Autre texte de composition, qui se voulait être un espèce de pastiche lointain du Tell-Tale Heart d'Edgard A. Poe.
His hair was the gold that my soul was missing. I wanted to let my fingers run through that golden fountain, the delicate treasure, to smell its sweet perfume. No-one would have to know. I wanted it to be mine and mine alone… but he wouldn’t allow me. It was his fault. He provoked me, all these years, and even more by screaming the way he did. I’m a doctor. I knew what I was doing. He should have known better. People don’t know how to respect their superiors anymore.
Before the incident, I was spreading benevolence to the poorest people of the village I lived in. I cured them, healed their wounds with my love, and covered them with gentle, nurturing words. I had no interest in their money. All I asked in return, because a good man has its limits, was to spend a day with the children of the families I visited.
I would play for countless hours with them, fascinated by their laughs and their innocence. When I’d put the children to bed, I would sit in their room, long after they fell asleep, to admire their peaceful little bodies. I wouldn’t touch them, afraid of leaving any traces. I preferred to examine them from far away. I was pleased with our platonic love. Then I met him… him and his hair, and everything became different.
I’m the one who gave him life; he was in my arms before his own mother or father. And still, he wouldn’t obey; he wouldn’t leave my thoughts alone. Constantly teasing me with his golden head, his locks that made the sun look dull.
One day, when he finally became sick, I promptly went to his house to portray my concern. My whole body was shivering. I would take him home soon, very soon, and attain his beautiful hair. My soul was craving for the sun filaments that were scorching my mind. He had to understand.
After a lie or two to his candid parents, I brought him home for some special treatments. I didn’t mean to harm him. I just wanted the hair. Patiently, I waited beside his bed. He wouldn’t allow me to enter his realm, so he didn’t close his eyes. He did not blink even once. I knew that he was an egoist little king… but I was better than him. Calmly, I told him the source of his disease was his hair: they were so long and magnificent, they drained all of his energy. He was a good boy; he knew he had to listen and let me invade him. Once I was done, he looked like any other kid. His hair was all mine, and never would I be obsessed with them anymore. Then I realized my foolishness.
His Hair would grow back. Soon, he would hog my head again. He would realize who I am inside, and would show the world my soul. I couldn’t allow that to happen. So I did what any responsible adult would do when a kid is insolent: I punished him.
I proceeded to hide the body in my operation room. I knew they wouldn’t dare to enter, with threats of bacteria and disease. They were so intimidated by the precautions I took before entering that room; their ignorance would serve me well. Knowing I’d have to cut open a body at least once or twice a week, they wouldn’t wish to let any harmful creature enter that room. They cared for their child, after all.
When the boy’s parents came to visit their prized infant, I had to tell them some lie about his disappearance. I was the shepherd, they were the lambs. They believed me without any second thought. I ironically had put his hair in a medallion, to keep them close to my heart. Day and night, my soul was at peace, deliciously heated by the dazzling sun filaments I had trapped.
As tears were pearling in the corner of their eyes, I suddenly felt terrible. My heart was on fire. The king destituted of his golden crown was emerging from my soul. He was consuming me in his blazing wrath.
When a fellow doctor was called to auscultate me, he ordered them to bring me in the forbidden operation room. Only then my heart felt cold again.