Hilltop House

House, Eleven

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.