Whisper Words
Henry...
He used to call me The Old Man. He's changed. I remember back in the beginning, he used to call me The Old Man, and sometimes Father. Isn't that a funny thing? Why would he call me Father? But back then he seemed younger. I was thirty--then he was twenty-three. He was small, dark-haired, quiet and quick. I know what he looked like because he loved to look at himself in the mirror. He loved the mirror, and he loved himself. He was vain back then. He'd sit every night for a least a half hour, trying to make my clothes fit him (because I was so much taller, then), smiling and laughing and chattering at me.
'The Old Man should learn to enjoy things,' he'd say, rolling up my trouser cuffs and pinning them in place. 'If only he knew how to enjoy this sort of thing, he could have a much better life. He wouldn't have to stay here all the time, locked up inside, screwing about with chemicals.'
Henry, get out of here...
Then he'd laugh and whisper something like, 'But then I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be Out.' He'd make "out" sound like a holy word. After that he'd leave the house, and wouldn't be back until morning. He always went out in the night.
It disappointed him that a lot of shops weren't open as late as he liked to go out. I remember when he tried to get into bank the night I'd neglected to withdraw anything for him. It was horrid--he ruined a lot of things. Books he tore apart. I know I'm a fool, but it always make me sick when books are ruined.
I think I would have vomited, if I hadn't been shut up back inside of his head. My feeling sick made him sick too, though, and he left very quickly and I made him go home. I could make him do things, sometimes, back then.
Yes, I suppose I am shaking. I'm sorry.
Henry, now...
You know, I felt bad about it once. When he was out, and I was shut up in the back, it was so cramped. I felt squashed and achy, and irritable, occasionally, as though there were something I'd needed to do and couldn't remember or even accomplish if I could remember.
I wondered if that was what it had been like for him--every day for thirty years, before I learned how to let him out. I'm sorry that it must have been cramped. But I'm sorrier that I released him.
At first he wouldn't kill. At first he was--well, to be honest--he was a bit of a coward at first. He drank and he whored and he was a sodomite and once he tried morphine, but he stopped that very quick. I don't know why, but it made him sick. But anyway, he never killed. He was afraid to do that at first.
Then he killed the old man, and it was like opening a floodgate. And I was frightened. I'm afraid I'm easily frightened.
When he killed the old man, we had to go away. We couldn't stay in London any longer. We couldn't just hide because he knew how to get out on his own, and even the threat of being hung wouldn't stop him. He hates being inside.
Henry, you're overstepping the mark.
Did you know he sometimes talks like a normal man when he wants me to know how angry he is? He doesn't scream obscenities in the back of my mind. He just says in a very calm voice, 'Henry, you shouldn't have said that. Henry, I'm going to have to make you sorry that--"
Well.
Anyway, we had to leave London. I faked the suicide. I think I did a rather good job of it, but I felt very badly for John. John was a man I knew very well, and I hope I didn't hurt him...
I'm very sorry. I don't know why I--well, you'd think I'd be used to it by now, wouldn't you? I've never told anyone this much about us before, though.
Oh--Oh, thank you. This is a nice handkerchief. Are those your initials? I can see that they must be.
Well.
Do you know why I named him Hyde? Because he always hid inside me when he came back. At first he did, I mean. He would vanish inside me, in the perfect hiding place. No one would ever find him. Hide. Hyde.
In a way, it was like naming a child. I created him.
Like hell you did, Henry.
I mean to say, I let him come out. I brought him into the world. Even if it was a horrible mistake in the long run, at the time it was like suddenly having a son of my own. But he needed a name, because how else could I sign papers and leave everything in my will to him? (I had to leave him everything, so that if I died, he could go on living.)
I had a--a grandfather named Edward. I'm ashamed of that, now. I named him after my grandfather, who was a good man.
I--why did I do those things? What madness possessed me to love him and welcome him and give him my grandfather's name? At first... he was like a son...
Shut up, Henry. Get out of here. Get back to your room.
The older I get, the younger he becomes. It's because he's my opposite in everything. He's twenty now. He ages more slowly than I do. But he used to be so much smaller! Then, the more he got out, the larger he became, and now our heights are hardly comparable. He could kill me so easily... but he doesn't.
Because if I die, so does he.
If I committed suicide, he'd be gone. He wouldn't be able to come back. That would be the end.
No, no, I won't. I'm sorry. Of course I won't. It's just that--I made a monster. Shouldn't I take responsibility for killing him? No. I won't. I know you need him.
I'm just so tired of this. He makes me so sick. When he kills, it's like being in the bank with the books all over again, saving that now it's people who have people--who have families--who have someone who must be alone now. Well--not always alone. Families have each other. But some of them must be alone.
Do you know what it's like to be alone? I've been alone.
Henry, I'm warning you. Now. Now.
I'm terribly, terribly sorry. I should go back to my own room now. I didn't mean to come and tell you so much and--and cry like a child and waste time and--I'm sorry. Excuse me. I'll leave now.
No, really. I will.
Good-night.
Very good, old Father. I'm pleased with you.
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