There was a pitcher of bright red liquid with ice cubes floating in
it on the table by the bed, and a glass of it already poured sitting
beside it. I splashed it down my throat with loud swallows, struggled
into the pajamas, and slid under the covers. It seemed only an instant
later--
"What made you afraid, January?" When I opened my eyes the hand shaking
my shoulder stopped. "What made you afraid, January?"
I stared without answering. Finally I closed my eyes to blot out that
serene disinterested, hateful face. When I opened them again it was
gone. I cursed with the vocabulary of the scum from New York to San
Francisco. His psychological game was obvious, now. He hoped to wear me
down, drive me to the point where I would tell him what I would never
tell anyone, as the price of peace. He'd wake me again as soon as I
fell asleep. He'd wake me again and again and again. And again....
"What made you afraid, January?"
"Go 'way," I murmured drowsily.
"What made you afraid, January? What made you afraid?"
* * * * *
No one but an alcoholic could possibly know how I suffered. With
every cell in my body crying out in agony the only relief was the
unconsciousness of sleep. Sleep, that welcomed me only to toss me back
into the hell of consciousness and that mad, unemotionally reiterated
question.
"What made you afraid, January?"
I grew to hate every syllable, every unvarying intonation and
inflection. I began to force myself to stay awake each time, scheming
ways to murder Dr. Leopold Moriss.
I dreamed of him with his throat cut, going down, puffing unconcernedly
on his cigar while his throat spurted out his life's blood. I dreamed
of him falling to the sidewalk outside my window.
"What made you afraid, January?"
I dreamed I was raining blow after blow on his battered head while
he sagged slowly to the floor, his face that of an unemotional,
disinterested automaton.
"What made you afraid, January?"
I sucked in my breath. A moment later I heard the soft closing of the
door. I opened my eyes. The room was empty.
Slipping cautiously out of bed I took the pitcher of tomato juice to
the bathroom and emptied it in the wash basin, then returned to bed
with it, placing it under my pillows in such a way that I could bring
it out and strike without warning.
"What made you afraid, January?"
I opened my eyes abruptly. The face above me bent closer suddenly,
noting my new reaction.
My hand was around the handle of the heavy glass pitcher. I drew in
a deep breath. With convulsive movement I struck, only to feel the
pitcher caught and pulled from my fingers.
"I noticed it was gone," the doctor said calmly. "I'll get it filled
again for you."
The door closed softly. I sobbed in angry frustration, in hopeless
protest. In murderous hate, for I knew that Dr. Leopold Moriss' every
move and every word were coldly calculated, directed toward one goal.
To break me down.
"What made you afraid, January?"
My mind skidded through vast spaces to jar into its cradle of pain. I
opened my eyes. There was a glass of red fluid hovering in front of my
eyes, the doctor's fingers around it. I brought the back of my hand
against where it had been. It had bobbed up so that I missed. The
action half turned me on my face.
I stayed that way. There was the careful sound of the glass being set
on the table, the sound of the door closing. With a deep sigh I turned
on my back again.
There must be a way out. There had to be a way out. All I had to do was
think about it, if I could think through the torture of my body. One
thing I knew: I would never tell him what he wanted to know. Not to
escape a thousand years of torture.
I sat up and drank the glass of tomato juice. The empty glass slipped
out of my fingers to the floor, landing with a dull thud on the rug.
Getting out of bed, I went into the bathroom and washed my face in cold
water.
There had to be a way out. Maybe I could tell him a lie that would
satisfy him. But what lie would satisfy him? What, other than the
truth, could satisfy him?
I looked in the bathroom mirror at my unshaven, tortured features, my
bloodshot eyes, my rats-nest of uncombed hair. And slowly I saw a smile
crease my lips, distorting my face. I knew a lie he would accept as the
truth--if I played it right.
I had to play it right. Just as there was only one truth, there was
only one lie he would accept as the truth. If I failed to make him
accept it I was licked.
How does an actor play his part? He lives it, believes it. I had to do
that. I must keep repeating the lie in my mind, believing it, repeating
it. Then I must _break down_ in the way my torturer expected me to.