The
Needle |
I stand at the window
and watch him leave. I cannot help it, it seems: my eyes are drawn inexorably
to that sturdy, tweed-clad figure with its slight limp. And as always the fact
of him leaving, the sound and feel of the hall door shutting, takes something
out of me. He believes I do not
care. Ha! Do not care! He thought me cold at
the reception, cold when I faced his new wife Mary, and smiled, and said all
the right things, all the things one says to a newly-married couple. He thought
me cold before the wedding, as I watched him fuss with his tie and walk about,
nervously, patting his pockets to make certain he had not forgotten the ring. He thought me jealous.
I was! I was.
Sickeningly, furiously jealous. How dare this woman take my Watson away from
me, how dare she take my only friend, there are millions of gullible men in Ah, but he is no
longer mine. I must remember that. Heaven knows it strikes me every single
disparate moment, in the lift of his voice, the brightness of his eyes, the
glint of the wedding ring on his hand, the faint whiff of feminine perfume,
some floral scent that he loves and that twists me inside, in places I did not
know I had. And it is always now
Go away, Holmes, I am a married man now, I have responsibilities. Wedlock has
made him cautious, solid, respectable. He cannot risk his life in order to
apprehend a criminal. He can no longer stand at my back. He can no longer stand
at my side. He no longer has time for
me: it is all his practice and his wife. And his club, oh yes, the club with
the respectable staid “normal” men, the men who do not need him. The men who
can offer him some semblance of friendship, instead of ignoring him and
snubbing him. Why do I do these
things? I do not know. My childhood— I must not think of
it. No one knows save Mycroft, and even he does not realize the full extent of
the damage. Frozen into inhibitions, terrified into silence, the cursed gag
tied round my mouth by my parents. My father, lashing out; my mother, holding
in. Bruises and blows which I can still recall, can still place a finger on.
Here is where he broke my collarbone. He said he did not mean it. That time he
did not laugh when I cried out. Weeks alone in that
bare room with nothing but a violin for company. Meals brought in on a tray. Is
this the way the British raise their children, by putting them in solitary
confinement? Is this the proper and approved way? Children are little animals,
they said. They must be neither seen or heard; they might embarrass the guests.
Damn them for what
they did to me. And still the rage
burns at my temples. I must not speak, I must not show emotion; I will be
mocked. What was it she always said? “Emotions are a weakness to be exploited
by the clever.” Ah, yes, Mother: and you always followed your own advice, did
you not! And then, and then
Watson calls me a cold calculating machine without a heart. I could laugh,
except that I do not really know how. —And then, most
galling, is the pity I see in his wife’s eyes. Ah, Mary, a wise innocent with
blue eyes. Does she know? About— I do not believe so.
How could she? But she knows
something, of that I am sure: and she pities me for it. I wonder what Watson
has told her. About the nightmares, perhaps: surely about the cocaine. He publishes accounts of my ‘addiction’ in
magazines! Ah, Watson, Watson.
You have no conception. It is here now—the
needle. It shines in the sun as I turn it over and over in my fingers. Ah, you
are brave, Watson; but not brave enough, I think, to come between a dangerous
man and his drugs. For I am dangerous, have no doubt. People who have nothing usually are. Ah, so pretty a toy.
Look how the sunlight lights like a burst on the tip; look how the liquid
within wavers brilliantly. I have an artist’s eye, that I know. And I like the
way my crisp white cuff looks against my skin, up over the crook of my elbow.
And I like the purple bruising upon the whiteness of my flesh, and I like the pricks
like small dark stabs, and I like the tenseness of the tendons of my wrist as I
make a fist, and most particularly I like the crooked blueness of the veins as
they bulge, and— Ah! Ah, God help me— —And I like the way
the red blood drips, one small smooth run of it, like a raindrop or a tear, down
my arm after I pull the needle out. And I like this
gorgeous rushing feeling in my brain, beating back the blackness. It is like
flying; it is like Heaven; it is a fine substitute for another’s companionship.
It speeds the blood throughout my body, it throbs within my brain. Ah, I am laughing. Or
giggling. Does it matter? A sound of morbid mirth, that is all. I lean my head
against the coldness of the window-pane; it feels good against my heated,
flushed face. I wonder what he will
do when he reaches his little cottage. Greet his wife, enthusiastically no
doubt. Kiss her and— Ah, ah God, this
jealousy is consuming me from the inside out. I am nailed to it like Christ
upon the cross and like Christ I cannot escape. Were a legion of angels to come
I still should not escape, because deep down I do not want to. If I cannot have
him I can have my want of him. I want, I want: I am always wanting. I have been
weighed on the balances, and found wanting… Ha! My mouth is dry. My
eyes hurt. This sunlight burns into me with my drug-widened eyes. I shall draw
the curtains. There, that is better. The cocaine is taking every nerve and
fiber of my body and tweaking it exquisitely: refashioning it in its own image.
A most potent chemical. Why can it not reach
my heart? I can feel it pumping
now, pumping Not so. Shaving with the big
cut-throat which was one of the few things my father gave to me and not to
Mycroft (was that a statement upon his part?), and watching the blueness of
stubble on my jaw give way to a neatly-shaven chin. As the blade slid down my
throat I felt a sudden unreasonable terror come upon me, and my hand shook and
I cut myself. Just a small nick: the Fates favored me. Had I jumped I could
have cut my own throat. I have seen some horrible things. Did he tell that wife
of his about my nightmares? “Yes, dear, you must not mind Mr. Holmes; he is a
queer card.” He is mad, whisper all the voices I refuse to acknowledge. You are mad. Madness runs in your family.
Look, after all, where your mother ended her life! Look A brain without a
heart, as deficient in human sympathy as I am preeminent in intelligence. That
is what Watson says of me. And His name is Watson. And
he is the one who has abandoned me. |
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