Pity Him Afterwards

It had happened to him other times, when he was fooling Doctor Chax by making believe he was one of the other inmates. Sometimes it had happened that in the making-believe he had lost touch with himself, the true self and the assumed self had become confused together, and for a while he had not been in control. At such times, a tiny portion of himself — he visualized it as crouching low against the floor in a dark corner — only that tiny portion of himself was still aware, could still differentiate between fantasy and reality, while the rest of him was all taken over by the other being. Times when all but that tiny portion of himself actually believed he was that other being. It hadn’t happened often, and it never lasted long, so he had never been overly concerned about it.

But tonight he was concerned. In the asylum it had not been dangerous, but here it was dangerous indeed. Here he had to be in control, at all times. When it had happened tonight, at the table in Black Lake Lounge, the sliver of self that had retained awareness was terrified, afraid that the other being would make a slip, would say the wrong thing and spoil every thing.

But it had worked out, with no danger and no trouble, and so the fear was muted by exultance. They had accepted him. They had made no objection to his joining their group, being a part of their conversation and their laughter and their singing.

And he was pleased with himself. When the story-telling time had come, and the joke-telling time, he had done as well as anyone. What matter that it had been automatic, the work of the other being, out of his own control? The point was that he had not only been accepted, he had managed to take advantage of the acceptance and actively to become one of them.

And this afternoon, with the teacher/policeman, that too had been good. Could there possibly be any doubt at all in the teacher/policeman’s mind that he was precisely what he claimed to be? (Some of the things he’d said had been direct quotes from the dead actor, the one whose place he was taking, just as some of the stories he had told tonight had come from the same source. But the other being — and this was strange — the other being was not entirely patterned on the dead actor. It was, for the first time, an amalgam, a combination of people from his past, with the dead actor only one facet. Maybe that was why the being had taken over tonight so readily; it was a more complex creation than any he had done before.)

Thinking of the afternoon’s interview with Captain Sondgard, and the night’s laughter with the other members of the company, the madman smiled and smiled, nearly bursting out loud into laughter. It was all so good!

He couldn’t contain himself, he couldn’t remain motionless. He got to his feet and paced the room, barefoot and in darkness, rubbing his hands together and nodding his head, mumbling to himself as he did when not quite talking to himself out loud. His body seemed filled with electricity; vitality coursed through him. He was strong, strong, stronger than he’d ever been before.

The room couldn’t hold him. He couldn’t be confined now, feeling as he did, he couldn’t be confined by anything. He prowled around the room, touching the walls in the darkness, brushing his nervous hands over the furniture, his eyes staring into the blackness, his smiling mouth mumbling as he talked to himself.