a prisoner’s account
October 30th
I don’t think I can stand him much longer. Yesterday, his aunt sent him a letter, and I made him read it to me. The more I think about it, the more it infuriates me. Can’t he see how absolutely DREADFUL his prissy Nonconformist aunt is? The way she bosses him about and treats him as if he is five. It infuriates me that he can’t let go of his stupid old ideas — that he can’t shake off his past. He is so naïve, so inexperienced in so many ways. It almost makes me feel bad for him. But then he accused me of being bossy – me! I’ve simply been trying to help him — to make him see how utterly ridiculous he is. He would be so much better off if he just listened. It’s times like these that make me even more appreciative of G.P. and his rules. Anyhow, there’s just no way I can speak to him anymore. I’ll have to go back to being silent.
December 5th Something I wrote on Dec. 3rd – “I’m sick of being young. Inexperienced. Clever at knowing but not at living.”
I see it. The longer I sit here wasting away, the clearer it becomes. I see parts of myself (the worst parts) in him. I knew it before – I just didn’t want to admit it. I play games with him, but really, I am just as naïve as he is. In both sex and love, no less. Like a silly schoolgirl, I hold onto the hope that G.P. might one day believe in love – the tender, romantic stuff of my daydreams. Even though I know he never will. It will always be HIS way, the crude, brutal way (sex), or nothing at all. That’s probably for the best. After all, he has seen so much more life. He knows so much more than I do. I’m dreadfully tired of this old, suburban middle-class, getmarried-and-live-a-domestic-existence way of thinking that keeps creeping back into my mind when I least expect it. The last time I was with G.P., an image slipped into my head of us living together — me in the kitchen (can you believe it?). What an irrelevant wave of bourgeois cowardice. All I want to do is escape it. Escape Ladymont. Escape M and D and their stupid, obsessed-with-money, golf-playing, arts-hating class. I hate that I can’t. I hate that HE can’t. It’s like looking into a distorted reflection. A creepy, twisted reflection.
Miranda Grey