A strange thing happened then. I do not pretend to understand it. The two men got in the motor car. They were laughing and one of them leaned out the window and said something to the girl. She looked startled and leaped to her feet. The car started and she tried to get in. She was very distressed and the men were looking pleased with themselves. They backed around and the car turned and she pleaded with them. But they drove off. One of them waved at her from the window, and she hurled a curse at them which no gentleman could ever repeat. She stood there, looking down the road after the car and muttering to herself. She had her hands on her hips, and the words that she mumbled were such as I have never heard before; I scarcely know the meaning of them, and I am a full-grown man. But they all had sexual reference, for even in her anger she was depraved. I have never known a greater sinner than that woman was. I presume that the two men, their lust satiated, had been appalled at what they had done, and left her to punish her for her part in their crime against nature. That is the only explanation that occurs to me, although I do not understand why they laughed as they drove off. There are some things that I do not understand about the relationships between men and women. But I do understand what is wrong and that girl was wrong. That girl needed to be punished.
I didn’t intend to hurt her. I don’t know what I intended. I waited until she had walked back to the blanket and then I got to my feet and moved out into the open. She had bent down to pick up her panties. I walked very quietly up behind her. She raised one leg and started to draw the panties over her foot and then I must have made some slight sound, because she turned towards me.
I don’t know if she screamed. Her mouth was open but I heard no sound. Perhaps she was too frightened to scream, or perhaps my ears were not functioning. She staggered backwards a few steps, her hands raised, palms out towards me. Her panties were bundled around her ankle. The fear in her face was indescribable. I slowly moved after her, with my hands clawed in front of me and my teeth bared. I moved closer and she fell to the ground. Her eyes never once left my face. Even when I crouched over her she looked directly into my face. Her fear seemed to inspire me. I had only meant to frighten her, I am sure. But there is something about fear . . . the smell of fear . . . it made me lose control. Fear and blood have much the same smell. I could not help myself then, it was her fault; she drove me to it just as she must have driven those two men to that foul act. I remembered that as I saw her white thighs flash and her painted lips move and I wanted to rip and tear and destroy; to drive my talons into her flesh so that the blood jetted out and that evil life was ended.
That was when I sprang on her.
And all the while she looked directly into my eyes, until her own eyes clouded over. She seemed to remain conscious for an extraordinarily long time.
I don’t remember what happened afterwards. I don’t know how long I crouched over her corpse, or what I did to it. I must have been there for some time, if the newspapers have accurately reported the condition of her body. But then, they have reported nothing else correctly, and I am glad that I have been able to write this so that the truth is written somewhere. This is the truth; this is exactly how it happened.
July 20
I have ignored this book for the past two weeks. I have not even read it. I think that I exhausted myself with my last entry, and it was a good thing to get my mind off the disease and to relax for a while. That is a serious trouble with modern civilization, it leaves so little time to relax. Luckily, I have never fallen into the habit of rushing madly after money and success and happiness. I am content to let it come to me if it will, or to do without it if it will not. I am stoical and reasonable and undoubtedly born several hundred years too late in history. But I do not complain. I have never been given to boasting, but I feel that eventually I shall be able to even reconcile myself to accepting my affliction on the same terms that I regard the other aspects of life. It is, after all, only one night per month, only twelve nights each year that I suffer. It could be so much worse. Many diseases are worse, it is just that they are common and taken for granted, whereas mine is unique and seems more horrible than it really is. It is not as bad, surely, as having cancer, or leprosy, or being blinded. Only vanity made me think it was so terrible, and I am happy to see that I have defeated such thoughts and now look at it in its true perspective. If it is a trial sent to judge me, I shall not be found lacking. I am happier now than I have been in a long while, because I am thinking clearly for the first time, thinking as clearly about my illness as I am in the habit of thinking about other things. I accept my agony in the same way as I accept my pleasures and my mild happiness. I have learned to live with the sickness just as I have learned to live with the cruelty of society, with the lesser mentality of my wife.
I have read what I wrote about that night. It is all very objective and true, and I believe it helped me to see myself more perfectly. One thing I noticed, which would have disturbed me a short time ago, but which now makes me understand better . . . In writing about what happened, I continually referred to myself, as myself, instead of to the thing that I become, or to it. I see that those words were a defence, that I used them instead of facing the truth. For, of course, it and I are the same. We are the same being, with changes and differences but basically the same. I can even face up to that now, and it shows how well I am thinking. I don’t know if this change in my writing happened because I was trying so hard to remember all the details, or because I am drawing nearer to it, and it to me, or purely for literary ease and convenience, but whichever caused it, I feel it is a good symptom, and shows truthfulness and lack of inhibition. It was, after all, an unusual night . . . an extraordinary night . . . it is hardly strange that I remembered it differently than I remembered those terrible nights in the cell. I will have to wait and see how things are this month, when I return to the cell again. I will bring this book with me again, and go down in plenty of time. I won’t take any chances on staying outside again. I must never allow another accident to take place. But . . . I am not at all sure that, in this one instance, it was not rather a good thing. That may sound heartless, but many true thoughts do. And when one considers how many young men that woman would have debased, how many she would have led into sin and degradation and ruin . . . well, perhaps I have saved a good many. And surely the girl herself is better off dead. She had nothing whatsoever to live for. Young as she was, she was already old with sin, and she could never have been happy in her depravity . . .
To think that I actually considered suicide the day after it happened! I was so emotional, so out of character. But everything is all right now, and I have felt better for the last two weeks than I have felt for a long, long time. It is hard to give the reasons, it is almost as though I accomplished something . . . as though I have suddenly achieved something or gained something that I have wanted for a long time, without knowing it. And yet, nothing is changed. I cannot see what it is. It must be something intangible, some frustration that I never realized I had must have been removed from my mind. It may be that the shock of what happened on that night broke up whatever was blocking my mind. It does seem to have something to do with it. I cannot trace the path through my thoughts and emotions, but it is there. It is not a new feeling, but it is a new depth of satisfaction. I can remember feeling this way when I was young. It is almost the way that I felt when I destroyed my favourite toy. It is close to how I felt when I destroyed that savage dog that had attacked me. It is a very curious phenomenon. It is very peculiar that three acts which were so completely different can give such a similar feeling. I find it quite interesting . . .
July 28
The day approaches. I am quite resigned. I am in perfect physical health and my mind is clear and I live a pure life and if I must suffer one night it is hardly anything to complain of. I wish my wife would stop acting so peculiarly, however. All this month she has seemed very distant. Perhaps she actually took some stock of those false newspaper accounts, and is angry with me, but sh
e has not mentioned it. She has never said a word about that. It is no longer front page news, new scandals and lies have displaced it, but each day there is a small paragraph reporting the progress of the police. Each day they claim that an arrest is imminent. It makes me chuckle. I do hope that they do not arrest some innocent man. But, still, I am sure that if they do arrest someone he will be a known pervert and will be guilty of far worse crimes than mine, and so I am not worried about it. Punishment for the wrong sin is quite just, if some other sin has been committed. As far as myself . . . and the man who struck the librarian down . . . I cannot feel any guilt.
July 29
When I was coming home from my afternoon stroll today I saw a workman leave our house. There was a lorry outside, and I believe he was from the same company that built the cell for us. I asked Helen about it, and she looked startled, and then she denied that he had been there. I was curious about that at first, and for a moment I actually wondered if she might have been unfaithful to me, she acted so strange and so nervous. But that was a terrible thought and I never should have had it for a moment. It was a sin to think such a thing. I have guessed what the truth is now. She has had something done to make the cell more comfortable for me. Perhaps she has had new padding put in, or a brighter light installed. I can’t imagine what else it could be. She wanted to keep it as a surprise, of course. Something that she imagines will cheer me up when I have to go to the cell. Perhaps it will, at that. I do hope, however, that she was bright enough to give a logical reason for having the padding in the cell, if the workman saw the inside. Even unintelligent construction workers sometimes have imaginations . . . I suppose they sometimes read the newspapers, too. Still, we have a right to have a padded cell if we choose, and no one can question that. I have just wondered if perhaps the man had come to install a stronger lock on the door. Helen has been strange . . . distant. It is possible that she is frightened. Poor thing. I can understand how it is. I must make an attempt to be more pleasant, and more tolerant of her weaknesses. I should give her some little token of my affection. Perhaps I should go to her bedroom this evening. She always seems very grateful when I do that, and I have not gone for some time now. But that is her fault. She does not give any indication that she wants me to, and I only do it for her. Perhaps she has come to see that it is better to abstain as much as possible.
July 30
Helen has changed remarkably.
Who can understand the workings of the female mind? There are depths to even the simplest and most unimaginative of women that can never be probed. I feel that I have as much insight as any man, that my logic is capable of plumbing any logical depths, and yet I have no conception of what has brought about this difference in my wife. It has been coming on for some time now, I think, but last night it was the most noticeable that it has been yet. Perhaps it is simply that there is no reason for it, that the basic motions of the female atoms are erratic. I hate to think that. I prefer a well-ordered concept of life. But I am open-minded to other possibilities. I have had to be open-minded; a closed mind would not have the scope to deal with life as a man in my circumstances must do. I would not be in the least surprised to know that I am the only man who has ever suffered with my affliction and still kept his sanity. Perhaps that seems like a vain statement, but still a man must recognize his virtues in order to capitalize on them. I am humble in my pride.
Last night I went to her room. She had gone to bed early and after a while I decided to go to her. But everything was different.
When I opened her bedroom door she sat up quickly, holding the covers up to her chin and looking at me with her eyes open wide. It was almost as though she had been lying there waiting, expecting me to come. That in itself is strange. And the way that she looked . . . well, it was very much like fear. She cringed when I touched her. She said nothing at all but she trembled under my hand and searched my face. I hated to see that expression, that look in her eyes. It was as though she thought last night was the night of the change. Perhaps she had lost track of the date. But surely she knows that I will never forget it? How can my own wife fear me? Is it all a result of those atrocious lies in the newspapers, or is she breaking down under the strain – suffering, perhaps, in sympathy with me? It might be that. She does seem to be different when it is getting near the night when I must go to the cell. I have heard that often one suffers for a loved one. Men are reported to have labour pains when their wives are pregnant. It might possibly be something of that nature. I prefer to think that, because it is very unpleasant to think that she fears me.
When we were first married Helen used to be very affectionate. Even passionate. Far too much so, in fact, and several times I had to ask her to please exercise a bit of restraint. It is wrong for a woman to abandon herself to carnal pleasures. I am not sure if it is wrong to feel pleasure in a carnal act, but it certainly is wrong to give oneself up to it. Once Helen tried to take the initiative in the marriage act, and several times she came right out and asked me if I would not come to her bed. I had to lecture her quite firmly about that. She was not really to blame; she was innocent and had no experience and did not realize how wrong her behaviour was. She was undoubtedly trying to please me by her overt desire and undisguised lustings. It does seem that a proper young woman should know instinctively that it is wrong, but who am I to judge? I have never attempted to set myself up as a moralist, I am simply a moral man who tries to show others the proper way to live. I had to be a bit strict with Helen, of course, but that was for her own good.
Last night it was very different, however. She was not in the least demanding, and she seemed quite pleased when we had finished and I was ready to return to my own room. All through the act she had continued to stare up at me with that strange expression. It made me feel very uncomfortable. I am never quite comfortable while I am performing the marital duty, but this was worse. It was . . . uncomfortable is not the word, but I know no word to describe it. It was an exceedingly troubling emotion. I hope that she never looks at me that way again. There is something about fear . . . I don’t know what it is . . . it always makes me feel . . . makes me imagine . . . indefinite things. This is very difficult to express correctly. Vague things seem to be lurking just below the surface of my mind, unclear, clouded and dark and unsavoury. Dangerous things, somehow. Shrouded images. I cannot define it more closely than this.
July 31
I am waiting for tomorrow with the usual dread and disgust, but also with a certain curiosity. I wonder how last month has affected the disease. I have been so much at peace all during July; have come to terms with myself so well, that I would not be in the least surprised to find a definite change in the sickness. Last month may have acted as a catalyst and change the chemistry of the thing . . . perhaps for the better. Whatever happens I feel that I will be able to accept it stoically.
I would tell Helen of my hopes if she did not seem so distant and unusual. But it is probably better not to, until I know. There is little benefit in raising false cheer. This morning she acted peculiarly again. I had gone out into the hall to fetch my gloves and when I turned around she was looking around the corner at me. Just her face was around the corner, and she ducked back. I went down and asked her if she wanted anything and, after mumbling for a moment, she said that she wondered whether I was going down to the basement. Why would she think that? She knows that I hate the basement, and that I never go down there until it is necessary. When I assured her of this she seemed relieved, so perhaps she is just overwrought as the day draws near. Perhaps she is afraid that it might begin sooner than usual, and that I shall have to spend more time, perhaps more than one night, in the cell. I can understand how that would bother her, and it shows her concern for me. But it also shows her complete lack of understanding of just what my disease is.
August 1
I am fairly bursting with energy today. I took a long, brisk walk after lunch. I stopped to watch some children playing in an empty lot. I seemed to share their
enthusiasm for life. It made me regret the fact that I can never have children. They were so gay and carefree that I felt sorry they must grow up and face the troubles of life. My childhood was not happy; at least it does not seem happy in my memory, except for a few outstanding occasions. But I do not envy others in this respect, because my beginnings have carried me on to a proper manhood and I am able to look back at my whole life and regret no single thing that I have ever done. Any regrets that I feel are for things not my fault, things ordained before I was created. It is surely the greatest peace that man can know when he can see his whole existence running in one continuous sequence and find that at no point has there been any shame, anything to mar his past; that his total life has been exactly as he would have willed it, considering those things in which he has a choice.
I am almost looking forward to the change tonight, I feel so certain that there will be an improvement . . . or is it that I know now that no improvement is necessary, that I understand my affliction is not nearly as bad as I believed it to be? I hope that the thing which I become can share my tranquillity.
August 1 (night)
Well, the door is barred now. Helen has gone upstairs and I am alone in the cell. Helen tried to be very pleasant today. She cooked my favourite dinner, simple wholesome food and she chattered away self-consciously and tried to be gay and to take my mind off what would soon happen. I appreciate her pitiful little efforts against a thing she cannot grasp. I came down quite early so that she did not have to worry about it. I was afraid that she would begin to be nervous and frightened, and wanted to spare her that ordeal . . . and spare myself witnessing it, too.
The Mammoth Book of Wolf Men Page 52
