"What made you afraid, January? What made you afraid?"
No one but an alcoholic could possibly know how I suffered. With every cell in my body crying out in agony the only relief was the unconsciousness of sleep. Sleep, that welcomed me only to toss me back into the hell of consciousness and that mad, unemotionally reiterated question.
"What made you afraid, January?"
I grew to hate every syllable, every unvarying intonation and inflection. I began to force myself to stay awake each time, scheming ways to murder Dr. Leopold Moriss.
I dreamed of him with his throat cut, going down, puffing unconcernedly on his cigar while his throat spurted out his life's blood. I dreamed of him falling to the sidewalk outside my window.
"What made you afraid, January?"
I dreamed I was raining blow after blow on his battered head while he sagged slowly to the floor, his face that of an unemotional, disinterested automaton.
"What made you afraid, January?"
I sucked in my breath. A moment later I heard the soft closing of the door. I opened my eyes. The room was empty.