Dear Diary,
Oh my friend, if only you had eyes to see this, my terrible fate. Yes, Albert has become more placid, certainly, with his primitive intestine removed, but I fear that his stool is like soup! I tremble at the sight of his diaper, flowing over with unhealthy ichor. He IS to die! I will loose a son, and so soon. Day and night he coos gently for the Soothing Syrup that is his medicine. When he was first brought out from surgery, he wailed and screamed like a Muhammadan at his prayers. Now his strength ebbs, and diabetes is sure to follow.
I have begun to feed him things, now, which I feel will help to ease suffering. Along with the Soothing Syrup, I give him, on occasion, a drop of the beauty ointment I employ for the eyes. I hear that over the course of a few months, this warm-hearted potion will quietly still the lungs first, then the heart. It is good to know that he will not needlessly endure the pain of starvation. If James or Dr. Haas finds this out, they will certainly scold me for being an excessive and sheltering parent. A man, they would say, should welcome pain, as the steel is tempered. They would have him bear an outrageous burden! I will decide how to care for my child, and no man could tell me how!
I walk in the barren garden now. The sight of dark earth is some solace. Perhaps we could bury Albert here, and have him close to us always? It is a place of quiet and safety, now that all work of that barbarian has been torn away. Still, though, I feel a manly presence in the garden. Could it be James, returned home much sooner than expected? It would be wonderful if he had been joking with me, writing exotic letters from the townhouse in London.
But no. As the sun sets, queer light crosses the paths, and I am convinced that I can see this man. He is continually jumping, or skipping back and forth amongst the beds. James, on the whole, does not skip. I can hear him too, occasionally singing a strange, foreign song. I do not like this man, even if he is only an allusion to light. Exoticists disgust me, and that is the only explanation for his song. He thinks that it makes him seem charming.
This hopping, swarthy man peruses me up and down the garden paths. His aspect must be repulsive. I cannot ever find him, however, as he hides himself quite cleverly. It is as if a mesmeric cloak swirled about his shoulders. Never the less, I can find his footprint, occasionally. A heavy tread, a single footprint, never more. Why must he hop so? This business disturbs me deeply, and when I see this man, I run directly to the ash-closet to administer a suet and tobacco colonic and meditate on healthful topics. I feel foolish lying to James, telling him that he provokes hysterical symptoms in me. It is the strange surveillance of this stranger which provokes me to apply the electric belt to my privates. It is his presence which pales me so; it drains the blood from my body entire. James will, in time, shed his blackened skin and curried countenance. I need only cool him between my fine linens for a few weeks, and he will return to his domestic state. This window-peeker who hops my garden, though, possesses a powerful alien aspect, which cannot be bridled.
Ah! So laced with tragedy are you, O my diary! My dearest friend! Take heart in the fact you have none, no, only a handful of sheaves of paper! No organ of passion and pain to impale with the hot arrows of love, and rend with the cold tongs of despair!