Building 18 “The Doctor’s Visit”

I went to the doctor earlier in the day for a normal checkup. After a few minutes it was clear by the look on the doctors face that something was wrong. I asked him what it was, and he admitted to me that upon looking at my numbers he realized I had lost a good deal of weight. He brought up my family history and pointed out that my parents had died of cancer. Then he began to ask me a series of questions, and suggested that just to be safe it may be a good idea to run some tests. I had only started seeing the doctor recently, since he is one of the few that live in the area.

It would...make sense. Many of my symptoms suggest the possibility. The loss of weight, the inability to sleep and achenes. Even the migraines are all indicators...

I left the place feeling awful, knowing that the doctor wanted to see me again before the week was out to get some x-rays done and some blood work. I can already smell the room, the scent of antiseptic and plastic. On my way home I vomited.

Could this...could all of this be a symptom. My collapse at the train station, seeing strange things out of the corner of my eyes; could it all be sourced to something deeper? If I had to choose between having cancer and having something supernatural happening to me, I would choose the latter to be true. Certainly I sound mad to believe that there are some monsters walking around, that something may be stalking me, or that this place is affecting me. But it is better than to know that the illness that took my parents from me may...

I know all of this is all premature. To be fair it is hard to see this objectively. Ever since my parents were brought up in my therapy, I have been unable to sleep without thinking about them. Many of the memories are nice, and I could likely include them among the only happy dreams I have had within the last year. But the image of them that I see, when I think about them, when I am awake, is of them in separate beds with tubes running into them.

I thought that my history would haunt me only in my therapy sessions, but it doesn't. The fact is that there is a possibility that even if I can mentally let go of my past, my body won't be so lucky. And it seems so wrong that my parent’s legacy...that their last touch on my skin could be the thing that killed them...

I have wondered if talking about all of this is too personal, but over the course of this year, since March 15th of last year, my life has become part of the lives of those who have read these reports. The time to have kept things hidden passed without notice long ago, and there is no going back. Morbid as these thoughts may be, and as uncomfortable as I may be to be transcribing them here, they are least not hidden.

The girl from the hospital, the one who had been visited by her attacker, killed herself a few days ago. This makes her in a way the first murder this man has committed, as the other deaths were a result of some mistake made by medical personnel. When it was said that she would not have an open casket funeral I was not surprised. I doubt that her family would want to remember her by the way she likely was in her final moments, and I am not sure if there is a precedent to attaching skin grafts to a corpse.

My therapist understood when I said I wasn't going to be able to make it today. He suggested that I meet up with someone I trust for support, and to try not to get myself upset before all the facts are in. There isn't really anyone I trust here, at least not as much as I should. There is of course the Unknown Author, whose name I have not yet even asked for, but I have not spoken to her since Christmas. By all indications it would be only right for me to stay in contact after all she has done for me.

I fell asleep in the park today, the cold snow almost like a mattress. I don't know how long I slept, and I only woke up when a police officer came by and told me I had to move. If he only knew how desperate I was for sleep, and yet how much it scares me, he may not have been so likely to disturb me. I don't remember about what I was dreaming, but I had to be discrete when leaving, making sure the officer didn't notice I had wet myself in my sleep.

My friend is still missing, and outside of seeing my therapist I really don't go outside much. There is a play being put on this weekend. I think I am going to go to it. It would do me some good I think. Help me get outside of my house. It is a production of the play I reported on some time ago, the French production “Vous si Gentil.” I have agreed to meet with the main actress. It seems that since they were made aware of my report they have been interested in talking.