AS THE SUN SET, I emptied my school books from my bag and replaced them with the box and my notes—and one last item I’d purchased at a hardware store on the way home from school. Inside myself, deep within my brain—my soul—the beast wriggled, clearly understanding that something was happening to both of us. It was the first time I’d consciously ever felt us coexist, and the sensation was at once alarming and reassuring.
The thing inside of me was growing stronger, asserting itself—which meant that I was right to stop it, even if that meant ending my life.
I’d never thought much about heaven and hell, but as I closed my bag with the vial of rat poison—deadly strychnine—inside, I wondered, briefly, what the verdict would be if I stood in judgment that night. Some people believed suicide doomed a soul to hell. But Christ himself had been born to sacrifice his life.
I hoisted my bag, thinking the point was moot, anyway. I would do what I needed to do.
Walking down the hallway, I passed my father’s office. The door was open, and the room dark. Dad was at the university as usual. His home computer, at which he used to work so often, sat abandoned on his desk.
I hesitated, thinking that I would probably die without ever knowing just who he was, how much of Dad was left—and how much the beast controlled.
On a whim I set down everything that I carried and went to his computer, thinking that perhaps I’d drop him a line. A farewell note explaining what I’d done and what I knew for certain about both of us. Logging onto his machine, which clicked and whirred in the dark room, I called up the word processing program and actually started to smile, mentally composing my message.
Dear Dad . . . Guess what your insubordinate son’s done now!
I actually typed that line and hit “save,” not wanting my work to disappear inadvertently like its author. The prompt popped up asking me what I wanted to call the letter. I smiled more broadly, nearly laughing at the absurdity. What else but “suicide note”?
I typed “su,” and the computer automatically began to file alphabetically. And what should I notice but a document in my father’s personal files entitled “SubjugateHydeJrnl1.doc.”
Curiosity piqued by the strange title, so relevant to my own plans for the evening, I saved and temporarily abandoned my note, then opened my father’s work.
Scrolling and skimming, with increasing speed and heightening amazement, I leaned toward the screen, unable to believe my eyes.