|December 1st, 1995 - 9:23 am
||[21 Nov 2005|01:16am]
I find it vaguely amusing that the entry I wrote in here the other night was supposed to be a one time thing, and yet here I am, using this space as an impromptu journal again. Amusing, yet appropriate, I suppose, considering the night I had last night.
And I honestly don't know where to begin.
I suppose I should start at the beginning, as that's usually the best place to begin, but my thoughts are too jumbled at the moment. And I'm still borrowing Mister Shreck's guest room, and I'm afraid I might already be overstaying my welcome. Despite the fact that I thought I heard him step out earlier ... and he was the one who offered me use of his guest room, last night.
And it occurs to me that I'm just making excuses now, to avoid the issue, no matter how strangely interesting parts of it were.
It all really starts with the fact that, until this morning, I haven't gotten any sleep since Wednesday - I was too intent on working out some kind strategy for what Mister Shreck asked of me. I'm not quite certain if I didn't think it through all the way or if I was too exhausted to think straight, but all did not go as planned.
Originally, I intended to simply get what I wanted, use the gas, and leave ... but instead, I went further than that.
And despite the fact that I know the chances of someone beside me reading this are slim to none, I'm almost afraid to elaborate. No, more than almost. I am afraid to elaborate, because I think I took a life. I burned his home to the ground, with him inside it, and I doubt he made it out. He was far too dellusional to have made it out.
And I think what frightens me the most about this is that I don't know how I feel. Or how I should feel.
On one hand, I know that I am not a murderer. I am a scientist. A doctor. But on the other hand, it was neccessary - if I hadn't done something I could have been identified, and then what? Prison at Blackgate? Arkham? I don't know. And, truth be told, I feel ill even thinking about it, at the moment. Maybe I'll see if there's anything in the newspaper about it later. Maybe, on some off chance, he survived.
I don't know.
And if that weren't traumatization enough, after I called Mister Shreck last night to let him know I had the contract, I ran into Harvey Dent. Not that it was particularly traumatizing - if you ignore the part where there was a gun to my head. But it was interesting.
Harvey Dent. Two-Face.
The man's a psychological dream. Or a psychological nightmare. I remember meeting him once before he was Two-Face. It was in passing, one of the 'field trips' they took us on in college, since most of us were going on to become criminal psychologists ... but the man was legend. And he still is, only in a different way. He's - it's impossible to articulate - but the meeting left me strangely elated.
And he reffered to himself as 'we'. And 'us' and 'our'.
Not surprising, I suppose, as according to what I remember from Arkham's records and the news, he's suffering from MPD or something along those lines. But surprising or otherwise, hearing him reffer to himself in the plural was ... again, I can't describe it. All I know is that I would enjoy meeting up with Mister Dent - Two-Face? - again. He might kill me if he knew I was interested in him on a purely psychological level, but then again, I don't think that's all there is to my interest.
I feel ... I feel more like I'm standing on the edge of something great. And considering all that's happened and how absolutely insane it all seems? I'm not sure how to approach it.
I suppose I'll have to wait and see.
((Anyone interested in seeing part of this post, handwritten in Crane!writing? Look here.))