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R.M. Renfield's Diary, 1897 September 12 -
I believe I've convinced Doctor Seward to allow me to wear my hair long again. I don't understand what they believe I might do, but he seemed rather taken aback when I told him that it was very cruel not to allow a woman her last scrap of dignity.
Seven flies, four spiders, two mice, to-day. I am not allowed a kitten. What doom should beset me, if I am not allowed my strength!
Doctor Seward's Journal, September 14 -
Miss Renfield has been strangely calm, of late. I forbade her a cat, as I fear what would become of the poor thing after the incident with her birds, yet she acceded to this answer with very little argument. I still do not entirely trust her humor, as she is prone to sudden shifts in mood - but I must attest to some improvement, particularly after I forbade Hennessey from duty in her hall last month.
She continues to make mention of the figure I had initially assumed to be some heretical goddess. She refuses to be moved to a room away from sight of the Abbey, though I place this on some form of her fanaticism.
I have told her that the only one there is our neighbor the Count, and he is most certainly unmarried.
R.M. Renfield's Diary, September 16 -
The good doctor has gifted me with a hairbrush.
It is only a little thing, not much bigger than a doll's brush, but enough to serve its purpose when I have need for it again.
He is very kind, though I'm certain still very mournful how Miss Lucy spurned him. It distracts him from his work, and his rest as well. He looks tired, and bruised about the eyes.
Ten flies, six spiders, three mice, two sparrows.
September 17 -
I have not had enough life, I am a fool without a plan! I am bleeding again, this month - a dreadful loss, and I had not accounted for it. It has been long enough that I felt it all dried away, gone to less vile uses.
Master does not bleed. Her children are the little bats and wolves with their sharp teeth, her lovers anyone she chooses. Even when she takes the form of a man, as she must at times, she is still not a man.
And she does not bleed.
I wish very badly that she would keep her promise - to make me like her, dark and astounding and so very, very strong.
But I must wait.
Doctor Seward's Journal, September 17, late-
My patient Renfield burst into my study this evening wielding a dinner knife, and managed to badly cut my hand before she was apprehended. A gruesome sight, she was, smeared in red from where she'd gripped my wrist and scrabbled to take blood from the very floor.
She's still howling, down the hall. It is these nights that we must remember the nature of the mad - that she is not truly the sweet-eyed, waifish girl I saw just yesterday morning.
I fear the poor woman is irredeemable.
R.M. Renfield's Diary, September 17, late-
I must be patient. I must wait. I am not a beggar, I am not some common hag. I can be good. I can wait.
I must. I must.
I must.