Two apparitions in the hall, their voices call and call and call. But what their words? And what their names? Never heard, yet always blamed--the women in the walls.
She was the first thing when I woke, when I first saw--I couldn't tell you what to call the moment I recall possessing sentience. I'd always been there, but just . . . unaware, until I wasn't anymore. Whatever occurred and whenever it occurred, she lives in my memory as first. She moved up my path to the porch in a blinding sunlight, her bright red dress against a blue sky whirling around her slim frame as she spun to embrace the uninteresting man behind her. She was absolutely scintillating, aglow, her smile with all its perfection unlike anything I could imagine. Yes, I shuddered deep within myself when I realized she was mine, she was approaching me! And when her hands reached for my door, grasped the handle, her slender fingers making contact with me for the first time, it took everything inside of me not to burst a window.
I was intrigued by her mannerisms, her affect, her every move. When she'd bend her back to reach for something on the ground or a table, I admired the curve of her spine, its delicate protrusions; when she'd place a shoe onto her narrow white foot, I pondered how her soft toes fit into it; when she'd put color on her lips or eyes, I marveled at her gentle sweep over such sensitive areas. I didn't quite know what I felt in those moments, only that somehow, I wanted to be a part of her when she moved, to have intimate understanding of her shape, her structure. Her open mouth was beyond anything--the pleasure of seeing inside of her, the hint of bone, the pink moistness of her tongue, and--if she laughed or held her head just a certain way--I might witness the mysterious dark hollow of her throat, that tunnel within the smooth porcelain column of her neck.
And it was where my desire began--to see inside of her. For why should all of me be laid bare for anyone to walk through, to scrutinize, to mold or paint or decorate? Or even to tear apart, if there were some perceived flaw within me? What justice allowed for my violation, when I was incapable of in any way defending myself, of speaking for myself? I know I have shared these frustrations before, but they are persistent thoughts, and I have been forced to attempt answers to them the entirety of my existence. Still I surely begin to bore with my repetition.
So I shall tell you something I have as of yet never expressed.
I never cared for him, the man who was with her. As I've said, he was dull, and he never seemed satisfied with her even as perfect as I found her, even when he . . . they . . . but I digress.
Though it has taken me until only these last few days to recognize the reality of my feelings toward him, I now understand that it was not a hatred of the man himself but a jealousy. I envied that he was master of her, that he was able to encourage her to behave in ways that pleased him. I did not know how to do that, how to persuade her, how to manipulate her to act as I desired. She was always willing to smile for him, to caress him, to do as he bid. That subservience--I wanted it. I wanted to control her as he controlled her. I understand it now only because I have found that capability he once possessed and that I hardly knew how to delineate; I have found it with her, with my darling, my girl. I am her ruler, in every way--she bends to my will, and more meaningful than that, even, is that she knows she is mine. She may not be able to express that knowledge, but her body knows it; her subconscious knows it. For she acquiesces immediately, capitulates entirely, wholly, with no willpower of her own, so it would seem.
I brought her to me, that night, after she'd misbehaved, after she'd brought those delinquents beyond my walls and, worse, attempted to share some sort of closeness with that boy down the street. I'd have none of that, she quickly found, and she knew to return to me at once. When she was safe within the confines of our room, I allowed her to sleep, but then I did something I'd never done. I moved within her mind, caused her to rise and grow agitated, brought her into the closet, where my normally distant walls enclose a much smaller--much easier to work with--space. I wanted the reassurance of her touch, after all she'd done to discourage and humiliate me. I was owed that! I wanted herself against myself, as close as could be without harming her.
She never fully woke during our time together, for I did not wish her to. Once she woke, she'd desire to move back to her bed, so I was careful as I shrunk myself in on her, wrapped her in my embrace. And we passed the hours together in that manner, every turn of her body, every press of her fingertips, more sensual than anything I'd ever known.
Oh, the bliss of those hours, and the even greater bliss in knowing that I was able to bring it about myself, oblige her to fulfill my wishes; it was what I wanted with my first yet did not know how to go about obtaining. It does help, too, that this girl does not have any attachment, no one very concerned with her safety and wellbeing, living within my walls. Her mother does care, yet her constant absence and their strange distance even when they are together allow me all the freedom I need to get what I want, and soon, so very soon, I will collect her for my own and never have to worry that she will somehow leave or be taken from me.
Several days have passed, now, since I drew her to me. I have not repeated the experiment, partly because I fear it may not work again (in which case my hopes and self-worth would be damaged at a time I needs must build my confidence), but also because she has been absolutely subservient and gratifying in her own ways. It is as if she seeks to please me, a situation I could once only have dreamed of and which has given me intense satisfaction. She spends some time completing work, and she cares for herself, but whatever she is doing, she's made sure to be close to me, to care for me with slow, lingering movements. She does not merely turn on a light; she runs her nimble fingers over the plate, teases, draws near, and at length, when I can hardly bear the tension, she will flip the switch and offer me release. Or she will sit on the windowsill in the front room and bring her lips to my glass as she did once before, press her mouth in its sweet dampness against the pane, gently release a hot breath, watching it condense before she traces images with her fingertips. And she pays special attention to my corners, my ultrasensitive corners. I--oh, I . . . I cannot describe my reactions to her anymore. She does these and a thousand similar things. I have never known such touch, such care, and though I am able to offer her comforts in return, I intend to give her much, much more when I do, at last, bring her into me.
For you see, I have her, now. I am the master of her, just as he was the master of my first. I have brought the girl to where I want her, for her actions are controlled, now; they are meticulous and attentive. And she surely understands that I am, even if she cannot know what I am.
When the time arrives, she will come to me willingly, and should any attempt to interfere, I will respond accordingly.