should have felt ashamed of that, shouldn’t I? I should have been horrified. As it was, within moments the kid was screaming loudly enough to alert everyone in the park. Instinct took over and I ran from that place as fast as I could.
I couldn’t get back to the darkened haven of my apartment quickly enough. Slamming the door behind me, I then locked all the locks, pulled across all the bolts and drew all the curtains over the windows with shaking hands. Then I folded myself into the small, dark gap between my bed and the wall, covering my head with my trembling arms. How could you, accusatory voices whispered to me; how could you? What’s wrong with you?
When the whispers stopped and I at last looked up, the room was pitch black and my back and shoulders ached horribly. How long had I sat there, muttering to myself? Am I really dangerous? Do I belong in some kind of mental institute? Some kind of prison? Do I? After all, I didn’t really hurt that boy. A couple of stitches and he would be fine. Everyone loses their temper sometimes, don’t they? I mean, everyone does it. There will always be ugliness. It’s not only me.
24th August
I still know next to nothing about who I am. It panics me sometimes; makes me feel like a shadow. But I’m not — shadows don’t have names. I have a name: Gabriel Antaeus. Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel Antaeus. After all, I sleep, I eat, I bleed. That must mean something? I knew I could bleed from the way I had found myself here at the beginning of August but I cut myself with a knife the other day just to make absolutely sure. There was blood, so that cheered me. The sight of it horrifies me, though. It goes beyond mere squeamishness; it is a true horror. I must just be one of those faint-hearted people, I suppose. Probably because I have spent my whole life around books. I have written books. One book, anyway. I found the manuscript when I was going through my desk. It was entitled Dante’s Hell: A Theological Study. Skimming through it, I saw that it was an in-depth study of the structure of Hell, complete with references to demons and the nine circles of sin.
As I read through it, I remembered the subject matter. The manuscript dealt with the depiction of Hell put forward by Dante Alighieri in his poem Divina Commedia. But the manuscript I found in my desk argued that it was no mere poem; that Dante had really travelled down to the bowels of the Earth, through the nine concentric circles of Hell right to the frozen core where the Devil himself was held immobilised. The claim, of course, is quite preposterous, and with such wild and unsubstantiated theories it is no wonder that the script remains unpublished, assuming publication was ever sought. It unsettled me to find my name in the top right-hand corner of every page of the manuscript — I hate to think that I might actually have written this fanatical work. But at the same time, it pleases me that I am a writer. What danger is there in that? What violence could there possibly be in that?
Neatly arranged in a file in one of the desk drawers, I found all my banking and tax records. Having studied these I can see that I am, in fact, a very wealthy man indeed. It’s no wonder my rooms are filled with such fine things, although the state of the apartment itself puzzles me for I could easily have afforded something much nicer with my savings, not to mention the cash I’d found in the kitchen. It was nice to discover that I don’t need to be concerned about my financial situation, anyway. I also found my passport tucked away in the bottom drawer, which confirmed that I am a citizen of the United Kingdom. For the first time, it occurred to me that perhaps my family were all still living in the UK? My hand automatically went to the box of fish food permanently in my pocket. Perhaps there were no fish? No one about to return from holiday?
But, God, what am I saying? No fish? No fish? There must be a holiday; there must be fish… otherwise why the hell am I carrying fish food around in my pocket like this? No, the fish are real — I know they are.
I found contact details for my landlady in my desk. When I phoned her, she seemed completely uninterested in speaking to me, and really wasn’t of any use at all. My tenancy agreement is a standard one and began at the start of August. It was clear she knew next to nothing about me — she even called me by the wrong name more than once during the conversation. But then, why should she know me? I would hardly have poured out my life story to her when I arranged to rent the apartment.
I’d hit a dead end. There were no people around… at least, not until my family returned. In the meantime, I examined one of the few clues I had: my name. Gabriel Antaeus. I typed it into Google one day, stupidly thinking that a website may come up telling me all about myself. But there was nothing — not even other Gabriel Antaeus’s that I could search through. It’s an unusual name, I suppose.
Having found the internet no use, I turned to the books on my shelves. Of course, the name Gabriel has very strong religious and biblical, in particular angelic, connotations. The Hebrew meaning translates as ‘man of God’ and everyone knows of the archangel Gabriel of the New and Old Testaments. My books are all stacked alphabetically, and I have several that refer to angels and their realm. Clearly this issue of my name is one that has bothered me before, for my books are heavily annotated with all references to Gabriel underlined or highlighted.
You’d think that being named after an angel would not have any negative, any frightening, connotations whatsoever. But you’d be wrong. For angels are scary. I have had nightmares about them. I found the internet to be of little use, for the websites all spoke of the ‘new age’ angels so beloved by hippies and self-proclaimed healers and psychics. These angels were forgiving and loving, and covered people in golden light and love, inspiring feelings of well-being and peace. I wish that I could find some angels like that here.
But the original angels — the biblical ones — are so very different from these modern creations. Gabriel spans several religions, being the highest-ranking angel of the Christian, Hebrew and Moslem faiths. According to Mohammed, Gabriel was the author of the Qu’ran. Mohammed was meditating in a cave when he was visited by Gabriel in a vision that so terrified him in its violence and hostility that it left him feeling suicidal. I find this story very disturbing. It’s gone round and round my head. Angels should not be violent.
I’ve had trouble placing the origin of my surname, Antaeus. French, perhaps? But I know I’m British because of my passport. And my accent… not that I ever really speak aloud, for I have no one to speak to and I don’t talk to myself in the privacy of my own home the way some people do. My apartment is always silent, whether I’m in it or not. Perhaps I should start talking aloud as I write in this journal. I hate that my voice still seems unfamiliar to me, still startles me if I speak without thinking. Yes, I think I will start to do that. It is not enough to write; I want someone to talk to as well.
But I’ve reached a dead end anyway. So what now? I’m too afraid to go to the hospital. All this fear… am I just the most terrible coward? I can’t go to a hospital or the police because they’ll ask questions, and I have a large and unexplainable stack of cash in my possession, now hidden away under the floorboards. What did I do to earn that money? I can’t let them find it. I can’t go to prison. Not now when I have so many fish to feed.
I hope I merely stole the money. I could live with being a thief. There are worse sins than thieving, although that crime in itself is disgusting to me… I think I might just be suffering from stress. I mean, I’ve waited patiently, haven’t I? It’s been over two weeks now and I haven’t remembered anything, and it’s not fair at all! I hate being stuck with a stranger like this. But it can’t be much longer before someone I know makes contact with me… an old friend who wants to catch up, or borrow something, or ask my advice, or whatever. I can’t go to them because I can’t remember them. But, soon, one of them will find me and this whole ridiculous situation will be all smoothed out, and there will be a rational explanation about the money, and I will remember everything. In the meantime, I will keep to myself in case I hurt someone again. It is not right to hit children. It’s not right. I shouldn’t have done it. I will order food to the door and I won’t leave my apartment until I know it’s safe. Just for now, this journal will have to do until I can find some people from somewhere.
29th August
Five days have passed since I last wrote here. It’s almost one o’clock in the morning. I’m dripping wet, my clothes are stained with splatters of blood, and there is a bleeding gash at the back of my head that is swelling up into a painful lump already. For four days I kept to my decision to stay inside the apartment. But this morning, I decided that I might have overreacted to the incident with the boy and the butterfly. And I was tired of takeout food. So I went to a nearby restaurant: the Pest Buda Vendeglo. I don’t like eating alone — it depresses me. I ordered a Hungarian traditional speciality, Libamaj Zsirjaban — goose liver fried in its own fat — along with a glass of dry Pinot Noir. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth so I would usually skip dessert, but the Vendeglo does the most delicious Gundel Palacsinta and I was reluctant to return to my apartment too soon, so I ordered the dessert to extend the evening.
I had been feeling almost content until the couple at the table next to me started to argue. Quietly at first,
