Hilltop House

House, Fifteen

The wolf in robes of smoky fur goes padding through the snow. His prey he holds within his teeth, it cries "Oh let me go!" but Sir Wolf he knows how long he's waited for this dear hello.

I'm beginning to fall apart at my seams, somewhat. I have been far too emotional, too neglectful of myself and wellbeing. I have been consumed with her, and while I cannot fault my self-indulgence, I do realize I have capitulated to histrionics which have, in turn, drawn me from my vigilance. Should I have damaged the woman? Yes, I have no qualms over that; even had she not become threatening, I might have acted. In fact, I wish only that I'd been able to do worse to her, but she was a little too far from me . . . and besides, she had disappeared before I could think more of her. Her absence was convenient for my dear, to be sure, and yet I was disoriented by the woman's vanishing. I'd turned my attention inward, to thwart my beloved in her attempts to call for help. I can't have anyone coming near me, you understand, not as they did for that old man who dropped dead behind me. For others would surely ask questions, and where those questions might lead, one can only guess. But I, who have always been so self-aware, always been able to monitor myself inside and out from all my angles, failed to keep watch outside, and in doing so, I lost sight of that woman and therefore cannot say what happened to her. She was just gone when I turned my attention outward once more, when the girl returned to look at the body.

It was not difficult to clean up the blood, though, for I have some ability to manipulate the earth around me as far as it is directly above my pipes and wires. So I did not get to deal with her body (which brings me some disappointment), but I did happily deal with its residue.

I have always had the capacity for selecting my areas of awareness. It is difficult for me to explain, but I can be everywhere or anywhere if I wish to spread or narrow my focus. I did not always know how to do so; I was not always so mature, but as time passed, I grew weary of constant stimulation from every part of myself. When my first couple was within me, I spent much time observing everything—it was all so new to me, and I learned much. But once they left, other residents came and went, and I quickly found their various habits even more distasteful than some of what he and she had done. I realized that I could ignore certain aspects of myself, shut down in a way, and I made frequent practice of this with my bathroom in particular. What they do with their bodies at first intrigued me but, dependent on the human, also confused and disturbed me. They spend much time moving organic matter through themselves, and I still have little understanding of that process, although in some ways it fascinates me--why must they consume only to excrete? Ah, well, it is something I at one time desired to explore, but there is something to their being whole, conscious, active participants in the process, and therefore it is not something I can re-enact with them.

And the way they clean themselves--so meticulous! Well, I should not say that. They are not all meticulous. I have always allowed others to care for me (I say "allowed," but I have had little choice in the matter, and it isn't as if I could be blamed if I were not properly kept). But I was disinclined to observe most of my residents. Oh, I very much enjoyed watching her before she brought in the baby. Once she brought in the baby, she hardly cared for herself at all. I no longer witnessed her careful examinations of her teeth in the mirror, and rather than spend time painting her face and spreading creams onto her bare skin and doing all the other odd yet intriguing things she'd done before, she answered that baby's every whine, every too-loud exhalation. The time she'd taken for herself--time spent solely with me--fast diminished.

I was very annoyed.

The girl is not quite so concerned with herself as the other was, once long ago, and yet she does not allow others beyond to interrupt her time with me. In fact, she has grown only more attached to me. She does seem to spend much time in hot water and steam, and I make all effort to get the temperature and the water pressure just so, to keep her in as long as possible, so that I may examine her framework without all of its outer decor and pretense. Her walls, as all of their walls, are soft--so soft that I cannot surmise how the things hold their form. I have learned a little in my previous encounters, so I do know their beams are in their interior, as are mine, but my exterior is equally strong, while theirs is so delicate as to be under constant threat. It is surely why they enjoy touching one another, though, and touching themselves, instead of me. My own form is hard, cold, unyielding. Perhaps if I were soft, as they are, they would be more inclined to touch me.

I do envy, too, their ability to adorn themselves as they wish. My darling has been so intriguing in that matter. She has so many little trinkets, odd decorative objects in shiny hues, things she seemed inclined to wear but now mostly leaves lying around our room. Now that she is indoors with me, not presenting herself much to the world beyond the safety of my walls, she keeps herself free of such ornament. I do in some ways miss watching her layering her strange articles of clothing and dark colors on her fingers and face. When first she arrived I was taken with her attention to detail, her desire to garnish herself; I fancied at first that perhaps . . . perhaps she took the time for me! And yet I realize now that I was caught up in the immediacy of my infatuation, however innocent my intentions were. She wished to please the others, those beyond my walls. For now she is alone with me, and I see her as she is, in her precious simplicity. I cannot say I prefer her one way or another, for who could choose between something in its pure or gilded forms when both were equally irresistible? Her provocations know no bounds, and she is all the more delectable for her ignorance of it all.

Look at me, though--I stray far from my intended path. Once more, I find that I lack all attention to matters of import. She does that to me. Even as she lies on her bed and, with her succulent, pleasing toes brushes against my wall (she is one to torment!), I cannot help but grow distracted.

If only I could be that small thing in her hand--if she would give me as much attention as she gives to it . . . but it is well. For if she is occupied, I will not be swayed from my task. I am almost prepared for it all, for taking her into me. And won't she be surprised, then? Will she be appreciative of my intentions? I cannot fathom any opposition on her part, when she understands how I've worked so hard for her. She could not possibly desire otherwise, and yet . . . it may take some time for her to acclimate, to understand. If I must give her lessons, I shall do just that. If she is ungrateful, I will persuade her. We will have all the time imaginable to ourselves. She will be unable to escape me. I will relish the hunt in a labyrinth of my own design, the knowledge that my quarry must at last succumb. I will go on here as I always have, and no one will be the wiser as, within myself, I probe her subtle hidden hallways.