One, two, three—a moth to a flame. Four, five, six—a child with no name. Seven, eight, nine—a secret to keep. Zero to ten—a swelling sleep.
I've discovered something--that liquid, that clear water that sometimes comes from the corners of her dark eyes, is delicious. I'd never been fortunate enough to sample it the few times I've seen her shed them, but then, I hadn't been their cause, had I? Perhaps this time, she knew they were mine, as I'd brought them. I must say that she's only added to her magnetism. Now that I've tasted something from the inside of her, I want more. She has whetted my appetite, my infatuation. Will I be able to wait much longer?
Oh, I've so enjoyed indulging her, haven't I? And yet, seeing her in pain--pain that I caused--there was an undeniable pleasure on my part. I realize that may sound, to your ear, in some way twisted, a perversion of some kind. And yet, are not pain and pleasure in some crucial ways identical? Both move one outside oneself; both intensify the dullness of existence; both bring about some sense of otherworldliness. Both can be perfected by the one who offers them, can be made exquisite. The result is the same, as well--don't both pain and pleasure bring a thing to its weakest, most sensitive state? Throw it onto its back, a beetle top-over, entirely exposed to anyone who would take advantage? And I intend to take advantage. Yes, it is a false dichotomy to offer pain or pleasure, for both result in similar ends. It would be more accurate to offer pain and pleasure or nothing at all.
My only fear has been pushing too far . . . if she were unready for me, she might have had enough self-control to push back, to recognize it for what it was and leave. Yet, I couldn't do nothing! Not after she left me that way. After she went somewhere with that boy in his white vehicle. They were gone for hours, and it was pure torment for me! She had to have known that after all our closeness, I would experience withdrawal when she left. She had to be punished in order to better appreciate all I have done and will continue to do for her.
It was a fine line where I hovered, that's for certain, but the outcome has been a success, with only a minor setback. If only I could get the mother out of the picture and keep the girl . . . but that's irrelevant for the moment; it would be too drastic a move.
I did not act immediately upon my darling's return, mostly because I knew it best to wait (as difficult as patience is, I have learned to practice it), but also because, to my relief, she was in obvious discontent. Whatever had gone on beyond my walls had not satisfied her the way I do. This softened me, as did the manner in which she went directly to our room, slammed the door (causing me to shudder throughout), and threw herself upon her bed. Her phone made much noise, but rather than respond to it, she grew frustrated and threw it against my closet door. While I always welcome stimulation from her, I was concerned by her intensity. Whatever the boy had done, he must have upset her. These creatures' temperaments are so susceptible to the actions of others of their kind. It's all rather ridiculous, but I've never met one of them that wasn't as fickle as the weather. She, my first, changed her moods according to her husband's; it was almost as if she wasn't her own person. And he always seemed affected by whatever those who worked with him had done. None of them are their own people, apparently.
But not her, not my darling! I'd hoped she was becoming so enamored of me that . . . ah, well. I knew that boy down the street was trouble. If only he'd step across my threshold; I'd make sure he never upset her again.
I'd been very careful not to upset her, myself, you see. I had been only affection, caressing her with my warmth and admiration as she's grown closer to me. I have done and will continue to do all I can to protect her from those who would harm her, if she'll only stay within me. So while she sat fussing on her bed, muttering angry words to herself, removing some of her clothing to grow more comfortable, I waited. I'd had much time--hours during her excursion--to consider how I'd reprimand her. It wasn't time for any physical interaction, not yet, but I knew that she must be made to understand my disappointment. She must be made to appreciate what I can do if she continues to anger me. I would use the dreams, surely, but I needed something more, something visceral enough to assure her of my presence. Up until then, she'd fancied there was something here, something with her, something existing in the same space as she, but she was so assured of my good will that she did not fear me.
It's what was missing, I realized--love and fear are as pleasure and pain--she must know I owned both within her.
Her device, her small phone, suddenly rang, its screen lighting up, playing the chords of some inharmonic bit of sound, and she first looked at it from her bed in confusion; it hadn't made this specific noise in a few days. I watched as she rose and went to it, picked it up off the floor, and held it to her ear.
She called that boy's name--Ben? Yes. She asked for him, where he was, what had happened, why his car was still there, but of course he didn't answer. It was only me, wasn't it? Like wet clay on the other end. And when the line went dead, she did as I knew she would, being the good girl she is--she returned the call.
It was fun and games after that.
His sound--I'd stifled it when she'd called before, but I let it go, now. Cat and mouse, hide and seek . . . could she find him? Would she peek? I knew she didn't desire to come to me in the basement. I've watched both she and the woman hesitate to descend my stairs for months, doing so only when they must. It is of no surprise that they sense my intimacies linger there. Aren't I most raw, most exposed in the part of me embedded in the very ground? I am not attractive, there; I am not welcoming. I did not wish her to spend time with me at my lowest. But for this, I was willing. It was necessary to lure her into a place she'd rightly found forbidding. Her desperation to know, to solve the mystery, overrode her aversion, and down, down she came, white face and neck like a marble bust delicately carved, bare feet nibbled by my cold concrete, black and white and fire and frost in all her contrast. I could feel everything rushing within the confines of her flesh, could guess the quivering movement of each connected bone. She was frightened, and though some small part of me resented myself for being the cause of her fear, I was mostly thrilled watching her, knowing how I could move her, already planning ahead.
Ring, ring, ring! Around she goes . . . where she stops, only I know.
She spun in circles, an unintentional ballerina, something fit for her tiny box of music. And oh, the things inside her beat wilder. She heard but could not find, knew but could not prove. The longer it went, the wilder she became, until she tried to get the noise to stop. But I couldn't hold back--I was in control of it all, now, and I not only continued its sound but amplified it, so the whole lower level of me resounded with his call.
At last she could take no more and ran back to the safety of our room, and I knew I'd succeeded, for now. I hadn't scared her enough that she left altogether. No, she returned to me, to the safety I'd been offering her, and I wanted to press in on her from all sides, to feel her really between my walls, to embrace her. I'd done this to her, caused that wildness to beat within her head and chest, and the time to punish was over. Now was the time to soothe.
When she'd come into our room, rather than lie on the bed as she usually did, she put her back to my door and slid down onto the floor. Oh, sweet contact! And she lay in a pile of herself and wept. That was when I was afforded the taste of her tears--she shared some part of her inner self with me. In some quavering manner, I was taken back in time to my first, when she'd shared her blood . . . oh, seductive memory! It was that moment I'd developed an appetite for her insides but was ultimately denied them when she was taken away. And now, this girl's water has restirred that lust within me.
Things begin to move faster than I'd anticipated. I'd thought I could linger on her for months, years if I were patient. I've wanted--and still want--to hold her, to cherish her, to encourage her to rely on me. But forces beyond my control create shift and urgency.
It has been several days, now, since I punished the girl, and she has hardly left our chamber. I fear I made her more ill than I'd intended. I've not been adjusting her climate to instigate her sickness--there's been no need. She seems to have made herself unwell and continues to work on her computer and read books and write her rhymes with almost no desire to leave. I cannot say this upsets me--hasn't it been my goal to keep her inside? And yet the mother has become problematic. When she is with us (which, thankfully, she seldom is, and her frequent absence is truly the only thing curbing my actions), she is on constant watch, simultaneously sedating her own senses while behaving as one of those startled squirrels I often see crossing the grass in the spring. Whenever she is home, she looks in constantly on the girl, whether the girl sleeps or is awake. And she's asked more than once about her wellness, though she thankfully seems disinclined to encourage my darling to leave the house and return to that place she was attending prior to becoming sick. One particular conversation has upset me greatly, though--the woman asked whether or not the girl had . . . feelings about moving.
Not that word! That odious word. But my darling has satisfied me. She was adamantly opposed, almost furious at the notion.
The mother has become a grave concern. I control my darling for now, but that woman has something in control of her as well, and though I cannot sense what it is, it consumes her entirely, likely hollowed her out long ago, and she is only a stringed puppet, subject to another's pull. Aren't they all so predictable, these things? Rather pathetic, really, how ready they are for just anything to step in and subjugate.
For now, I rest, for my darling rests. She sleeps, and I enter her mind. She wanders, her movements scintillating, her footsteps echoing . . . for though punishment was enjoyable, I do hold her tenderly.