before. I can say it no more clearly than that something took hold of my mind and pulled. It was disorienting, and in a way I had not thought I could be disoriented, and uncomfortable, not unlike the vertigo I felt when Young Don shot me, and again when Susan said she loved me.
Reflexes associated with panic woke up; not strong enough to interfere with me, but there, nevertheless, telling me something inexplicable was happening in my brain, where one never wants the inexplicable happening.
I was dizzy for just a moment, and my first thought was, Kellem. But, on reflection, it didn’t feel like her. In any event, something was happening, and I was a part of it. I felt a clear sense of direction and a great sense of urgency. I took out a roll of bills and threw them at Doris, saying, “Sorry, honey, change of plans. I’ll see you another time,” and dashed out of the hotel. I think I remember the desk clerk laughing, and Doris swearing loudly, though whether at me or at the clerk I cannot say.
At that moment, someone said, “You are Jack Agyar.” It was so strong that, for a moment, I thought it was really said into my ear and I stopped running and turned around. No, there was no one there. It had been Jill’s voice, which was clearly impossible. I didn’t know what this meant, but I knew that I didn’t like it.
Weakness, I thought, be damned; I needed speed.
I sent myself like an arrow through the night, troubled by visions of ropes surrounding me, tying me up; at one point I was unable to move my arms, although I was able to break this without much effort. I could still hear Jill’s voice, though I did not know what she was saying. I stumbled a couple of times, as if something were trying to wrap itself around my legs. At another point I stopped, realizing that, somehow, I had forgotten the way. I stood, trembling from weakness and rage, and made myself recall how I had gotten there before, and eventually I reached the correct neighborhood.
Whatever it was, it was still going on, and it was not without a certain fear that I entered the house. There was no one on the main floor, but I could smell cloth burning upstairs, and so I dashed up to Jill’s room and threw open the door. She stood, naked, facing the north wall, which looked toward Susan’s room and the street. Before her were small bits of cloth and yarn, a black candle, and an ashtray, in which something was burning.
She did not seem to notice me.
I rushed forward, but was stopped, as if by a wall, although there was nothing tangible in front of me. Or, more accurately, it was as if I knew I could go forward if I could make myself, and simultaneously knew I couldn’t make myself. If, years from now, I am baffled when I read this, I will remind myself that I was even more baffled when it happened; I still don’t understand it. She said, “So I am free,” as if speaking to someone who wasn’t there, and, as she spoke, I felt a tearing sensation somewhere within me, as if a piece of myself were being ripped away.
“So I am free.”
As she said it a second time, the feeling intensified, and with it my rage. I knew what was happening, although I didn’t know how.
“So I am-”
“No!” I cried. That got through. She looked at me for the first time, her eyes widening. I caught her in my gaze and we struggled that way for what seemed like forever; a silent, and very deadly struggle in which, I think, neither of us was quite sure on what ground it was being fought, or how the battle was progressing, yet we were both very much aware of the conflict. You are mine, I told her. You have always been mine. Your heart is mine. Your soul is mine. Your body and life are mine. Your will is a shadow of my own.
Something, I don’t know what, hung by a thread, awaiting the decision of our struggle. She was more determined than I had thought possible for her; I was as angry as I’d been in some time.
I am free, she told me. You have no power over me.
You are mine. You are mine.
I am free. I am free.
You are mine.
I fall back on metaphor because there is no way to set down in words what it was like, that battle of wills, a pushing and a pulling, a heating and a cooling, but that only hints at the experience like the description of the act of love can only bring fragments of the sensation to the memory.
But I was the stronger; we can, perhaps, leave it at that. Her will crumbled beneath my rage, like the unraveling of a closely knit fabric that begins to run. I took the end and pulled it, and the invisible wall before me collapsed.
She made a low sound of despair as I came forward, took her, and pushed her against the wall. “Where did you learn to do that?” I said.
She didn’t answer, only made an inarticulate moan; she would have fallen if I had not been holding her.
“Tell me,” I said, with all the force I could. “Tell me who and where.”
She began to tremble, and there were tears running down her cheeks. Some men seem to think women are attractive when they cry; I think such men are crazy. I shook her and said, “Tell me now.”
In a choking, quivering voice, she told me.
“Good,” I said. “Now listen to me. You are done with this forever, do you understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered, not looking at me.
“You belong to me, and to me alone, do you understand?”
“I understand,” she said, still trembling.
“Good. See that you don’t forget.”
I put my arms around her and held her very close. There were tears against my face. I was very tired; the exertions of the last two days had worn me out badly.
But I left her alive, which was, I think, more than she deserved.
I woke up feeling very old.
That is, I think that is what I am feeling. In fact, one might say that I have never been old, or that I have been old for a long time and it hasn’t affected me; what I mean is, I feel the way I should imagine I would feel as an old man; there is a stiffness in the back of my knees and in my neck, I don’t want to move fast, and, in general, gravity seems to have more power over me than is its wont.
And then there is the hunger, which is not a normal hunger, even for me.
I can almost touch it, it is so real. Once, in a mistake I will never make again, I spent time with a young woman who freebased cocaine. One thing, as it will, led to another, and, after only one evening with her, I could feel the craving, unlike anything I had ever felt before. Perhaps I wouldn’t have been so frightened if I had felt any of the effects the drug is supposed to provide, but there was nothing at all, only the unmistakable desire for more. It wasn’t strong; I had no difficulty in convincing myself to stay away from her; but I felt it, and I have never forgotten that feeling.
What I feel this morning is akin to that, only a hundred times worse. It cheapens, even humbles me, but this will in no way keep me from pursuing what I require. Indeed, I feel it a small victory over my baser instincts that I have been able to force myself to shower, brush my teeth and hair, dress carefully, have a conversation with Jim, and sit here recording all of this, so that I will know what it was like, later, after I have done what I am going to do.
I came down to the living room, and Jim was waiting for me. He looked at me closely and said, “Are you all right?”
“No,” I said. “But I’ll get by. I must go out.”
“Be careful,” he said.
There was something in his tone. I said, “Oh? Is that a general caution?”
He shook his head, looking at the pendant on my chest (which, I’m pleased to say, had not been included in the description of me). “The police have been outside all day watching the house.”
“Damn them to Hell,” I said.
He winced. “They’ve also been going through the neighborhood, asking questions.”
“And showing everyone a piece of paper?”
“I didn’t notice them doing that.”
“Good.”
“But that’s not to say they weren’t.”
“You’re just full of good news, aren’t you?”
