Hilltop House

House, One

There sat a stranger's child, atop a stranger's head, and when the stranger lost his way, the child was left for dead.

This time of night is my favorite; it always has been, when everything is still and subtle, the premise of disorientation, the promise of oblivion . . . the perfect time to watch, to examine, to press from within onto all things below.

Oh, to feel a body move within me again, and one such as she! I am alive once more, as if during all the wait, I slept, a sleeping figure from a dream, and the kiss of her warm flesh, her moving parts has awakened me. Even now, her soft body leaving an impression on that rectangle of foam, I notice how her legs splay as if she were undertaking some intricate ballet position, her pajamas such a small bit of fabric, so much skin to look at—and the way it clings to her form! I believe I can almost make out ribs . . . I did count them as she changed. To see them again and again? Heaven.

I haven't felt this way in decades. Sad old women, perverted middle-aged men—ugh, the torture I've been made to endure! Not since my first have I felt quite this way, and did I ever even feel like this? With my first, I mean? This one is so different than they were. She's spirited, and she's angry. Oh, I do enjoy the anger. It tickles the corners of my rooms. To think of the sensation of her touch—oh! I await the moment she caresses my walls. Surely it will come, soon. She'll tape up a poster or better yet, she'll tap in a slender nail, force the pin through my plaster. When the others hung their sloppy shelves and paintings, their haphazard hammering was a grotesque violation of my being, but she, surely, would be mostly delicate, with just enough playfulness to tantalize me. And whatever she wants to do to me, I'll let her. Paint my walls? The slow, continuous contact would be ecstasy. Dance across the floors? The undulating pressure would be sweet torment. Carve her name into my wood and plaster? Oh climactic, tortuous euphoria! I could crumble just thinking of it.

It's true that she's quite a bit younger than she was, and it's also true that I'm quite a bit older now than I was then, but all that time ago, she had him, and she hardly saw me because of it. As noxious as he was, as horribly as he treated her, as pathetic as she was to pretend to love him, I wanted her to notice me. Perhaps that was foolish of me, but I was so young, after all. How could I be blamed?

But this one, this time, is all alone. That woman with her, her mother I believe, is of no consequence. There seems little attachment between them. She's all right, the woman, as far as age and auras go; she's got lustrous hair, and I enjoyed the manner in which she played with her toes as she sat on that couch. They were tiny toes, almost incongruous with her otherwise voluptuous form. But there's something about her, something a bit sad for my taste. Something weighs her down. I sense it, see it, like a dark possum with its children hanging from its belly, draped across her shoulders. When that woman turns left to right, the ugly marsupials shudder and realign themselves, but they've been there a long while, and whether or not the woman knows is unclear to me at this time.

So she can sit on that unattractive red couch and stare at her screen, drink herself to sleep as she clearly intends to do, and I'll watch the girl lie in her perfection . . . Neither will be the wiser.

I remember some of the others drank. I always wondered what made them change so rapidly on certain occasions, and at length I pieced together the common denominator—they'd drink (or inhale, in the case of one debauched man) things first. Some would sleep, and some would grow a little rowdy. One particular resident would bring home men and women and they'd all make themselves stupid and undress and behave lewdly. I can't say I didn't learn from that man, though I'd never felt filthier in my life than I did during his six-month rental. One of the most exciting moments I've ever known was taking liberty with one of his little groups when they were all rather too warped to really understand what was happening, but afterward, the whole thing depressed me.

I have a feeling that whatever liberties I take now will be thrilling, uplifting, inspiring, even, though I do intend to take things slowly. This one is worth a calculated, unhurried pursuit; she won't be leaving anytime soon, I'm sure. And I would hate to scare her, after I've only just found her. Oh, no . . . I've waited so long—had given up hope, really. I intend to enjoy every moment of her, and so long as she stays true to me, I will attempt to allow her to enjoy me, as well. I will be so good to her that she will never want to venture past my walls again.