Коллекционер

           Thefirstdays,Icouldn’tdoanythingifhewasintheroom.Ipretendedtoread,butIcouldn’tconcentrate.ButnowIsometimesforgethe’shere.HesitsbythedoorandIreadinmychair,andwe’reliketwopeoplewho’vebeenmarriedyears.

           ItisnotthatIhaveforgottenwhatotherpeoplearelike.Butotherpeopleseemtohavelostreality.TheonlyrealpersoninmyworldisCaliban.

           Itcan’tbeunderstood.Itjustis.

           October20th

           It’seleveno’clockinthemorning.

           I’vejusttriedtoescape.

           WhatIdidwastowaitforhimtounboltthedoor,whichopensoutwards.Thentopushitbackasviolentlyaspossible.It’sonlymetal-linedonthisside,it’smadeofwood,butit’sveryheavy.IthoughtImighthithimwithitandknockhimout,ifIdiditatjusttherightmoment.

           Soassoonasitbegantomoveback,IgaveitthebiggestpushIcouldmanage.ItknockedhimbackandIrushedout,butofcourseitdependedonhisbeingstunned.Andhewasn’tatall.Hemusthavetakentheforceofitonhisshoulder,itdoesn’tswingverysmoothly.

           Atanyratehecaughtmyjumper.ForasecondtherewasthatothersideofhimIsense,theviolence,hatred,absolutedeterminationnottoletmego.SoIsaid,allright,andpulledmyselfawayandwentback.

           Hesaid,youmighthavehurtme,thatdoor’sveryheavy.

           Isaid,everysecondyoukeepmehere,youhurtme.

           Ithoughtpacifistsdidn’tbelieveinhurtingpeople,hesaid.

           Ijustshruggedandlitacigarette.Iwastrembling.