Page:The strange experiences of Tina Malone.djvu/60

60 were taking part in a play. I understood that somewhere somebody was so attached to me that every movement I made was made by this other who was in pain and was caused pain by my every movement.

I lay there signalling and frowning to my sister not to disturb me.

She stood there, looking at me, her sister, who lay like a log, arms still, words coming through lips which were scarcely allowed to form them, seemingly allowing foolish "hallucinations" to take possession of her and make her make a fool of herself.

"Get up, Tina!" she said angrily. "Don't go on like a fool."

I frowned, and with furtive movements held out my hand for the letter which someone begged me, the voice at my pillow, not to read just yet.

It is hard to believe just now when I am well and these "hallucinations" have altogether left me, that these things really happened, but I left that letter of Tony's unread all that day, not because I did not want to read it, but because the voices begged me to put off reading it "just yet." They kept begging me to "shut down my mind" that my thoughts "went through," and I tried to make my mind a blank—so hard I tried.

Naturally my sister was alarmed and before long she had rung up the others and they came to see me.

By the time they came—an hour or two later—I had in imagination, lived through much—Still with the knowledge that there was someone, somewhere, whose every movement was linked with mine, and who was too ill to move, I went, moving cautiously, into my sitting-room, too afraid of rough movement to dress. I slipped on a dressing-gown and, although I was hungry, I could not go to find any food, but placed myself in a corner of my sofa and lived the life of the mind with this unseen person, trying not to think any thought that might hurt, trying hard, to shut down my mind because thoughts "went through."

It was there my sisters found me.

There I sat as I had sat all day, in my dressing-gown, huddled up in the corner of the sofa, made to feel that every movement I made gave pain to someone else—somewhere, anywhere—far away—The whole day long, although I was hungry and longed to get dressed, I sat there.

The three of them came in together and begged me not to be foolish and asked if I would let them send for a doctor.

At last I gave in to this and suggested one the family knew. I told them I had written to Mont Jones, the barrister friend who had always understood things so well in the old days.

Dr. Morton came.