First of all, I want you to know, I am not mad! Despite what you may have heard, I am quite sane and those who malign me do so because they are callous, unfeeling fellows who cannot or will not comprehend the pain I've endured. They see me dressed in filthy rags, talking to myself, and think they know my life...and know me. Impudent fools, what do they know of sanity...or torment? Yes, my actions may appear somewhat manic and my words a trifle frantic, but so would yours if you had been possessed by the devil as I have...do not judge what you cannot comprehend, for my fall is not one that was brought about by insanity, no...that is too easy an explanation, and I'll try to explain...if you'll let me.
I hadn't a care in the world. I was happy, I never thought I had any real passions, certainly no obsessions...and had no concept of what those might be. I would have called you a fool had you suggested that I would be living in this asylum, this nut house, hiding from the shadows that I've been forced to ignore. I had to live, see, and if I were to live, I had to hide. I had to avoid what possessed me...so they tell me.
Yes, I was indeed happy once, but then I saw HER. Never have you seen a more beautiful woman. a tall, lithesome brunette with dark eyes...how can I describe them...they were demure but coy, sharp and penetrating, like Ingrid Bergman, no...like someone else...but who?
All you men who are reading this, be honest...wouldn't you fall madly under the spell of that alluring glance, that beguiling charm? Well I soon did, and I make no apologies.
Yes, I was happy, hadn't a care in the world. I lived easily, freely. I worked as an unassuming bookkeeper, did my job, came home, read, went to bed and started the routine again...what was there not to be happy about?
Then I made the mistake of opening a magazine that my sister had left behind at my home. Holly came to visit once every two weeks. She tidied my apartment for me. I think she liked that she was of use, that her baby brother still needed her. In truth I didn't really care whether my apartment was tidy or not, it was all the same to me, but it made my sister happy to think that I needed her, and maybe I did, I'm no judge of such things; and while I may not have cared one way or the other about the cleaning, I did appreciate that she cared.
The magazine was one of those fairly innocuous, "Who's Who In Hollywood" periodicals. Who is dating who? So and so stormed off the set of such and such a movie, that kind of thing. It's not exactly my usual reading material. It's not the New Yorker, or The New York Times, but it was colorful, and had mildly lurid photos of wide-eyed, beautiful women, and as old as I was even then, I still was not immune to a pretty face.
So I flipped through the pages, mostly stars I'd never head of, doing things I could have cared less about. But then, toward the back of the magazine, I turned and there SHE was...those eyes, how can I describe them? They caused my heart to beat fast, as they do now as I re-tell the story...my breathing, short, quick, like I couldn't get enough air...those eyes, have you ever been so entranced by something or one, that you thought, life until that moment had been meaningless? Those eyes, they made my life before that moment trivial, no, worthless!
I suppose it wasn't right, it wasn't my magazine, but I cut the photo from the page. I then threw the magazine away, if my sister asked, I'd just tell her I hadn't seen it...but she didn't ask, and I never mentioned it. I wanted to ask her if she knew who the woman was, but to do that was to admit that I cut out the photo, and she'd find that strange, and I didn't need her awkward accusations and assumptions about obsession. Those eyes were meant for me and I didn't want Holly ruining it. Like she did...but never mind, that isn't important.
You who read this, you are men and women of the world. You understand about life, about lust...about desire. You know that photo wasn't enough...how could it be...was it flesh and blood? Did it have a mellifluous voice, did it move gracefully, float across a room as if on air? Did it bat those expressive, wondrous eye, closing, then opening them wide, with small creases in the corners when she smiled, laughing at my witty jokes, or when she gazed dreamily into my own eyes as we whispered the little secrets we shared?
No, it wasn't enough...but, what was there to do? Who was she? The magazine did not say. Was she a starlet? Maybe she was the magazine's editor, or a contributor, or maybe she was a model. I scoured the thing from cover to cover, not a word was there about this woman...how could there not be? Her name should be written in bold print, should be on everyone's lips, written in the sky, seared into our consciousness, wired into our subconscious. If I had only known her name...I would have run out into the street and shouted, told the world of the great injustice done to the most beautiful woman in the world, to the woman with those bewitching eyes!
It nearly drove me mad. I called the magazine's publisher...but I was so nervous, spoke so shrilly, that they brushed me off, eventually ignoring my calls all together. I asked people on the street, would rush up to them, waving the picture, begging, pleading...but they thought me mad and would hurry away, or threaten to call the police. One woman screamed and began to cry...and it was wrong of me, but I didn't care, I couldn't concern myself with her irrational fear...I just scurried across the street to another pedestrian, to another strange stare.
I bought magazines, dozens, no, hundreds. I poured over them day and night. I couldn't really eat...dining meant time away from my quest...I'd grab a piece of bread, a glass of water and rush back to the magazines...it became my preoccupation, my job...my life...Existentialists are laughing while reading this...they see the irony...they know where this story is heading...damn them all...but they are right.
One picture wasn't enough. I had the one I cut out photo-copied and I placed one in my bedroom, another in the living room...another I folded up in my wallet...and one...I kept in my heart! That sounds trite, well it is, so be it. All I know is, I couldn't be separated from HER or those EYES!
Who was she? A month passed, a year, then two. I grew frail, gaunt, I looked older than my 47 years. My body ached, I had headaches all the time...I took aspirin like they were candy, nothing helped...only one thing would...well, two things would...but the second one meant relinquishing the first forever, and I wasn't prepared to admit defeat, to admit that I could never find her...know her...or know of her.
I snapped...you knew I would. I'm a textbook case...the madman's descent into the maelstrom, into Dante's Hell...into...you get the idea. Unable to find her...or accept that I could not...I became weak, exhausted, my head throbbed, it seemed to propel outward, bouncing off the walls, then finally slamming back into my skull, reverberating my failure...excuse my melodrama, I couldn't find the right words to express the pain. Apparently I raved, screamed at the top of my lungs...the other lodgers became frightened, the landlady called the police...it was a good thing, they saved me.
So I write these lines. My doctor tells me its good therapy, that I can only be cured by facing my mania. He too thinks I am mad, but let him. He says that I will get better, that it was a "typical case" of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. but I looked it up, and that isn't me. The book said that people with obsessive disorders have inappropriate, intrusive thoughts, and that isn't my situation ...there isn't anything inappropriate about my passion...you'd have to see those eyes to know what I am talking about.
Still, the doctor is a good man, he means well, though his smile is a trifle patronizing. But he never nods at the nurses to get my medication when I start to get excited and explain...he just lets me go on...he winks confidentially toward the nurse when he thinks I am not looking...yes, he thinks I am mad...but I am not, I never was...I just fell under the spell of those eyes...those marvelous, splendid, inexplicable, intoxicating eyes...and though I shouldn't do this...the doctor would not be pleased, and might even call the nurses to bring my medication...I must show you, maybe you know who she is...could you help me, could you take a look, just a quick peek while the nurses aren't looking. Do you know this woman? Please, if you know her, save me from this misery, you must help me, tell me, who is this mysterious, enigmatic woman with those wondrous eyes?
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~ Karen
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