September 7, 1942
Dear Diary,
Today has been full of anguish.
Ever since that miserable evening when the fake Inspector Goole visited, I’ve felt like I’m falling into hell. I always thought I was a decent man. Now I can barely recognize myself.
It all connects to Eva Smith. The night at the Palace Bar where I drank too much. That shameful encounter. The day I stole 50 pounds from Father and gave it to her. The evening that fake inspector came and exposed what we all did to Eva Smith.
Everything changed after that night.
Father gets angry easier now. Not at Mother. Not at Sheila. At me. I still hear him shouting: “Either stop shouting or get out. Some fathers I know would have kicked you out of the house by this time. So hold your tongue if you want to stay here.”
Mother looks upset these days. When I walk past her, I see disappointment. Her words keep echoing: “I should think not. Eric, I’m absolutely ashamed of you.”
Sheila hasn’t changed much in appearance, but something shifted inside her. She’s more mature now. “You’re pretending everything’s just as it was before. So nothing really happened. So there’s nothing to be sorry for, nothing to learn. We can all go on behaving just as we did.” I can feel the power in those words. She’s become a young woman who embraces progress and social responsibility while the rest of us pretend nothing’s wrong.
What changes should I make?
I’ve thought about this all day. So many things I could change. Maybe I should start with the most important one. No more bars. If I hadn’t gone to that bar, none of this would’ve happened.
I want to say sorry to Eva Smith. Or Daisy Renton. I’m not a responsible person. I’m sorry to you and our child. Sorry. If I could start again, I wouldn’t let any of this happen.
Good night. Hope tomorrow is sunny.
Eric
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