The Fourth Note
The note said it all, but Starsky knew Hutch was entitled to an explanation. For a long time he stared at the typewriter before he put his fingers on the keys. Slowly he began to type but more rapidly as his fingers spilled the words that rushed around in his mind. There was no structure in the letter - it was exactly how he felt, confused and upset, and with all sense of direction gone. The letter was a perfect reflection of himself.
Dear Hutch,
You can’t begin to understand how difficult this is. I’m jumpy, edgy, suspicious of everybody – are they talking about me? Why are they laughing? Why are they looking at me the way they do? Why didn’t I just break my leg or have some horrible facial injury? At least then people could SEE there’s something wrong with me.I see them, staring at me, thinking I’m either a nutcase or a drunk. That’s why I stopped talking. I can’t hear myself. Suppose I talk too loud or unclear. Whatever. I don’t want to talk like that.
I hate the pitying, wary looks I get from people.
I’m scared by little things.
I can’t hear people approaching, they startle me when they suddenly pop up. You included. I was never scared of you, but now I dread the moments that you’re near me.
I see movies on TV. What’s a movie without a sound? How can I get the gist of a show if I can’t hear the atmosphere?
How can I feel at ease in a room full of people who all laugh and chit-chat and make me feel like an outsider?
I can’t read. It’s too quiet to read. I’m scared to read because I’ll be startled again when something happens that I can’t hear coming.
Hutch, I’d give anything to hear your voice. But it’s all gone. I can’t hear you. I can’t look at your guitar without feeling my heart bleeding.
I’m jealous. I want to hear music. Music, Hutch. Your guitar, your voice - the very heart of your existence. And it's NOT there. There's just a void and it's making me crazy.
I’m so goddamned alone, Hutch, you can’t even imagine.
It’s in the little things.
I’m scared shitless to close my eyes. I’m scared to sleep, now that the dizziness and the nausea are almost gone. It’s like someone turns off the lights and the sounds and leaves me alone in a vacuum that chokes me.
I’m scared to leave the kitchen. What happens if something boils or burns and I can’t hear it?
I can’t hear the doorbell, I can't hear the weather forecast, the radio, music, singing, warnings, laughter, cries... I can't hear a bloody thing.
I can’t hear my car. I feel it roaring, but I can’t hear it. I can’t drive because I can’t hear traffic. I can’t hear the cherry even if it sat inside my ear.
I can’t hear you when you talk to me. I know you try, but Hutch – it’s just too much.
Thanks for your help. As ever, you’re a great friend, but right now, you’re further away from me than ever.
It’s one big trap. I’m trapped in my own isolation and it’s driving me crazy.
Starsky
Starsky didn’t take the paper from the typewriter. He closed his eyes, slightly disoriented and quickly opened them again. He left the sheet where it was, fetched his jacket and left, the keys to his car and his apartment on the kitchen table, next to the typewriter.