In the little cradle, there, lie baby's fingers, baby's hair, baby's toes and baby's nose . . . but where is baby now, oh, where?
How often I wish I could pass my own boundaries, now. I've never felt so frustratingly sedentary before. There were times I wondered what went on beyond my walls, but I seldom concerned myself with a situation I couldn't change, largely because I was grateful to be alone when my various residents left. I had no inclination to follow them out into their world. And even when she lived here with her husband and her little teeth and nails, she rarely left. She was most often within me, which I found pleasing.
But this one is younger, and she's restless. She has come and gone often enough already, and I sense that within several days, she'll be out of me quite frequently. This saddens and concerns me; if only I could think of a way to keep her always inside me without frightening her away.
It is something to think on. The best course as of now is still a subtle one.
I enjoy most the moments she spends in her room. I find myself hardly aware of the rest of me when she's sealed herself into my one particular pocket; it has quickly become my favorite piece of myself. Oh, I would gild the walls of that place if I could, though I know not whether she'd appreciate that. Perhaps black would suit her better—she does seem to enjoy that color. And I can't say black walls wouldn't make her stand out like a white bone against a dark earth, something precious amidst the dull. It's an idea, anyway. And perhaps if I make her room more suitable to her needs, her desires, she'll stay in it. If it were prudent, I would lock her up, collect her for myself, never let her leave.
But again, I get ahead.
I am not entirely oblivious of the world beyond me. I know it exists. I've seen much of their television programs, heard enough of their conversations, to understand they have jobs and schools and pleasures that exist in some vast world. I do not care to experience any of that myself; I worry only that my new treasure will become distracted and desire to stay away from me; I must devise ways to discourage it.
When she lies on her bed and writes in her little book, or when she puts things on her ears and seems to lose herself in some world only she can hear, those are beautiful moments for me. I watch her intently, how she'll pick at the shiny stuff on her nails, how she'll turn on her side and sigh at certain moments, how she touches and examines her own body in ways she wouldn't dare if she knew someone observed. They all do that--these people. The way they treat their bodies when they believe they're alone, fingers in noses and ears and under their clothes, allowing their functions to operate too freely, in my opinion . . . but perhaps I feel such a way because my exterior is always on display; I never have such privacy and wouldn't know what to do with myself if I had. I've learned some other interesting things of her as well, sparkling little things. When she gets focused on her writing, for example, she'll bite her lower lip, and her teeth show just a bit, white against the red of her mouth. I am reminded of her at such times, catching those stimulating glimpses of the framework within them, and it gives me desire to see more of her interior, to know how it's decorated. And she'll pay attention to herself in rather charming ways--look in the mirror she hung on the back of the door and try little twists and braids in her hair, pull out various clothes and try them in different arrangements, put colors on her eyes and cheeks and lips and turn this way and that. These and a dozen other behaviors have kept my interest, inflamed it, truthfully, and watching her feels keenly like opening a gift each time I'm with her.
I like her when she sleeps, as well. These beings spend so much time in latency! It has never ceased to amaze me that they can function at all; half of their lives are spent sleeping. What energy do they expel during their waking hours that commands such rest afterward? They don't seem to do enough to warrant such weakness. And the utter defenselessness, the absolute exposure with which they present themselves is entirely astounding. Why, literally anything at all could happen to them as they lie with their bodies dead to the world, and they would never even know until by chance something caused them to stir! Even in my own shadowy corners, I hide dark desires; just as they, I do my best to quiet my blacker appetites during daylight hours, but when all is at rest, when her and all of their vulnerable forms throw themselves unawares at the mercy of they know not what, even I struggle to contain myself. How they tempt me! How she tempts me.
But it is my business to restrain myself. At present, I am able, and I am willing. Should there come a time when I am neither . . . well, it is an unproductive line of thinking.
One hair in the paint in all of my long-awaited present bliss is that boy.
You know, I've had little to do in the fourteen years I've sat here empty. A renter or two came by in that time, but no one stayed long, and I essentially went into a period of dormancy myself, but the one thing that kept me somewhat alert was watching those others around me. I'd see that elderly woman at my immediate left move about and tend her garden; I'd watch her move in and out of her cellar in the dark of the night, when she thought no one was there to see. I watched that couple with their growing children, the ones who moved off and away, and I saw strangers move in and out of their house at odd times. Most of the others were too far from me or too dull to pay attention to, but I did start to notice that boy, even though he dwells at a bit of a distance. He made himself known to me, you understand. I would've never paid him much heed, but as he changed, he began to harass me.
I first noticed him when he was small, about waist-high against the man, and I noticed him only because an emphatic and egregious display of shouting took place outside his home one evening, presumably between his parents. The woman got in a car and drove away and, as far as I know, has never returned. I've never seen her if she has, anyway. And a few more years passed before I thought anything of them again, until the boy was some sort of adolescent, maybe six or seven years ago. All of a sudden, he began to snoop around my property, molest my windows and doors, attempt to peer into my interior. It was shocking and loathsome, and it was even worse when he brought others with him. He'd pry and prowl, bringing them at night, at first other stupid, obnoxious boys, and then girls as well--crude, all of them--surely in attempt to impress them, muttering ridiculous notions about hauntings and ghosts and such. I tolerated it only because I had no other choice, and yet within I smoldered, I fumed. How dare he attempt to use me in such a manner for his own selfish gain!
But the last straw had been when he did, at length, enter me. He'd been doing nothing but rattling doorknobs and tapping at windows, but when he grew a little more, looked to be almost a man--probably three or so years back--he brought some disreputable-looking girl and, to my horror and surprise, cracked and broke one of the glass panes on my back door to unlock it and gain entry.
Imagine my terror, my disgust! These two unwelcome invaders violating my intimate boundaries in the darkest, most silent hours of the night.
Once I'd surmounted my feelings of fear and revulsion, I made up my mind to get him away for good. I watched them, watched him as he brought the histrionic, trembling girl through my rooms, listened as he made up obscene stories of murdered people and undead spirits and whatever nonsense he'd prepared in order to attempt to amaze her. I observed, and I thought, and I waited for the right moment, and when he at last convinced her to follow him into the depths of my basement and, upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, made his move on her, I made my move on him.
Oh, the fun of it! I still see their faces in the circle of his flashlight, still see his hand frozen where he'd attempted to grope her, her arms around his neck, the way they checked their fear against one another, how he in his false chivalry determined to find the source of concern and soon regretted doing so.
Needless to say, he did not return, and my window was soon replaced (by his father, no less, who had no doubt wanted to keep his son out of trouble).
But I've always detested him, and I'd thought I was rid of him, so the fact that he's twice approached me in the past few days, found excuses to draw near when he believed my new residents wouldn't notice—it unsettles me, not so much for myself but because I sense he's taken an interest in what now belongs to me.
He holds odd hours, too, which aids his secrecy. For several months, he's left at night and returned and disappeared into his home come morning. I've paid little attention to him until he chose to pay attention to me and to her; though I am too far to comprehend what goes on much past my yard, I understood that some sort of altercation took place when my treasure walked past his home. Some ugly girl, some ugly words . . . I do not quite know, but I do know that it upset her, and while the physical gratification I attain when she so forcefully slams her door is the closest to ecstasy I've experienced in ages, I do not like to think she has been caused distress. Allow me to edit myself--I do not like to think that any of what she feels--whether it be distress or rage or joy or pleasure or fear--would be caused by any other source than myself.
I must keep a close watch on him; I would not relive the nightmare of my first, of the two of them and the sad, offensive manner in which they treated one another. I should have taken that woman away, before she'd brought home the baby, before she'd lost her way; how I would've cherished her. But I moved too late, and by that time, she was gone to me, and I was angry; I wanted only to punish.
This time, I will wait only so much, and no more.