Still apparently painting in my sleep. Cecile says she even hears me singing now; says it’s neither English or French. I don’t know any other languages.
(I think something happened between her and her supposed boyfriend. She doesn’t go out as much, except to the job I helped her get as a waitress at this coffee shop near the hospital, and she seems really bummed out lately.)
The day after I wrote my last blog I saw someone die. Walking on my way home, this sedan came out of nowhere and just hit this homeless street preacher while he was in the middle of giving his daily sermon to a crowd of nobodies. Never saw it coming. Street Preacher didn’t fly or roll over the car like in the movies; he was caught under the wheels. It was a violent mess that came out of the other side. The couple who got out of the car were yuppies.
I didn’t call the cops. I ran home, locked myself in my room and realized that somehow…somehow, I had the Street Preacher’s bible. It’s covered with all sorts of symbols and the inside is highlighted and scribbled on with all sorts of bright colors. I threw it across the room, crawled into bed, and sobbed until I fell asleep.
When I woke up, it was Tuesday. Cecile was banging at my door, panicking. She said I looked sick but I didn’t go to a doctor. I just went to work. I haven’t told my shrink and I’ve had two sessions since it happened. I shoved the bible into the bottom drawer of my dresser, under clothes I don’t really wear except when it’s laundry day. I’ve just been trying to forget about it, but it seems like news about it has been everywhere. Apparently, one of the yuppies from the car is the son of some well-to-do Manhattan socialite or something. Fucking rich kids…
I wish my Mr. E was here. He hasn’t come by in a while. I’m worried.
I’m worried about myself, too. Pretending that everything is fine when I still feel the way I do is not good. I think it’s overdue that I try to see someone important. If there is anyone who can help me, it’ll be him.