Rebel Without a Cause (35 page)

L: ‘I want you to listen only to my voice. Listen very carefully and do exactly as I tell you to do. You will say things to me that you wouldn’t say if you were awake. You will tell me things that you wouldn’t tell if you were awake. You really want to tell me; but there are things you somehow can’t seem to tell when you are awake.

Now, Harold, when I say ‘ready’ you will start talking, saying anything that comes to you. You will just talk. You will find that you are telling things you did not tell when you were awake. You really wanted to tell but you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. There are such things, are there not?’

Yes; there are …

L: ‘Now. Ready.’

I—there’s … I stabbed him in the neck—several times, and in the chest—and way down. I guess I lost my head. I agitated myself. I hated him. I hated him. He was older than I. He was a tough guy. I don’t know what it was all about, but I hated him for calling me a lying mother—f——r. I promised myself I’d get even with him. I was afraid for a long time afterward. I was afraid everytime I went out. I was afraid, so afraid I started stealing everything, holding up everyone. I left home and I stayed at my aunt’s for a couple months. Then I went back and I stayed home all winter.

And when I needed money I went out and stole. I couldn’t get enough. I wanted to get enough money together to get away somewhere, and then I found I couldn’t get enough for that. So I wanted to kill myself. I was going to go in my father’s garage and start the motor running and sit in the car and go asleep but I got afraid. I just wanted to go to jail, to get away from everything. So I went to
jail and stayed there. I never figured I would go to jail when I was young. I always thought I would be dead by the time I was twenty-one. Ever since I was ten years old I thought I would die before I got to be twenty-one. But I am still alive. I don’t know why. I guess I didn’t have the nerve enough to get in the car and start the motor.

I used to go with that girl Lila. She used to beg me. She said she wished I would kill her. She would cry and cry and get on her knees and say she loved me. She couldn’t resist men. I used to hit her once in a while and she’d cry and cry and cry.

I thought of a lot of ways to get a little money, steal it, hold up banks. I was getting ready with those other fellows to hold up a bank when I got arrested. I’m glad I’m here now. I am glad. I don’t know why I wanted to hurt this fellow. I just hated him, just like I used to hate everybody. I hate my … Every time somebody says something about my eyes I boil all over. Sometimes people are waving their hands in front of them. I can see their hands moving in front of them. I hate them. I hate my friend Dobriski because of that. I hate him, hate him … hate him because one time he held up his hand to his face waving it. I want nobody around me. I want to be alone. People bother me. I guess I’m different from everybody else. I can’t see as good as others. I—I guess I’m—blind. I hide in my books all day now. I like them. They are better friends than anybody could be. I study all day now. Someday I might do something if I can work hard enough. I don’t want money. My aunt owes me some money. I don’t want it. I know how tough it is with her. I had an argument with her one time when I left home. I remember she was waiting for me when I was going home. I was working for her and we had an argument. My uncle always used to look grouchy at me. One time I stepped on a nail and she cursed me out. I got sick of it and left. But my other aunt was always good to me. I used to dream about her. She was so nice and pretty and everything. I never thought that I—would—want to hold her, hold her real tight,—tight. She’s married and got three kids now. She’s a fine lady.

When I was about ten … I see a couple of kids playing. They’ve got a three-wheeled bicycle. One of them is riding it, riding around in a circle. He tipped over and fell in the street. He hurt his shoulder. He is crying. He is riding around a circle, fast. He fell. He’s crying …

My father always used to holler at me. I guess he was a good father and everything but I hated him. He’d curse me out for not having a job. I guess he was good to my sisters and my mother, but for some reason or other I hated him. I guess I hate him more than anybody else in the world. One time he got in an argument with my mother and he—he hit her. There was a long iron poker. I lost my head. I grabbed it and I might have hit him if he hit my mother again. From then on he hated me even more; didn’t want me around. I didn’t care. I was in another room and when I came in my mother was lying on the floor. He said he just pushed my mother. I couldn’t see anything but him and the poker. My sister took it off me.

One time he almost hit me with a hammer for calling him to supper. He wanted to hit me with the hammer. I don’t know what I said to him. He wanted to hit me. Why did he want to hit me? What did he want to hit me for? I didn’t say nothing. He always wanted me to go to school and learn. When I quit school he wanted me to work. When I couldn’t find a job I started to stay out most of the night. It got him madder and madder. One time he picked me up and—and dropped me on the floor.

I—I feel—as if there are—other things. My father and mother … I can’t seem to get what they are. They—they are coming now … I hated to listen to my mother and father when—when—they were in—bed. I used to sleep in the room next to theirs and pull the covers over my head so I wouldn’t hear anything, or make a song go through my head so I couldn’t hear them. I could hear them talk about things and people. One time I heard my father tell my mother to—move over and—pick up—her leg. Then after a while he asked her, “Is it in?” And she said, “No.” Then he asked her again, “Is it in?” She said, “Yes.” I hated to listen to them. I don’t know why I used to. I couldn’t help hearing what they were talking about.
My father for some reason or other would always holler at my mother. He hit her. I never saw him hit her. He pushed her and she fell down. One time when we were living on F—— Street—I was four and my sister, she was two—we went down to where my grandmother bought a new house, and we were going to live there. I know, because my mother said she was not going to live with my father anymore. They must have had an argument. But the next day we were back home on F—— Street. He just kept looking at her and hollering, “Why don’t you stay away if you want to?” I remember she had my sister in her arms and she was just sitting in a chair and he kept hollering at her, hollering, “Go away. Stay away.”

When we were in P——, when my mother would say something to my father’s cousin—he used to sleep in our house and my mother didn’t like him—he told her to shut up, never to say anything against him, not to interfere with his business. He blamed my mother that he couldn’t make a go of it. He blamed her for failing. When we were on the truck, when we were moving from P——, we left the machine in some farmer’s house. We went to the place on F—— Street and we moved all our furniture on the second floor. We had three rooms, three rooms. I slept in the cradle. I slept next to my mother’s bed, my sister along side of me, my sister next to my mother and then my father. Sometimes I used to stroke my sister’s hand. She was a little baby then. Just stroked her hand so I shouldn’t hurt her. One time I hurt her. I put my finger in her eye. I know I slept in the cradle and my father would say to my mother that she should turn over and look at him once in a while, not to pay so much attention to the children: and my mother would say, “Don’t bother me;” and he would say, “Turn over, you bitch:” and then my mother would go away and take my sister away and sit in the kitchen maybe for two or three hours and then go back to sleep. In the morning my father would be mad. He was always telling my mother why don’t she go away? He would always tell her why did he marry her for? The only reason was to lay in bed.

When we were living in B—— there were windows, big windows, with light shades. The sunlight would get in, almost halfway in the room. One time I saw mother and my father, my father on top of my mother. He was laying her. He must have been telling her not to move. She—she must be saying not to—hurt—not to
hurt her. My mother looked at me. Her eyes were real big. She showed my father that I was looking at her. He looked at me. He looked so mad. He was mad because I was looking. When he got off I could see—everything. I was afraid of him. My mother jumped up and picked me up and held me close. When I was sitting in my highchair and he came in he looked mad. He looked as if he was going to hit me—with—something—big and—long and round like his hand and arm, maybe his—penis. She was right there and she was talking to my father. I guess she quieted everything down. I was afraid that morning. O, he looked mad! His black eyes were shining. I guess he wanted to hit me. When I saw him get off my mother he looked like an animal. I thought his penis might bite me. I—I was afraid of him. But his eyes looked—funny. They were—shining. He was young. He talked in Polish to me all the time.

Sometimes, when my mother put me on her lap, he’d hold me for a minute or two and then he’d say to her (if she was busy or not), “Here; take him. I don’t want him.” He never wanted me around.

I always used to sleep close to my mother. I wasn’t afraid of my mother. I was always afraid of my father. He was so—strong. I always was afraid of him. When I saw his penis it was so—big, so big—like an arm—big—and round—and long, like a crowbar or a stick. I guess I was afraid of getting a beating with it, hit over the head with it. I don’t know. I used to get spankings for crying.

I used to sit in my highchair, with the spoon … I could see his face. It looks like the lines were cut deep in his cheek and the eyes so shiny. I was afraid. He is talking to me. I can see he … I don’t understand what he is saying. I’m afraid of him. His hair is funny. It is slicked down on his head. And his eyes, they look all lit up. And the cuts in his cheek, his nose sticks way out, and his ears are funny. I don’t know what he is saying. I’m afraid of him. My mother is standing right there. I can’t see anything but him. He is talking to me but I can’t understand what he is saying. My mother is standing right there, working at the stove. She is cooking something. I’m afraid. My mother … My mother is looking at me. She looks nice. She hasn’t got cuts in her cheek. She is talking to me. I understand her, not her words, but what she means. She is saying, “My little baby.” I’m afraid of my father. My mother is afraid of him too. She is standing there. Nothing is happening to her.
She told him to stop bothering me. He just sits in his chair. She is bringing him a cup. He is starting to eat. He stops bothering me. He gives me a piece of bread. He holds his hand up to give me a piece of bread. I don’t want it from him. I don’t want to take it from him. I push it back with my hand. The light seems to be gone. It is getting dim. The cuts on his cheeks are smoothing out. His face seems to be getting straighter. There are little bits of lights in his eyes, a little ray of light. My mother, she is walking around. Everything looks alright. She is not saying anything to him. He don’t offer me anything to eat no more. My mother is standing up at the stove. She is making something. They’re flat and round. I guess they are pancakes. She is frying more. She is sitting down at the table opposite him, right next to me. She is giving me some—milk or something to drink in a cup. It looks white—white. I’m afraid now to take it from my mother. But my mother feels alright; there is nothing wrong with her. She seems alright. So I take it. I don’t know; everything is … I don’t know what’s the matter. I can see my father. There is still a light in his eyes. It is coming right at

me, two little darts coming right at me. Before they were bright, now they are smaller. My mother—there are no lights in my mother. It’s—my mother’s eyes look as if there were holes in them. For some reason the light is going through the holes in my mothers eyes. It seems to fit in there, the light—in my mother’s eyes. My eyes are open. I don’t know if there are holes in them or not. It looks to me … The light goes right in my mother’s eyes, from my father to my mother. The lights start getting bigger. I guess that’s what … The light goes to my mother’s eyes. He—he’s—hurting my mother. I see my father’s face getting cut up again. The lines are getting deeper, the nose is sticking out. Then he—my mother is talking to him. He is talking with her. Everything seems alright. I imagine I’m not afraid. The light is going. I can see my father’s eyes, both of them. The light is coming at me now. It’s going at my mother. It’s cut off. My mother is sitting there. The light is going right in her. I don’t know what’s the trouble. She looks at me. She gives me something to eat. I can’t … She is trying to force my mouth open to eat. My father looks at me. I can’t get out of the way. He
turns back to my mother. He says something like, “Don’t give him nothing to eat.” My mother says, “Keep quiet.” I can see the cuts on his face, cut up like a
dog’s
face. He is looking at my mother. I guess he is hurting my mother. I don’t know. The lights seem to be going in one ear and one eye—but—I don’t know—what that is. I can’t see anything else. O, O, everything else is disappearing. It looks like something … Everything is black, blacker. The lights are moving in two rays. They’re missing me. They’re in front of me. I want—I want to go to her. It’s black: I see nothing. I see only the highchair I’m sitting in … the top of it and the flat table, the beads and these two lights. Everything else is black—black. The lights are shining over on me, on my mother. I don’t know what