Free Death Kit by Susan Sontag

chamber branching off the main space of the tunnel.… At this moment, Diddy inclined to give to the workman the benefit of the doubt. The only certainty: that Diddy the Good will never be able to establish, to his own satisfaction, what the man had actually intended. Nor could he know then, in the tunnel. Either astutely observing or blindly assuming that a sneak attack was imminent, Diddy struck first. His opponent either a murderous bully who had dropped his guard or a defenseless human being. But either way, a cowardly assault; since the workman, formidable as he was, never had a chance.
    Diddy has left on the small night-table lamp. He doesn’t want the dark. He’s been in the dark enough today to last a lifetime. No darkness! He must remain alert and perceptive, to fend off the bloody ghosts, to repel the creatures who thrive on the absence of light. Even if it means banishing all creatures. Even if it means being alone. Diddy is alone. Which is almost bearable. He’s been much alone the last three years, since Joan walked out. But “alone” seems undignified, pitiable, weak. Again, as he has so often, he tries to convert loneliness into something noble, when freely elected: solitude. Solitude is strong. Yet there is a great difference between solitude in a space with an immense horizon and solitude in a small space. Diddy cornered. Cooped up in a small antiseptic space with pastel walls and maple furniture; and on the wall, daintily framed, “O beauteous land, O gracious land.” Solitary, with no lines out to the world. He thrashes about in the narrow bed, sweating, each purposeless turning of his naked body further loosening the sheets and creasing them. Thinks of phoning his brother. But Paul’s out on tour; and Diddy left behind in his apartment Paul’s letter containing the schedule of concerts. Paul’s agent in New York, from whom he could find out where the great virtuoso is tonight, probably wouldn’t be home at this hour. And Paul, wherever he is out there in the beauteous gracious land, has the fans and musicians and celebrity-collectors who crowd backstage to look over for possible pleasures, sexual or professional, as well as the after-concert parties to reconnoiter. Is unlikely to return to his hotel until long after midnight. Anyway, having reached Paul, what would Diddy say? Such a call would be an evasion of manhood’s responsibilities, a childish bid for sympathy from someone close who had never been genuinely sympathetic or close. If there is a telephone call to be made, Diddy thinks, shouldn’t he just get it over with? Diddy considers calling the police.
    Still, there’s no hurry. If Diddy even suspects a little that the murder of the trackman was just a nightmare or, as Hester Nayburn suggested, a daydream, then he ought to make sure. He can wait at least until he checks the papers. Nothing served by making a fool of himself. Something he’s done a good deal this past month. If he contacted the police at this late hour, they’d rush over in a squad car to arrest him, stick him for the rest of the night in a cold cell, an even smaller space than this. And if it turned out in the morning that the murder Diddy claimed as his was a phantom-murder, it would not be easy just to walk out of the jail. The police would undoubtedly insist that Diddy undergo psychiatric tests. He’d be taken from jail and deposited at the local Bellevue, missing the ten o’clock opening of the conference tomorrow morning, and probably the whole day’s session. His absence would be remarked, inquiries made, and when the company discovered where he was being detained and for what reason, he’d be fired. Needless to say, no one at Watkins & Company knew why Diddy took a week’s leave last month. He’d told Duva an old virus infection had flared up, requiring hospitalization.
    Diddy resolved not to panic again. He’s decided not to call