|
 | True, they call me mad... but what does it mean to be mad? My senses are sharp, watch how calmly I can tell you this story... and of course, I have no problem separating what is real and what is just my imagination. And still you call me mad? | |
|
|
|
|
|
|
| It was the old man, living in his old house... no, it wasn't the old man, it was his eye. The man had never done anything to me; never insulted me, never wronged me. No, it was his Evil Eye that I so detested. It looked like a vulture's... pale blue and filmy. The eye had to go... so of course, the old man did as well. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| I was never kinder to that old man than I was in the week before I killed him. He never suspected that each night, while he slept, I crept up to his room and silently stuck my head through the door. I was patient, sometimes taking an hour to just get my head through the door.And still the man slept on... for in the darkness, he couldn't see a thing. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
