Hilltop House

House, Three

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.