On the subject of Eric . . . I had this very strange dream a few days ago. He was taking me somewhere. I don’t know where, and dreams are like that—just random images taken from random moments of your life. Only, if I’m to be honest, and Madness Journal Version 2.0 demands nothing but honesty, it feels more like a memory than a dream, because dreams are something that disappear even while you’re fumbling around, trying to hold the pieces together. But what the hell would I know? Jerry Version 2.0 has faulty software. It was a messy upgrade that’s been slowly wiping the original operating system. Whether dream or memory, it was me in the passenger seat, my head leaning against the side window, and we were somewhere in the city and the streetlights were burning bright, hotels and office buildings lit up like Christmas trees against a black sky. I would close my eyes and when I opened them again everything would be different: different snapshots of time, traffic lights, a convenience store, a couple of drunk people staggering along the sidewalk. Then there was a house, and that house didn’t move by, it wasn’t a snapshot of a moment, it was solid, it was real, and we were parked in front of that house for a while, and there were no lights on inside, there were no lights anywhere other than streetlights. Only it wasn’t we, it was just me. Just me waiting and doing nothing, unable to move, as if the signals to all my nerves and muscles and tendons had been severed. I drifted off again then, returning a while later to a world that had moved on, the house no longer there, instead I was in a park somewhere lying on the grass.

If it was a dream, it was the most boring dream I’ve ever had.

But the thing is . . . I’ve been wandering. I see I’ve previously written in my journal I’ve been caught on the edge of the grounds, on what, in hindsight, may have been escape attempts. When I went wandering I made it into the city. It was some kids who found me on their way to school. They found me lying down on the ground in a park (like the park in the dream, I guess). One of them poked me with a stick, the way kids do a dead insect. But I was alive, and I don’t know what I said to them, but they called the police. I wandered again, trying to figure out where I was even as I was trying to determine where I wanted to go. The police found me three blocks away. I was sitting down on the pavement, leaning against a fence. I was trying to collect my thoughts, but my thoughts were a jumble. I was disoriented. I can remember there was a cat that was keeping me company, head butting my elbow over and over. That bit I remember. I remember the kids too. But the rest I don’t know. How I got there is a mystery.

Since then, I’ve learned that it’s not the first time I’ve wandered. In fact, it’s the second. And, right now as I write this, I’m staring at a pair of earrings that are on the table next to me. I found them in my pocket earlier. Either I held up a jewelry store or it’s the first indicator that I’m about to start cross-dressing. I’ll check later to see if I’ve hidden any high heels in the wardrobe.

I asked Eric whether he’d driven me anywhere. Of course I did. He laughed, and said it was my crime-writer imagination making connections that aren’t there. He said he’d have no reason to drive me anywhere, and both Henry and me agree with him. What would be the point? Eric asked if I had any memory of the other time I escaped, and I don’t. In fact, I can’t even find any mention of it in my journal.

So now for the second point of two-for Tuesday.

Hans came to see me today. I wish he hadn’t. I actually had no idea who it was when I first saw him. He had to tell me a few times, and one of the nurses told me that he actually comes to see me quite a lot, that he spends time with me out in the gardens if it’s a nice day, walking the grounds and updating me on the outside world. I never remember these talks, and I think that’s because when I’m with him I’m not Remembering Jerry, I’m the Jerry that functions in the off position.

I saw earlier that I scribbled in my journal not to trust Hans.

Now I know why.

It’s because he tells me things I don’t want to hear. He tells me why I’m here. I should respect that at least somebody is willing to level with me, but respecting him doesn’t mean I can’t hate him. It’s always easy to shoot the messenger.

Today we sat down outside. It was cold out, but the sun was shining and provided just enough warmth to make sitting outside bearable.

Why am I here? I asked. Why can’t I go back home?

How much do you remember? Hans asked, and it was Henry that answered for me, but before he answered he gave me a warning. He said Something isn’t right here, J-Man. Let me get this for you.

Henry isn’t real, I know he isn’t real and Henry would be the first to agree, yet I was willing to let him take the lead. I didn’t want to listen to Hans. I think even then, as we sat outside, I knew why I didn’t want to listen to him, and yet I did anyway.

Do you remember shooting your wife?

I didn’t remember that, no, but once the words were out there I did. I knew Sandra was dead. I knew I had killed her, but pulling the trigger—that was something I didn’t remember and never wanted to. The news was shocking, it hurt, and for a while I was inconsolable.

Why? I asked, because I had to know. Why did I shoot her?

You don’t want to know. That’s what Henry was saying. Henry, who would observe, who would study, who would connect the unconnectable dots. You really don’t want to know. Don’t listen to him, J-Man. It’s all bad news.

But I did want to know.

Hans looked away. He drew in a deep breath. Then he looked at me. Then he asked, Do you really want to know?

Yes, I said, and Henry was still telling me no.

I think that she thought you killed somebody else.

What?

There was blood, he said. Blood on your shirt.

What shirt? I asked.

And a knife.

What knife?

Let me ask you again, Jerry. Are you sure you want to know?

I told him that I did. That I wanted to know everything. And here’s what he told me.

He told me that last year, the night of Eva’s wedding, I sat in my office watching a video of myself that had been posted online (that video, that speech, that’s something I still haven’t forgotten). After watching it several times, I decided to go out. I phoned him hours later, needing a lift. He said there was blood on my shirt, and when he asked me about it, I told him I didn’t know. He said over the following days he came to believe the blood belonged to the florist at Eva’s wedding, and that I had killed her, and that Sandra had figured it out.

Hans thinks those suspicions made Sandra threaten to call the police.

He thinks I did what I had to do to make sure Sandra couldn’t make that call.

Then he reminded me that it wasn’t my fault. Killing the florist, killing my wife, he reminded me that it wasn’t me, that it was a different version of me, a darker version whose morals and ethics have been stripped away by the disease.

Of course none of that changes the fact that Sandra is dead. Or the florist.

Don’t trust Hans. I got it wrong. What I should have said was don’t believe Hans. Or, more accurately, don’t listen to him. Next time I see him, I’m going to ask him to stop coming to see me. After all, who the hell wants to be reminded of the fact they’re a bad man? I just want to become Forgetful Jerry again. Maybe it’s time to stop writing in the journal. Maybe it’s time just to let nature take its course.

Let nature take the pain and the anger and the memories away.