"She doesn't know what she's doing.
It wasn't me she was raving at. It was the old Charlie.
She was afraid of what he might do to you. I can't blame her for wanting to protect you.
But we don't have to think about it now, because he's gone forever isn't he?"
She wasn't listening to me.
There was a dreamy expression on her face.
"I've just had one of those strange experiences where something happens, and you have the feeling you know it's going to happen, as if it all took place before, the exact same way, and you watch it unfold again…."
"A very common experience."
She shook her head. "Just now, when I saw her with that knife, it was like a dream I had a long time ago."
"What was the use of telling her she had undoubtedly been awake that night as a child, and had seen the whole thing from her room—that it had been repressed and twisted until she imagined it as a fantasy.
No reason for burdening her with the truth. She would have enough sadness with my mother in the days to come.
I would gladly have taken the burden and the pain off her hands, but there was no sense in starting something I couldn't finish. I would have my own suffering to live with. There was no way to stop the sands of knowledge from slipping through the hourglass of my mind.
"I've got to go now," I said.
"Take care of yourself, and of her."
I squeezed her hand.
As I went out, Napoleon barked at me.
I held it in for as long as I could, but when I reached the street it was impossible.
It's hard to write it down, but people turned to look at me as I walked back to the car, crying like a child.
I couldn't help myself, and I didn't care.
As I walked, the ridiculous words drummed themselves into my head over and over again, rising to the rhythm of a buzzing noise:
Three blind mice… three blind mice, See how they run!
See how they run!
They all run after the farmer's wife, She cut off their tails with a carving knife, Did you ever see such a sight in your life, As three… blind… mice?
I tried to shut it out of my ears, but I couldn't, and once when I turned to look back at the house and the porch, I saw the face of a boy, staring at me, his cheek pressed against the window pane.
PROGRESS REPORT 17
October 3
Downhill.
Thoughts of suicide to stop it all now while I am still in control and aware of the world around me.
But then I think of Charlie waiting at the window.
His life is not mine to throw away.
I've just borrowed it for a while, and now I'm being asked to return it.
I must remember I'm the only person this ever happened to.
As long as I can, I've got to keep putting down my thoughts and feelings.
These progress reports are Charlie Gordon's contribution to mankind.
I have become edgy and irritable.
Having fights with people in the building about playing the hi-fi set late at night.
I've been doing that a lot since I've stopped playing the piano.
It isn't right to keep it going all hours, but I do it to keep myself awake.
I know I should sleep, but I begrudge every second of waking time.
It's not just because of the nightmares; it's because I'm afraid of letting go.
I tell myself there'll be time enough to sleep later, when it's dark.
Mr. Vernor in the apartment below never used to complain, but now he's always banging on the pipes or on the ceiling of his apartment so that I hear the pounding beneath my feet.
I ignored it at first, but last night he came up in his bathrobe.
We quarreled, and I slammed the door in his face.
An hour later he was back with a policeman who told me I couldn't play records that loudly at 4 a.m. The smile on Vernor's face so enraged me that it was all I could do to keep from hitting him.
When they left I smashed all the records and the machine. I've been kidding myself anyway.
I don't really like that kind of music any more.
October 4
Strangest therapy session I ever had.
Strauss was upset. It was something he hadn't expected either.