He rises from his bed. Her presence, that distinct aura is distant now. He no longer hears her moving about above him. She has left.
She will be back.
They both know.
He climbs to the upper chambers and finds the plumed pen and diary on the stone in the center of the room. The faint black stain to the floor. Ink well still toppled over, left dry. He picks these up. Doesn't dare to read the book, but smiles at the girlish penmanship. Rounded letters and circles to dot the i's. No 'thee's, 'thou's, or 'doth's.
"This," he thinks, "This book I hold in my hand is her key. The secret to her … in her purest form. Undiluted, without mystery, full capacity horror." He descends back to his warmer candlelit quarters, and pauses as he places the small book in the box and sets that back into its hidden spot. "She sees too much." he whispers to the darkness.
Lying down on the comforter again he remembers what that box contains. What importance it has. How important – sentimentally – its contents are to him. Old watches stopped, dated glasses that would no longer help you see clearly they are so scratched, a ring and a crystal, yellowed papers with his archaic writings scrawled on their surfaces. Love notes to a forgotten obsession. He laughs.
When was the last time he wrote?
Again he rises. This time with purpose. He searches the secretary for his journal. Does he even still have one? Finds a canvas-covered book with tea colored pages. Not yet tainted. Looks again. His pens. A black one with rolling wet ink. He likes to watch it dry, bleed into the paper. Stain his clean hands. Seep into the lines and cracks of his palm.
His nimble fingers hold the pen. A long time has passed since he has felt this last. Compelled to write. … what about? What has he to write about? Something beautiful…
She staggers wearily into her room. It smells of the after burn of incense. Faintly of apple. The blue walls covered with posters. The new kids on the block really are starting to date her… maybe she should take him up on that offer.
Sprawling out on carpet she stares blankly at the ceiling. Her hand trails over her breasts, ribs, stomach, hips. When had she last eaten? More than a few bites in a meal. She could feel her bones. Not sharply yet, but they were there. A latent hunger stirred within her. Somehow, it didn't seem food would satiate this longing.
Abruptly, she jerks her hands away from her skin. She can't stand the touch.
Instead she stands. Wanders aimlessly around her room. "This is too confining!" she wants to scream. Only the voices in her head hear her. She sobs dryly. Unable to cry. Another human trait vanishing with time.
On her dresser she sees two vials. One filled with a dark oil, the other a clear. For a moment she contemplates which to use. The black is musky, sensuous, and fragrantly deep. The light liquid has an airy scent, less heavy, more open. She opts for the first. Its what she is tonight.
Most nights.
Especially nights.
The clean scent can wait until morning.
The candle on his desk begins to flicker as the wick gets even lower. The wax already dripping down and around him. Some on the journal. He chronicles his life. And death. Then rebirth. Somewhere to begin. At least that is how he had started. Now he is deeply absorbed in explaining the present. Explaining her. Or trying to.
Unexpectedly he is brought out of this trance. Her scent again hit his nose. This time masked unsuccessfully by a deep perfume. He can smell her sweat and adrenaline. She is fighting.
Calmly he puts down his activities to watch.