of syphilis…'
I heard it's because of some bizarre rumor that you can catch syphilis in public baths.
Sure, the chance is extremely low, but…
That doesn't mean no one should bathe, right?
I'd bet more people died from not washing than from syphilis.
"Let's wash it one more time."
"Okay. But it hurts."
"It'll be better than before."
"You think so?"
"I do."
With that in mind, I carefully washed the patient's wound again.
It felt a bit odd to use laughing gas for anesthesia just for this, so I went ahead without it.
Fortunately, people in this era are quite good at enduring pain. They might squirm, but they don't faint or anything.
Well, it's not like their skin is being torn off…
"Ugh… Aaaah!"
"You really have to endure this. There's no other way."
"Just… just kill me!"
"You want me to kill you? No way. After all this, I can't let you die."
"What… are you some kind of lunatic? Right?"
He said that, but in the end, I had to peel off a bit of the skin.
Why?
Because some madman had wrapped a dried-up bandage—or whatever it was—around it, and pieces of the bandage were stuck to the wound.
Calling it a "piece" is generous—it's more like foreign matter.
And not the clean kind either…
A perfect source of infection had attached itself to the burn, where the protective layer of skin was gone. Leaving it there would mean the patient would die from an infection, not rabies.
'When will I be able to teach these ignorant fools that germs exist?'
As I removed each thread with tweezers, I felt my anger rising.
To others, this might just look like thread, and they'd wonder why I'm going to such lengths.
"Hey, do you really need to remove all of it?"
"That's what I'm saying."
Like the two guys next to me.
Even they, who've started to think the world might be better off cleaner thanks to me, are saying this. What hope is there for the others?
But to me, this isn't thread—it's a breeding ground for bacteria.
Anyone who's seen what neglected clothing can do to trauma patients would never, ever leave it like this.
"Phew…"
It took a really long time.
Wow…
This is taking forever.
The fabric is such a mess, which made it worse.
They talk about the Industrial Revolution and all, but why is everything so poorly made?
It just tears apart, and the threads inside are all tangled and rough.
It's clear that medical progress isn't just about medicine—other industries need to advance too.
"Haaa…"
Of course, since this procedure involved pain, the patient was suffering more than I was.
He was completely exhausted, lying back.
Not a good sign, of course.
Antibodies…
The immunity you get from a vaccine doesn't just magically appear after you take it.
The host—the person who took it—needs to be in good condition.
'He probably hasn't had enough protein.'
When you think of Western cuisine, you think of meat, and so do I, but…
Living on meat in London during this period wasn't easy.
Most laborers were lucky to get potatoes and a bit of salted fish.
Believe it or not, many had even less than that.
'At least he'll sleep well.'
To build immunity, you need to eat well and sleep well…
But there's nothing I can do about that.
Most of the money I use comes from Alfred or Joseph's father. How am I supposed to feed the patient?
'How's the condom thing going?'
We'll have to wait until after this social season to see how Blundell and our other party enthusiasts fare.
I'm not worried about the results.
It'll work out.
Of course it will.
If people hadn't seen the benefits of condoms, would those glorious condom vending machines exist in the 21st century?
"Alright, rest now."
"Just… just go…"
With that thought, I patted the patient's shoulder and left.
I placed the dried brain and spinal cord pieces on a tray and headed to Dr. Liston's lab.
In other words, where Emily Brontë was…
*Creak.*
I knocked politely outside, but there was no answer, so I opened the door and went in. She was lying there with her eyes closed.
"What the hell?"
Was she dead?
I rushed over, but it turned out she was just asleep.
Well, rabies is a scary disease, but it doesn't progress that quickly.
She wasn't bitten near the neck, and it hadn't even been a day since the bite…
"Hmm?"
No, she wasn't just not in pain—she seemed perfectly fine.
The notes next to her showed she'd been scribbling a lot.
"Why are you looking at her doodles?"
"More importantly… isn't this Dr. Liston's paper? How could she waste it like this?"
Ignorant fools…
They're bickering over the scribbles of a literary giant.
'Idiots… They have no idea what this person will leave behind in human literary history.'
Of course, if I didn't know her name, I'd have ignored it too.
It's not like I'm some literary genius.
-*Heathcliff.*
A single word shattered my thoughts.
Heathcliff.
*Wuthering Heights…*
The protagonist of an immortal masterpiece.
"Wow…"
Was she already thinking of that name?
If this isn't genius, then what is?
By the time I came to my senses, I'd already read through all of Emily's scribbles.
Some of the sentences felt familiar, like I'd read them somewhere before.
-*Put that book away and find some work to do. You've always been a burden to me.*
This…
I'm sure I've read this in the book.
Back then, it was just words on a page, so it didn't leave much of an impression.
Well, maybe I thought it was well-written.
But seeing this small child lying here, fast asleep…
No signs of a privileged upbringing, but plenty of traces of poverty…
And having experienced firsthand how harsh this era is for the poor, especially children and girls, it hit differently.
'If I could help her…'
I'd been feeling a bit guilty about planning to live lavishly off the condom money.
It felt wrong, you know?
But facing this person, born in the wrong era yet destined to leave a mark on literary history, I felt a glimmer of hope.
'That's it. Let's make sure she can read books… and not have to endure abuse at home. Who knows how much more she could write?'