I often feel bitter like this when the time draws near. I hate that cell so much . . .
July 1
Tomorrow I must go to the cell once more.
I have tried to avoid thinking of it. I even neglected this journal in an attempt to think of other things, but it is quite impossible. I cannot avoid the thoughts, and the thoughts torment me. I feel that I shall not be able to bear it again. Even as I write this my hands tremble and I am perspiring. It seems so unjust to punish myself because I am ill. It seems so unfair to martyr myself for the sake of an uncomprehending, uncaring society. I don’t know if I am thinking this way because it is so near or because I am right. I know that my thoughts could change as the disease begins the cycle; I admit that. And yet, my reasoning is flawless.
I wonder if the cell is making the illness worse? I have not considered this before; I suppose it occurred to me, but it seemed too close to rationalization and I did not think about it. But the fact remains that it was never so bad before I started going into the cell. I always had control of myself then. Even the last time that I stayed out, the time when the drunkard had the heart attack, I was able to restrain myself. The drunkard’s death was the prime factor in my decision to have the cell built, but as I look back and realize that his death had nothing to do with me I see that it was a false factor; that I acted without properly reasoning, without seeing that the cell might affect me and punish me instead of keeping me safe. Now I wonder if possibly the cell has aggravated the disease. It seems reasonable. It was always easier when I could see the sky, and since I have been shutting myself off completely it has become worse. I really don’t know. I would like to see, however.
I wonder if I dare to stay out of the cell tomorrow night?
July 3 (morning)
Nothing that I can write can possibly describe my feelings. I am in despair. I despise myself. I know that it was not my fault, but the knowledge cannot diminish the shame, the horror. I feel that the human body cannot stand this much mortification; that my heart will burst, my brain melt so that all the memories run molten together and I will die. But I am still alive. I would rather be dead. I have thought of suicide. I actually took my razor out and looked at the big blue veins in my wrists, and I think that I would have done it if it were not that the blood would remind me of what happened, and even as I felt my life drain away I would be remembering that fiendish night . . . I cannot kill myself that way. If I had sleeping pills I know that I would use them, but I have none. I have never used them. I do not approve of using drugs.
I feel a little better now. I have been lying down. I think that I see things more clearly now that I am rested. It wasn’t as though I were responsible. Suicide would punish me, not the disease that turned me into the thing that committed the terrible crime. But I am still on fire with self-abasement, I hate myself. If only I had gone to the cell . . . but how was I to know? How could I have even imagined what was going to happen? I am a gentle person; it was impossible to know that my body could be used for . . . what happened. I feel as if I should take a cleaver and chop my hands off at the wrist; should have my teeth torn out at the roots. God knows, if it were possible to change the past there would be no question of it. I would surely destroy myself rather than let it happen. But there is no question of that. What is done is done. But I am so ashamed . . .
I tried to act normally when I came into the house this morning. I acted as though nothing had happened, although it was very hard. My wife didn’t say anything, but I saw her look at me very closely. She didn’t even ask where I had been all night, but I told her that I had been called away on business very suddenly. I don’t know if she believed me. Neither of us mentioned that it had been . . . the night. Perhaps she thinks that nothing happened this month, or that I am beginning to control it better. Or perhaps . . . I hate to write this, but it is a possibility . . . perhaps she thinks that I forgot about it, and that it is my mind that causes it. I don’t know. She acted as though she wanted to ask me, but she didn’t. I will have to consider this . . . later, when I can think more clearly. My mind is still burning, and I can think of nothing except what happened last night . . . I keep seeing her face . . . all that I can do is to keep brushing my teeth and cleaning under my fingernails. I have had to burn my shirt.
July 3 (afternoon)
It was in all the newspapers!
It never occurred to me. I suppose that I was so concerned and confused, that I was thinking so much of myself, that I forgot the rest of the world. But naturally it was on the front page of all the papers, and they had it all wrong!
When I went down to lunch my wife had the papers on the table. They were all folded back so that the story about last night was on top. She did not look at me while I read them. That was a good thing, because I could not help but show my anger and pain. It was enough to make even a strong man lose restraint. I’m certain that Helen knows I am the one. I only hope that she realizes that the newspapers have it all wrong. They have made it out to be much worse than it really was, although it was certainly bad.
They called it the work of a madman! A madman! They used all the most lurid words and the worse type of sensationalism, all the most violent terms and expressions and the most ghoulish descriptions and details. And each and every paper referred to it as an insane act. Newspapers are supposed to keep to the objective facts, and not feel obligated to formulate theories about which they know nothing. But they are all so eager for sales that they must make everything sound as obscene as possible. What evil-minded fiends they must be! They have even implied that it was a sex crime! That is the worst of all. Every paper implied that the girl had been sexually assaulted! It sickens me to the very heart. They go so far as to say that her clothing was disarranged, that her thighs had been torn and bleeding and her stomach gouged and mutilated; that her blouse had been torn off and her underclothes shredded and her private parts mangled! All facts designed to make it appear that she had been sexually interfered with. Can’t they see that clothing must become disarranged when one struggles as she did? Are they so sick that they can never see beyond a sexual motive for any act? Or do they ignore the truth in order to sell more papers?
I am furious! It enrages me to see that the newspapers can be so irresponsible! And the public . . . the terrible public . . . to think that the way to increase circulation is to publish such complete lies, such sensationalism. What is wrong with our society that men and women actually enjoy reading such things? How can an ill person ever hope to be cured in such a society? It is so discouraging. It makes me lose hope.
I have the papers here in my room. They are all alike. The headlines differ but the lies are the same. The headlines range from MADMAN SLAYS GIRL IN WOODS to SEX FIEND MURDER to MANGLED CORPSE IN LOVERS’ LANE. And nowhere in any of the stories is there any suggestion of a physical illness. Are they blind? Or do they fear to look at the truth? Do they prefer the mentally ill to the innocent? What can I do about it?
I have contemplated writing letters to each of the newspapers, explaining exactly how it was, and what the disease is. They would surely publish the letters, if only to increase sales, but who knows what alterations or omissions they would make? I am sure that they would destroy any truth that I wrote them. I have learned that they are not to be trusted. I would like to have the editors of those scandalous papers locked in a room with me . . . locked in the cell with me on the night that it happens. I would like to see the way their faces change as they look upon the truth, as they realize how wrong and wicked and libellous they have been. That would be the way to show them, to teach them the truth and to teach them how to suffer for their errors at the same time. It would not be corrective punishment, but they would deserve it. They would be . . .
I should not be thinking this way. I can feel my heart begin to drum, my blood is hurtling through my veins. I suppose it must be some reaction left by last night, some after-effect of the disease. It is probably not well to let myself feel this way. It is yie
lding to the emotions of the sickness instead of combating it. I must never let it gain control when it is not necessary. But it is understandable why I should feel that way. I have been outraged and slandered without cause by men who care nothing for truth; men who deserve to suffer; men who would be better off dead.
I am too disgusted and angry to write any more now. Later I must write and cancel my subscriptions to those papers . . .
July 3 (night)
I feel obligated to tell what really happened, no matter how painful the effort is. I must write it all, objectively and truthfully. It may bring me relief to purge myself this way, or it may increase the despair . . . I can only do it and see, and do it regardless. I must show that it was the act of a sick person and not the disgusting crime of a pervert. That is what hurts me most, to be labelled a pervert. A sex pervert! I, of all people, to be so misunderstood.
I hope and pray that Helen does not believe the newspapers. She is not given to thinking for herself, she has a tendency to believe whatever she reads instead of forming her own opinions, and it drives me to frenzy to imagine that she might be thinking of me in that light, by that lie. What would she feel if she believed that I had raped a young woman? The possibility of being thought capable of such a fiendish act appals me. I would hate anyone who believed that I was capable of it, hate them terribly. I have always been very pure in mind and body. Even with my wife I have tried to limit our sexual relations to a minimum. I have never been guilty of feeling any great need for sex, and usually I do it simply to satisfy Helen. I believe that she is a bit over-sexed, but I have managed to regulate that, and to show her by my example that continence is the proper basis for health and purity. Over-indulgence in sexual acts is every bit as heinous as taking drugs, or drinking to excess.
Perhaps the fact that it happened in that lovers’ lane gave those newspapers the wrong impression. But that was merely a coincidence. I swear that I did not touch her in any unclean manner. Even after I had changed, my moral code was strong enough to resist that temptation, even if it had occurred. But it did not. There was never the slightest urge towards it. It could just as well have been a man as a girl. The fact that it was a girl, and that she was young and rather pretty, in a cheap and painted fashion, had absolutely nothing to do with what happened. I swear that. I would never, under any circumstances, interfere with a woman.
I suppose that, in one way, I should be thankful that they have got it all wrong. It will throw the police off the trail. They will be searching for a madman, a sex pervert. There is no way that I could come under suspicion. My life has always been beyond reproach. The more they investigate, the further from the truth they seem to move. In the late news broadcast it was hinted that there might be a link between this crime and the librarian’s murder. The poor benighted fools! How could they imagine that? It is beyond me. I suppose they are desperate to solve one crime or the other and find it less compelling if they are able to lump them together. Well, they will never find the truth, that is definite.
I see that I am still unable to write objectively. I am still a bit annoyed at the newspapers, and a little shaken by last night. Tomorrow I will write exactly how it was.
July 6
I have waited until I feel that I can explain everything calmly. I could not trust myself before. But now I am ready, and I will describe what really happened on that night, and show how wrong the newspapers were.
That afternoon I went for a long walk. I left the house just after lunch and there was plenty of time before darkness would set in. Helen did not seem to realize what night it was, or else she thought that I would only be gone a short while. She didn’t question me when I went out, at any rate. I had not the faintest idea where I should spend the night, but I knew that I had to get away from that cell. I could not bear the thought of going there again. And I knew that I must get away from the town, away from people. I intended to take no chances. I thought . . . I had convinced myself . . . I truly believed that it was the confinement of the cell that had made the change so much greater in the past months. Being shut off from the air and the sky and the moon I had felt the change violently, and I believed that, since the change had to be more powerful to occur in the stifling cell, it had also been greater necessarily. I know now that that is not so, that the degree of change is not modified by the degree of struggle necessary to bring it about, but I firmly believed it then. I could not foresee any danger.
I walked around the streets aimlessly for some time, and then, in the late afternoon, I headed away from the populated areas. I walked west. I did not hurry, but I walked at a steady pace, and very soon the town was behind me and I was on the open road. It was a wide highway and motor cars roared by in clouds of dust and noise and it was very unpleasant. I have never cared for motor cars myself. I prefer to walk or to take a train. Perhaps I am somewhat oldfashioned, but I see no harm in that. I see it as a virtue in this day and age of idleness and laziness. Soon it began to grow dark and some of the cars had their headlights on. I knew that it was time to find seclusion then, and I turned up the first secondary road that I came to. This road was narrow and unpaved. It headed in a northerly direction. There were trees on both sides and I could see more trees ahead. The noise of the highway faded behind me. There was no traffic on the small road, although there were wheel tracks in the dust. I did not know that it was too early for traffic there, you see. And I certainly did not know that it led to the local lovers’ lane. Such thoughts never occur to me, and I find them disgusting. I am not naïve; I know what goes on in parked cars before people are properly married. But I did not know that I was walking towards such a place.
It was uphill. The road turned and twisted as it rose and I suppose that I walked for an hour or more without seeing another human being. Several times I saw dogs. They snarled and yelped and when I made a quick motion they ran off with their tails tucked in between their legs, looking back over their shoulders at me. Dogs are always terrified of me. Even fierce dogs that attack postmen and delivery boys run from me. I find it amusing. Their owners can never understand why this is so. One very large mongrel stood its ground for a moment, in the centre of the road. It had very large teeth. I made a noise in my throat and moved quickly towards it and it went away very fast then, very chastened. It looked so humorous that I had to laugh.
Soon I had reached the top of the hill and the road ended in a quarry or pit of some kind. I don’t know much about such things, but I believe that this one was deserted. It was growing dark by this time and I paused to rest. I sat on a flat stone and loosened my necktie. I was sweating a little from the climb but it was relaxing to be there in the open, all alone. It brought back memories of childhood. I felt quite sure that the change would be slight and that I would be satisfied to run through the woods as I had in the past. It never occurred to me that I might meet another person. Everything was so deserted and so quiet. The sounds of the woods are not like the sounds of the cities, they are a pleasant background, almost like music. I was content to sit there with my eyes closed, and I believe that I would have stayed right there all night and nothing terrible would have happened, if the car hadn’t come.
I heard it when it was still a long way away. At first I thought that it was down on the highway, but then it seemed to be getting closer. It annoyed me. I didn’t want to be disturbed and I could not see why a car should be coming to the deserted sandpit. I waited until I was sure that it was coming and then I left my rock and went into the woods. I went a few yards back into the brush, where I was sure I could not be seen, and knelt down. The ground was crisp and dry under my knee and smelled very rich. There was still a little light and I could see the dirt road and the pit from where I crouched. After a while the automobile drove up in a great cloud of dust. It drove to the end of the road and stopped. I waited, expecting the driver to see that it was a dead end and turn around, but he did not. He turned off the motor. That made me very angry. I felt as though he were trespassing on my land. I st
ared at the car from beneath a large clump of bushes, and that was when I realized what was happening. There was a girl in the car. Two men and one girl. I could not really see what was going on, but I heard a great deal of giggling and rustling and soft voices. I knew what was going on then. It filled me with great anger. I dug my hands into the soft earth and made noises in my throat and hoped that they would go away. Why wouldn’t they go away? But they did not. The darkness fell suddenly and there was the moon, shining right down on that motor car with all the lewd sounds coming from within. I wanted to leave then, to run away as fast as I could, but something seemed to hold me there. I could not leave. I could not even look away from the motor car. I suppose that the change must have occurred at this time, but I was not even aware that it had started; even after I changed I did not realize it.
And then they got out of the car! The girl was laughing and flushed and her clothing was partially unfastened. She got out and stood beside the car and the two men got out. One of them had a blanket and he spread it on the ground. The other one kissed her. I saw his lips grind on hers, and I could tell that she liked it. She was not a good girl. I saw it all. I saw her take her undergarments off and lift her dress and lie down on the blanket, and then both of those men got down and they both . . . they took turns . . . Ah, I cannot write of that, there are some things that a normal man cannot face. But they did things to her and I crouched there in the woods and I saw everything that happened . . .
I controlled myself. Perhaps the horrible thing that I was witnessing had hypnotized me so that control was not hard. But I waited there, even though I wanted to spring at those execrable and detestable creatures, to punish them, to bring an end to their foul act. I waited and after a long time both men seemed to have sated their lust and they got up and put their clothing on. The girl was smiling. She remained on the blanket for a while. She actually seemed to be contented, as if she were satisfied with her wickedness! I looked at her, at that evil twisted smile on her mouth, at the way she lay with her head back and her knees raised. I looked at her throat and her arched back and her white thighs. Everything about her was flagitious and depraved. She was exposed in a beam of moonlight and made no attempt at all to cover her parts. Her legs were parted and her undergarments lay beside her on the ground. I have never imagined such base corruption.
The Mammoth Book of Wolf Men Page 51
