Fear can turn to anger. I remember the sharp jab of a club to my ribs that set me to shivering with fear each night as I lay in my cage. I remember a cuff to the back of my skull that could send me reeling across the floor to land against the slatted bars that kept me prisoner. But never to the face. Even he, brute though he was, couldn't bring himself to touch my hideous face. Even in anger. Even to wound. But he should have. He should have snapped my neck the first time he laid eyes on me. Because fear can turn to anger, and I knew it for truth when I choked the life out of him and fled the carnival of my torment for good.
Fear can turn to sorrow. No doubt, Christine, you will pine for your boy, soft though he is, and insubstantial. I have sorrowed for the life that I should have had, were I not cursed with the cruel joke God offered me in place of handsome countenance. When you wallow in the grip of sorrow, Christine, remember that even that sweet ache subsides with time, looses it's hold on the sentimental organ in your breast. I have lived in sorrow for longer than you have been on this earth, at yet I have known brighter emotions since you came to me, my angel.
Fear can turn to hope. Living in the dark recesses of this Byzantine prison, I heard a voice that cut through the darkness and illuminated the secret chambers of my heart. It is a small flame, Christine, one that gutters and threatens to extinguish every day. But it is there, and it is yours Christine, whether you care to take responsibility for it, or not. I see it reflected in your eyes as you wade towards me, the murky water sullying your finery, the fabric clinging to your legs like an ardent suitor. The tentative touch of your hands at my lapel is enough to make my heart leap. My hand about his throat stills, but his relieved intake of breath barely registers in my ears. Everything is drowned out by the sound of your tears hitting the cold, smooth veneer of my mask, and sliding down to stain my cheek. For the first time in my life I taste proffered lips and savor my hope upon their smooth, honeyed surface.
Fear can turn to love. He does not know it, yet, as he stumbles away through the dim maze of mortar and mud, calling out promises to return with reinforcement. He cannot imagine, can he Christine, that perhaps inside your secret heart you already yearn for the love only I can give you? If you cannot bear to look upon my face, Christine, you will have to learn to look into my eyes, and know the soul that resides in the imperfect shell. As your lips quit mine your eyes brim with tears of pain and fear. I grasp your chin in my gloved fingers and stroke the invisible down on your soft cheek. I will be a kind and loving master, Christine. I shall not cage or beat you, when you have given me no reason. Fear can turn to love, and one day perhaps you shall learn to love me. And if you can't, you will learn to pretend. Because fear can turn, Christine, but it can never be quite extinguished. If I cannot have your love, I will at least have your obedience.