[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction December 1959.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Certainly I see things that aren't there
and don't say what my voice says--but how
can I prove that I don't have my health?
When he began his talk with "You got your health, don't you?" it
touched those spots inside me. That was when I did it.
Why couldn't what he said have been "The best things in life are free,
buddy" or "Every dog has his day, fellow" or "If at first you don't
succeed, man"? No, he had to use that one line. You wouldn't blame me.
Not if you believe me.
The first thing I can remember, the start of all this, was when I was
four or five somebody was soiling my bed for me. I absolutely was not
doing it. I took long naps morning and evening so I could lie awake all
night to see that it wouldn't happen. It couldn't happen. But in the
morning the bed would sit there dispassionately soiled and convict me
on circumstantial evidence. My punishment was as sure as the tide.
Dad was a compact man, small eyes, small mouth, tight clothes. He was
narrow but not mean. For punishment, he locked me in a windowless
room and told me to sit still until he came back. It wasn't so bad a
punishment, except that when Dad closed the door, the light turned off
and I was left there in the dark.
Being four or five, I didn't know any better, so I thought Dad made it
dark to add to my punishment. But I learned he didn't know the light
went out. It came back on when he unlocked the door. Every time I told
him about the light as soon as I could talk again, but he said I was
lying.
* * * * *
One day, to prove me a liar, he opened and closed the door a few times
from outside. The light winked off and on, off and on, always shining
when Dad stuck his head inside. He tried using the door from the
inside, and the light stayed on, no matter how hard he slammed the
door.