Hilltop House

House, Thirteen

I saw a red pony atop a black hill, he pawed and he pranced and he told me his name; his saddle was pearl and his rider was bone and his eye sockets spun with flame.

I knew she'd left, but I hadn't worried; the mother had taken her out, but nothing--no furniture or personal belongings--had moved within me. And they'd spent the morning talking of it, so I knew where she'd gone. I wasn't pleased to let her out, but conversely, I understood that I'd be more able to focus on myself, on garnering my strength, if she were absent for a few hours, for if I intend to take her where I'd like, I must attempt to harness an inordinate amount of energy.

So why she's here, now . . . and why she's brought others with her . . . does she know? Does she know that I attempt to save myself for her, to hold back? Does she bring them in hope that I shall react and will have wasted my efforts? No! I cannot believe it of her. She would not sabotage me in such a manner. She has to know I'd punish her for it--and I very well may have to, whatever her intentions are. She must know me as her master. She cannot be allowed to act so selfishly.

And if it is not her purpose to thwart me, then what is it? How could she bring them so close to our most private place? It is a violation of--

And yet, wait . . .

I should not be so hasty. There are three of them, besides my girl. They have gone around to the back, and I do not know two of them. Ugly, uncouth young people. And—and yes, that boy I've been so desperate to be rid of . . . So close! Perhaps this was her intention? To bring him to me? So that we may dispose of him? But no, surely not. She can't know the extent of my jealousy. And she continues to divide her attention toward me with as much toward him . . . Yes, even now I see the restlessness in her body, evident in the way she tries to stay near him though without his noticing, the delicate mannerisms I've come to recognize in her, that show her tentativeness, her desire to please and yet simultaneous fear of pleasure's result. The boy speaks to her--what is it he says? It is so quiet . . . Will you forgive me if I go in? Is that what you want? And she, my mouse amongst the rats, she looks at him in some way I cannot read. And I'd like to focus more on what they say, how they react to one another, but there is frustration at my back door. Some ridiculous person touching me unbidden. I have so rarely been assaulted from behind like this, and at a time when I have grown complacent!

Why does she do this? If she would have brought them to the front, I might have trusted her intentions had some innocence to them, but the fact that she seems desirous of sneaking them in, of allowing them to enter my non-entrance . . . what does she mean by it?

But there, she tells him to stop, this unattractive person pulling at my door. She comes to me, scolds him for being rough, withdraws and inserts her key into me and--oh!--every time she does so (less and less frequent as little as she leaves, now), I am shot through with a trembling rapture. It lasts such a brief moment, and yet I'd almost forgotten what it felt like. The mother's gestures feel as almost nothing to me, but hers--oh, hers are delicious.

And I almost forgive her as I recover from the shock of her act, but then--now--she brings them inside.

Does she not know I will disprove? She must! Does she not know the position in which she puts me and these others?

Yet . . . I suppose she cannot know. For she is unaware of what exactly I did to the other, the one who attempted to invade me in order to get to her. But I must try to discover her purpose. I must listen . . .

Where do the freaky things happen? So speaks the ugly dark one; he reeks of pitifulness, of wasted flesh. But I want to see the ghosts he adds.

And the other girl--so nondescript, so void of intrigue in comparison to my very own darling--she responds with something slightly too knowing, with The basement. That's where you say you got freaked out, right Brian?