The Pitcher

PATIENT ADMISSION FORM

Patient Name: Juliette Genevive Watts-Cian

Patient Birthdate: 11 June 1869

Patient Admission Date: 28 January 1892

Mode Of Admission:

             ☑ Voluntary     ☐ Criminal Court Order     ☐ Transferral of Institution

Reason For Admission: 

             ☑ Egotism                       ☐ Immoral Living                       ☐ Involuntary Fits 

             ☑ Women Troubles         ☐ Religious Excitement             ☐ Opium Habituation

             ☐ Exposure In Military     ☑ Superstition                           ☑ Brain Injury

             ☐ Political Charisma        ☑ Self Abuse                            ☐ Abandoned By Husband

             ☐ Excessive Reading      ☐ Business Anxiety                  ☐ Intemperance

Description Of Patient’s Behavior:

Mrs. Watts states that, over a period of three years, she has been plagued by a china cream pitcher. The object has been turned in along with his wife and a statement by Mr. George Jamison Watts, and can only be described as unassuming, measuring five inches tall with a floral pattern along the side and silver trim. The china creamer was gifted to the couple in a large dinner set by a Mrs. Mariana Cian, Mrs. Watt’s godmother. A statement cannot be procured from Mrs. Cian as she passed away in 1870, and the china dinner set was held in the will until the couple’s marriage 11 October 1889. According to limited diary entries from Mrs. Watts and the testimony of her husband, beginning in 1894, the addiction, aversion, worship, and hatred towards this china creamer began and grew in fervor, shifting from weeks of favoritism to a change in routine, all the way to placing it in an unused guest room and being found beside it, with her blood wiped over the design and around the table. 

Attending Physician And Ward Assignment

Dr. H.K McCrakken - Ward 2

STATEMENT OF MR. GEORGE JAMISON WATTS 

She was a perfectly ordinary girl when we first met. She worked at the milliner's shop on Westbank Street, and when I went with my mother to the establishment, she caught my eye immediately. It’s foolish to say that was when my fancies were connected directly to her, but it would be equally foolish to say that I wasn’t convinced we’d be married. I visited with no explanation for the following weeks until she assented to walking with me during her lunch hour. Months passed, we began our courtship, and before long I was watching her walk down the aisle. 

That was the last happy day of my life. It is cruel to say her delusional mindset was the reason our marriage is no longer what I wished for, and crueler still to deny it. I was never extremely favorable towards her family, as my mother stated early on what inferior birth she had. My mother is old fashioned, to be certain, yet I couldn’t disagree with her. It took a lot of training, tiring outings, and long conversations to mold Julliette into the woman I knew she could be, the woman I knew Mother would allow me to marry. That said, I could not similarly train the rest of her family. When her batty Uncle Ferdinand stumbled to us after the ceremony, smelling of brandy and too much cheap cologne, something told me that it was the beginning of the end. He told my wife that “the china is yours”. You would have thought that China itself had been promised to her, the way she squealed and prattled on about it. But by the time we had returned from our unremarkable honeymoon and had settled into our new townhouse, I had all but forgotten about it. 

That is until I returned home to a large wooden crate sitting on the kitchen table. Sawdust and curled papers were strewn about the kitchen and in the deep ebony cupboards, I could see a line of dishes, all with the same painted design. I will admit, they are very pretty, the curling green vines and soft blue and yellow petals opening on a background of white, but it was certainly surprising. I asked my wife where they had come from, and she, absolutely giddy, began going on and on about her Aunt Marianna. From what I could glean, she was the late wife of Uncle Ferdinand, an avid traveller, and a collector of beautiful items. This inconspicuous china set was a coveted heirloom in the Cian family, and had been promised to my wife in her aunt's will, something that had not been revealed until that day at the wedding. I began sweeping up the packaging mess, growing uncomfortable with the state of the kitchen. In the passing weeks, we used the plates sparingly, though my wife insisted that we use them when company called. I received a hefty promotion at work and hired a maid; good thing I did too, my wife was beginning to lose interest in housework. 

All to a cream pitcher. My life had become revolutionary to a serving item. She took interest in it almost immediately. It was displayed on the table, not in the cupboard. In time, she moved it to the credenza in the hall, so when I came home the first sight that greeted me was the awful thing, wreathed with holly in the winter and fenced by flowers in the summer. I could see she appreciated the thing, but I am ashamed to say I did not know the gravity of such an obsession that Juliette was forming. 

I know only the end. I know of my wife’s steadily increasing distance to me, elevated arguments, separate bedrooms, my eventual infidelity, her eventual accident. She sealed herself into the guest room last fall. She began wearing long gloves and veils, eyes downcast and feet treading like she was walking to the gallows, or to receive communion. She would come out to eat in silence and then return. At first, the maid said she must have found God. She saw something in that pitcher, but it couldn’t have been any God who had love in his heart. I begged her to see sense, to see a doctor, to see how she was acting. She simply stared at me until I was finished speaking, then returned to her room. I could hear a myriad of latches closing once the door clicked shut.

I gave up. I wanted nothing to do with her. My mother wouldn’t let me leave her, it would destroy our reputation. I refused to see her. I still had needs, however, and I couldn’t bear to touch her. At the advice of a close friend, I began frequenting brothels and whorehouses under cover of night, disguising myself and sometimes travelling several cities over to keep my identity a secret. Obviously I was sickened by my actions, and would swear that “this time was the last”. But without fail, a few nights would pass, and I’d be avoiding the top step that creaked, locking the door gingerly behind me, and calling a cab. 

It came to a head three nights ago, as your establishment is aware. I awoke to the sounds of her screaming, a bloodcurdling noise like a banshee, rising and dropping with no pattern. It was enough to make my hair stand on end and my eyes to prick with tears. Against my better judgement, but as any respectable husband would, his marriage crumbling around him, I ran to her. I covered the length of the house in moments, throwing myself into the door and splintering the hinges off. I heard the maid approach behind me, and join in the cacophony of screaming. The sight that greeted us will forever stay in my mind, and reminds me that I am no longer able to sit idly.

She was on the floor, kneeling, I think, her hands pressed into the floorboards. I saw with a drop my stomach that her nails were torn and had peeled up from their beds. Long gouges were trailing from her bloody fingertips. She seemed to have worn a discoloration into the wooden floor, a circle tinged tan and an uncomfortable brown. The air in the room was coppery, the windows were sealed, and I could see that there was some sort of fabric stuffed under the now destroyed door. The only light came from candles, large ones that I had seen in her hope chest. They sat, fat and drooling, around the edges of the room, and their wicks made our shadows flicker. My wife was in her nightdress, though the front had been rendered to shreds, most likely due to her movements, and I could see her knees were almost as torn up as her hands. All the while, she never stopped screaming. Trails of spit connected her teeth to each other, and I could see where she had let it drip onto the circle she followed. I was screaming too, I realized, screaming for her to tell me what was wrong with it, what was wrong with it? I was still thinking about the damned pitcher.

It was sitting on a stool in the middle of my wife’s circular track. There was no decoration, no cloth beneath it. Just the horrible thing sitting there. I could see the gloss shining in the light from the candles. Something was wrong with it, though. The shape I had become so familiar with, the way the handle curved, the spout. Everything was correct. And yet, and yet.

It was darker. I could see its shade was slightly too deep. Was it the light? For a moment, a horrible moment, I imagined Lucifer imbuing the white china with his presence. Was the devil in the room with me? I fell to my knees and began reciting the Lord's Prayer, attempting to be louder than my wife’s screaming. I yelled for God to do something and cast out whatever was in my wife. I wanted her to stop all this, to stop ignoring me, her duties, to return to how she was, so polite and kind in the milliners. I screamed louder than her, and only when I stopped to gasp for breath, realized she wasn’t screaming anymore. Her body lay slumped on the floor. I huffed out a lungful of relief. It was only when the pounding in my head had subsided somewhat that I looked closer. There was a stain on the ground where my wife had been kneeling, and what I had initially thought was her shadow had not moved. I clumsily rushed to her side, and it was then that I felt it. My hand slicked wetly across the floor, and I grabbed for the candle closest to me. 

It was blood. There was blood all around this twisted altar. In my haste, I had not seen the knife clutched in my wife’s mangled hands, the wounds on her arms. I retched, my eye catching the pitcher again. In the shape of my Juliette’s fingers, the vines and flowers painted upon the china had been glazed over with a sickly sweet layer of her blood. 

The maid had rushed to call an ambulance, and I greeted them at the door, cradling Juliette in my arms. 

This brings us to my writing at your establishment today. I am required to give cause to why the patient should be taken from my care, and I hope that you have sufficient evidence, as I have nothing more to say. I do not know what I am to do. Mother has already informed the family, and I am steadily dropping from her will. My wife is in the next room, bandaged and silent. The pitcher is in the next room. She has begged me to retrieve it, thinking it must still be in that guest room. I have obviously refused.

DIARY EXERTS FROM MRS. WATT’S JOURNALS REGARDING THE CHINA SET

13 October 1889

He was at the wedding, drunk as usual and bleary eyed. I thought he was somewhere in Europe, but I was clearly mistaken. My father tells me to be happy he graced us with his presence, and so I have feigned delight. The news was broken to me that his gift was a leftover settlement from Aunt Marianna’s will. How thoughtful. I attempted a show of gratitude, and did not even gag at his touch. The china will be shipped from Baltimore by next month. Maybe it will shatter in transit. 

19 November 1889

I have placed them behind glass panes. They are imprisoned, like they were at Aunt Marianna’s. How fortunate I am to have a husband who took this into consideration. One thing cannot fit, no matter how I have attempted to reorganize its company. I will have to leave it to be ornamental. I have deigned to only use them on special occasions to prove my appreciation for the gift. I hope the house falls apart and they are so sadly destroyed. 

2 December 1889

…I also redecorated the sitting room for the holidays. Wreaths on the door and above the fireplace, red candles and green ribbon with gold. I intertwined some of the cloth along the banister as well, it is quite nice…I tried to add something to the front hall, but could only bear to rest the pitcher in some greenery. When George arrived home, I showed him my work, the pitcher most of all. 

26 April 1890

Father has sent an invitation to Uncle Ferdinand’s funeral. I have sent a letter along to say I cannot attend. I forgot the reason why. Reading a proof of his death was supposed to be a relief, catharsis from so many sickening years of fear and anger, and I have done nothing but cry in the bedroom all day. I will not tell George, it is better if he never finds out. What would he say? The way I have carried on about the china set, he probably believes that I fancied my own uncle. The truth could not be further. In some way, I did love him. I loved him in attempts to forgive him, when I only drew him closer. I was in the kitchen yesterday, making a cup of coffee. The metal on the handle of the kettle caught my hand and I dropped it onto the counter. Without thinking, I looked at the cupboard. All those flowers staring back at me. His hand was in my pinafore. Everyone said he was just tickling me. 

30 April 1890

It was a barfight, my sister said. Another drunk escapade, another drunk man had bashed him over the head with a bottle and stabbed him. The china laughs.

7 August 1890

I was supposed to be the one to do something. The angry girl in me screams and cries, writhing in someone’s arms, promising his death. She swears to break a plate and skewer it so far into him that he will die looking into the eyes of someone who will never be scared again.

19 June 1891

It is too much, it has always been too much. It cannot be out in the house anymore, the same as me. I see him in the curls of the leaves, most especially on this pitcher, outside a glass cage. The handle holds space to rest a thumb and ring finger. It is meant to be handled. 

30 December 1891

I have lied to George, saying I am ill and need to distance myself. If this is the case, I have been ill for several months now. The window is barred, the bed is bare, and the pitcher will remain isolated. I hope it is scared and alone. 

(Date Unknown)

I can’t stand it being away from my sight. At first, I had it in the room alone.

I would only go to ensure that it had not tried to leave.

Now, I must be wholly aware of the petals themselves. He will try to leave and I will seal him into the china forever.

I have devised my plan,

circling the wretched man

and keeping him in my eyeline at all times,

steadily,

aware of each of his attempts. He will not be freed.

I cannot break the plates. I will have to do with a more common weapon.

If I was what he so horribly craved, so be it.