3:23 Sunday morning
9th & Folsom
I've finally escaped that prison cell of a room & here I am on Folsom St. Is that a hint of the future? Folsom Prison? To breathe the free, damp, cold air has been almost as delicious as that turkey dinner. Like a phantom, I stalk the hushed, empty streets through the wee hours. I've not walked the city like this since I first came here from Oxford and at last made Angel Island my home. I went missing for three days. William was furious, but Arthur said to walk San Francisco was the only real way to know it. Now I feel like a stranger in this city, or should I say it's now a stranger to me.
I really shouldn't be out in the damp and cold like this. I need a fuzzy scarf like my old, grey, dotted friend, Ingrid's gift from long ago. I bless Xena for deciding to spend extra on the leather jacket - well worth the investment. My fever is still high - thinking is a little fragmented & fuzzy. I must confess, my health is borderline. What happens if I go down? Charlie's antibiotics haven't done their job yet, but I couldn't stay in a moment longer. Still, I have to rest every now and again. I've found a bus bench under a street lamp. An angry old man with a shopping cart tried to drive me away with a broken golf club. I was on his bed. I stood my ground & told him he could have his bench as soon as I have my wind back. I think he's now skulking in the shadows across the street, I hope. At least he went that way & not behind me, though in this fog, I'd not be able to tell if he'd doubled back. On these streets, I'm at a serious disadvantage with my hearing as it is.
I'd thought to walk up to Coit Tower. It would be a long hike, but I have this overwhelming desire to see home. It pulls like a Siren's song. Is it a homing instinct or, like the Siren's song, a trap? But, it's too foggy - a pea soup - so I'd not be able to see it anyway. Just as well - it would all be blackness - no friendly beacon atop the tower - no tower. The silence is eerie - doubly silent because of the fog and my own damaged hearing. Equally eerie is the orange of the streetlights as it filters through the mists. At any moment, I expect to see some ghostly apparition. Not even the ladies are working their accustomed corners tonight.
I became so chilled that I spent the last of my money on a cup of coffee, a bowl of clam chowder, and a warm place to sit for a while. Now Ray Dixon is flat broke. I'll have to pawn the watch tomorrow, but will my photo be splashed across all the papers again when the death certificate is issued? That could be tricky. Wonder if I'd do better getting into a poker or pool game. I won't have the advantage of the "Sight," but I always was a good poker player, with or without it. Same with billiards. If I could win, perhaps I can lay low, think, and avoid the bank until late December.
I found some more newspapers in a dumpster behind the cafe, but the light's not good enough to read. I actually went dumpster diving, which was an experience I never expected to have. It's amazing to discover the amount of food wasted. I surfaced with a relatively fresh red snapper. It's a little rank, but it'll do if cooked thoroughly as soon as I get back to the room. So now, besides being rather aromatic myself, I'm carrying around an increasingly fragrant fish. It's a wonder I don't have a parade of alley cats and stray dogs following me.
I don't know how I feel about any of this. I suppose when one sinks to this level, it becomes a case of when in Rome. One does what one must, short of real illegality. It's not as if I've not been down before, but always before I was secure in who and what I was. Always before, the Legacy, the foundation, Angel Island, my team, my family were there, waiting. I want to go home - home the way it was. It is very hard.
As I walked, I kept thinking about home, about that room that is now my home, and what could be my future home. If I return - if I go to the police - my old home is gone and can never be again - not as it was. I fear the home that awaits me - a prison cell not unlike that room. I cannot deny what was said in the Courier, because I cannot recall those last hours before the destruction. I'm not even sure if it was one day or two, and I cannot recall anything afterwards until I opened my eyes in that room - a total void from the 10th or 11th until the 18th.
I cannot deny Nick's statement that I sent him for C4. I don't recall doing that, but I do remember the feel of it in my hands. I cannot recall the meeting with Rachel, but what she said is only what I've thought a thousand times - in my low moments - God's black joke. She said that I spoke of my father. I remember his voice - "Join us!" Can the burn on my neck be the mark of Satan? Did I yield? I don't remember getting Nick, Alex, and Rachel outside, but it's what I would have done, I think, no matter my intention.
If it's not a prison cell at Folsom or San Quentin, it will surely be a Legacy prison or asylum - one of those dark, secret places of solitary confinement that everyone pretends doesn't exist. I cannot explain how I survived. They could never risk allowing me my freedom - not considering what I must have faced. The stakes are too high - for the safety of all it must be the old witch trial rules. Even if I seemed as innocent as a new born babe, they must assume some seed of the Great Corruptor lies planted within, awaiting germination. No way out - no hope of ever proving that it is not there - no options. I fear if on a tribunal, I should have to rule the same.
Perhaps, I made my deal with the devil. Perhaps, that evil does lie dormant, undetectable, within my soul, a single mutated cell, awaiting only a detonator, like some implanted word that triggers the brainwashed assassin - the "sleeper," "the Manchurian Candidate," who then follows a preprogrammed mission.
Long ago, I was a vessel for the Light, but twice now I've housed the Dark. If not for the intervention of others - my death and resuscitation in the ER at Roseville & William's ultimate sacrifice - I'd have lost. In truth - I did lose and they saved me. This time I fear there was no saviour. Perhaps, I should give myself over. It would be the honourable thing to do, the right thing to do, but then I'd never know. I'm not that brave - death I can face - it holds little terror, but to be sealed away, forever in isolation. I'll welcome death first.
I'd best let the old man have his bench. In this chill, my legs will cramp up if I don't keep moving.
I'll walk until dawn. Since I cannot see home, perhaps Mission Dolores will suffice. It's
closer than the museum. I'm known at the mission - it's been our family's anchor as much as the Legacy or the island have been - but it's shadowy and if I remain
in the back at early mass, or perhaps I should just sit in the cemetery for a while. Maybe that will ease the ache. For a moment I can pretend what is is not and visit what is lost.
Then I'll go home - hah! Home - perhaps - if I'm worn out, I can sleep, then awaken to a bright, new day that will convince me that tonight's musings were nothing more than fevered night terror. And if pigs had wings, they'd fly.
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