The Collector

 I have been here over a week now, and I miss you very much, and I miss the fresh air and the fresh faces of all those people I so hated on the Tube and the fresh things that happened every hour of every day if only I could have seen them -- their freshness, I mean. The thing I miss most is fresh light. I can't live without light. Artificial light, all the lines lie, it almost makes you long for darkness.

 I haven't told you how I tried to escape. I thought about it all night, I couldn't sleep, it was so stuffy, and my tummy's all wrong (he tries his best to cook, but it's hopeless). I pretended something was wrong with the bed, and then I just turned and ran. But I couldn't get the door shut to lock him in and he caught me in the other cellar. I could see daylight through a keyhole.

 He thinks of everything. He padlocks the door open. It was worth it. One keyholeful of light in seven days. He foresaw I would try and get out and lock him in.

 Then I treated him for three days with a view of my back and my sulky face. I fasted. I slept. When I was sure he wouldn't come in I got up and danced about a bit, and read the art books and drank water. But I didn't touch his food.

 And I brought him to terms. His condition was six weeks. A week ago six hours would have been too much. I cried. Brought him down to four weeks. I'm not less horrified at being with him. I've grown to know every inch of this foul little crypt, it's beginning to grow on me like those coats of stones on the worms in rivers. But the four weeks seem less important.

 I don't seem to have any energy, any will, I'm constipated in all ways.

 Minny, going upstairs with him yesterday. First, the outside air, being in a space bigger than ten by ten by twenty (I've measured it out), being under the stars, and breathing in wonderful wonderful, even though it was damp and misty, wonderful air.

 I thought I might be able to run. But he gripped my arm and I was gagged and bound. It was so dark. So lonely. No lights. Just darkness. I didn't even know which way to run.

 The house is an old cottage. I think it may be timbered outside, indoors there are a lot of beams, the floors all sag, and the ceilings are very low. A lovely old house really, done up in _the_ most excruciating women's magazine "good taste." Ghastliest colour-clashes, mix-up of furniture styles, bits of suburban fuss, phoney antiques, awful brass ornaments. And the pictures! You wouldn't believe me if I described the awfulness of the pictures. He told me some firm did all the furniture choosing and decorating. They must have got rid of all the junk they could find in their store-rooms.

 The bath was delicious. I knew he might burst in (no lock on the door, couldn't even shut it, there was a screwed-in bit of wood). But somehow I knew he wouldn't. And it was so lovely to see a bathful of hot water and a proper place that I almost didn't care. I made him wait hours. Just outside. He didn't seem to mind. He was "good."

 Nothing makes him mind.

 But I've seen a way to get a message out. I could put a message in a little bottle down the place. I could put a bright ribbon round it. Perhaps someone would see it somewhere some day. I'll do it next time.

 I listened for traffic, but there was none. I heard an owl. And an aeroplane.

 If only people knew what they flew over.

 We're all in aeroplanes.

 The bathroom window was boarded up. Great screws. I looked everywhere for a weapon. Under the bath, behind the pipes. But there's nothing. Even if I found one I don't know how I'd use it. I watch him and he watches me. We never give each other a chance. He doesn't look very strong, but he's much stronger than me. It would have to be by surprise.

 Everything's locked and double-locked. There's even a burglar-alarm on my cell door.

 He's thought of everything. I thought of putting a note in laundry. But he doesn't send any. When I asked him about sheets, he said, I buy them new, tell me when you want some more.

 Down-the-place is the only chance.

 Minny, I'm not writing to you, I'm talking to myself.

 When I came out, wearing the least horrid of the shirts he'd bought for me, he stood up (he's been sitting all the time by the door). I felt like the girl-at-the-ball-coming-down-the-grand-staircase. I knocked him over, I suppose it was seeing me in "his" shirt. And with my hair down.

 Or perhaps it was just shock at seeing me without the gag. Anyway I smiled and I wheedled and he let me be without the gag and he let me look round. He kept very close to me. I knew that if I made the slightest false step he would leap at me.