I just witnessed the first of many heart attacks that would, eventually steal her father from her. As I drove off into the deepening night, the wails of the ambulance filtering further and further off into the distance, I could feel nothing but pity for this poor child, who, all too soon, would be entirely alone in the world. Well, at least she would believe that she would be alone in the world.

I had not felt pity for someone in uncounted years. The feeling was well remembered, even if it was quite odd. I understood why I felt pity for her, but the idea that I could feel pity for prey was strange, even though it felt redeeming. I enjoyed the empathetic pain that I felt. Perhaps I wasn't so far beyond the pale of all human emotion and understanding. If she could redeem me from the earthly hell that I had fallen into, I should fall on my knees and thank her for that. But soon, she would understand why. When her father died (this I had no doubt of) she would be completely without relatives in the world. Her mother's family was dead; her father's was untraceable. A brief stint in a foster home awaited her, before she was thrust into college to fend for herself, living off the life insurance of her dead father. No time to mourn, no time to forget, and certainly no time to heal. I would never see her come to that fate. It would be a simple, incisive move to just get her lost in the paperwork that choked the social services department, and then to just make her disappear.

I smiled, one of the many smiles that I had felt over these past few weeks. The idea that it would be so easy to just take her from her home and spirit her away, with little to no chance of the pair of us ever being discovered, was such a delicious thought that I could hardly do the poor father justice. Even though I had been the harbinger of death for so many, I felt slightly guilty even psychologically hurrying his. But, I justified myself, he could have found treatment for his problem had he cared enough about his daughter to make the effort. He wanted to leave her, and so he would.

Home was, as it always had been these past few weeks, intolerably lonely. Life had become, for me, just a breathless counting of moments and time between glimpses of her. She consumed everything that I was, and yet…she brought out parts of me that I had assumed I would never be able to find again. I honored her and worshipped her, and was now absolutely certain that I loved her as well.

Love. It was an emotion that I had happily never been cursed with. I had never loved another human being before—not in the same way that I loved her. I had loved things, I had loved discovery, and creation; I had even loved my grisly power of death. Insofar as people went, I had been grateful to them, or I had despised them. I had never felt the wrenching, dizzy, soul-connection that I felt with Christine Day.

And yet I knew what love was. I had always been afraid that I would fall into the trap, that I would love someone who could not possibly love me. But now, even though I was nearly paralyzed with fear, I was miraculously set free. I knew what Christine thought, and though I could not be entirely comfortable, I hoped, and prayed, that she would love me as well.

As I stopped the car and got out, I leaned against the cold metal of the door for one moment, before I walked to the house. My skin, under the mask, felt fevered. She threw me into such a volatile emotional state, that I often felt like running or fighting or doing anything to blow off the excess energy. Most often though, I found myself burying myself in my music.

The basement of my house was enormous, stretching far away underground into the darkness of the heart of the world. I had always been more comfortable underground than anywhere else, and this basement was the perfect place for me. Though it was not as deep as I was used (I had often appropriated old bomb shelters in Turkey or Iran) it was still secluded and quiet enough for me to feel secure playing in. My pipe organ, which I had faithfully lugged from country to country, assignment to assignment, now stood like a sentinel in one, brightly candle-lit corner of the subterranean chamber. I had neglected it of late; music often made me dangerously emotional, and in a small town, where murder was thoroughly investigated, I had no outlet for the anger and violence that music aroused in me. But now I had Christine.

The music that I was able to produce now was a far cry from my earlier violent or lustful melodies. It was quiet, peaceful…almost…sweet. That was a tone that I had never expected to find in my music, but I woke up one morning, the day after I had read her journals, as a matter of fact, and I was able to write a tender, loving melody. I wanted so badly for her to hear my music, her music, actually, for she had inspired it, but there was no opening. Yet. All things were possible, I felt now, and sooner or later she would know. What I longed for more than anything was to be able to get a hold of one of her operas, that I might begin composing the score, but her father was home nearly all the time. I resented the sick old bastard, even as I was furious at myself for doing so. He actually was quite sweet to his daughter. He would drive off in the morning, so that she could see him going to his job, but right after she left, he would come back and spend untold hours just lingering in the dying garden or lying helplessly on his bed. I felt fury grow in me again. How dare he fool his daughter, even in the name of love! Liar, disgusting liar! I hastened his death in my mind so that I could hurry the hour when I could steal his daughter.

Anyway, his constant presence in the house had made it impossible for me to get to her computer again. I thought again and again about what sort of operas she liked to write, and I composed music blindly, without her words as inspiration, but I would never make any headway if I did not have specific lyrics to write for. Sooner or later, I would have to get into that house. Perhaps, when she went to school tomorrow, and if her father were not home, I would be able to copy her files. That thought soothed me.

I was worried over my emotional state. Living, as I had, for so many years in a state of quiet passivity, waking up to remember my violent emotions and radical swings in mood was frightening and upsetting. However, all I had to do was remember the methods of precise control that I had used when my emotions were my major tools. Once I caught the habit of constant self-control, it would be easy enough to remember the rest, and take care of the anger again. For right now, though, while I could not quite remember and I could not manage myself, I had to be very cautious not to get too close to her, lest I hurt her without the knowledge.

My fingers caressed the keys of the organ with their quick, sure strokes. Though I had neglected her for a long time, she held no resentment for me. Her keys rang out, the sound was clean and pure, and as I ran up two or three quick scales, the music flowed to my mind and I gave an arpeggio, sliding into a clean, sweet melody. From my mind to my arms to my fingers to the keys to my ears, round and round and round, in a beautiful calliope of sweet, rounded notes. It was soothing to my brain, for my music before this had been harsh, discordant, painful to listen to and yet somewhere among all the chords was a pain-ridden harmony. No longer. Thinking of her, I could remember the sweetness of her smile and the grace of her motion. I could see the way her hair curled and her smile quirked. With my eyes closed, I could play the planes of her face and the contours of her hips. And I was happier than I had ever been in my entire life.

She went to school an hour later than usual. In fact, she looked as if she was only dragging herself out of the house to get away from the nagging feelings, the worry and doubt that plagued her. She probably thought that concentrating on something, anything productive would help the miserable way she felt. My heart ached for her, but there was nothing I could do. Yet.

Her father had not come home. Nor did her face look any less pale; the hospital might not have contacted her last night. As she trudged down the road, her back uncharacteristically bent beneath the intolerable weight of her schoolbag, she was not even attempting to hide her fear and exhaustion. If she had had any sleep last night, I would be incredibly surprised.

But regardless of the way she felt, my way into her home was clear. A quick, in-and-out operation would give me something to focus my musical energy more specifically on. Though I would not begin composing till I was certain of her father's condition, now was the time to make my move. I could not be certain that she would not turn around, or that the hospital would release her father to recuperate at home. Sequential, ordered, calm. That would be the way I would have to act today.

She was very tired. She forgot to lock her front door. Of course, it was probably nothing serious, in her mind. Her street was quiet and safe. I don't believe that there'd been a break-in on her road in its entire history. Unfortunately, what she did not bargain on (what she could not be expected to bargain on) was the obsessive madman who lived only three miles away. One can forgive these mistakes, and she would never even notice the difference.

An air of neglect permeated her house. Though it was a warm spring, the windows had never been opened. She had barely any time at home, between her job and her activities, and with her father's health the being as it was, he was in no state to examine the condition of his home. There were dishes stacked in the sink, pots still were lying on the stove, and the floor and furniture were dusty. The house reeked of dank decay, and death. I was familiar with the smell, but I pitied those who had to live in it. This was no place for Christine to have to live.

Her room was a little less tidy that I had seen it before. Her clothes were tossed haphazardly on the floor, trampled underfoot, and her sheets were tangled together with her quilt. Her books were stacked everywhere, as before, but this time, they were randomly and sloppily distributed. Her uniform was nowhere to be found. Her laptop was running, the screen left on its dark screen saver, and I adjusted my gloves. Leaving fingerprints was not a good idea at this juncture. The time was approaching, and I wanted absolutely no marks to connect me with her.

She had left a document up on her screen, and I noticed it was a half-finished explication of a prompt on The Canterbury Tales. The book itself lay half open, and a rubric on bright orange paper had been stuck between the leaves. A half drunk cup of coffee also sat beside her computer, the liquid cold and stale, and a picked at blueberry muffin, already hard, now stood testament to her sleepless night.

I minimized her file and quickly inserted my USB key into the back of her computer. Opening her 'Operas' file, I copied and saved each of the files, as well as the 'Production Notes' to my key. Wiping her computer's memory and bringing her file back up, I quickly erased all traces of my gloved hands, and let her screensaver drift back onto the screen. Stepping carefully, I was about to leave her room when I caught sight of an open notebook sprawled across her bed. This must be her current journal. I approached it cautiously, almost as if I were afraid of some sort of trap, and glanced down.

The pen of her entry had been smudged by tearstains, I saw, and she had smudged them even worse as she tried to wipe them off. I flipped back several pages, until I saw the obligatory date. She must have written as much as ten pages last night alone. If was as if the only way she could stave off hysteria was by controlling her fear enough to put it down on paper. Admirable.

Meg and I walked to the lake after school today. We talked a lot about Raoul de Chagny, the new teacher of my French class. I knew that Meg would find him just as attractive as I did.

I was very troubled by this new way of writing. The idea that she could admire anyone physically raised such automatic and involuntary jealously and dislike that I nearly stepped back from the book, rather than have my fury raised again. Raoul de Chagny…I should know that family…I was certain that the name sounded very familiar. I put the thought aside and looked back down at the book. Her forced calmness of mind and relation of the inconsequential details of the day, I recognized, were just masks to conceal her true worries until she was calm and quiet enough to manage writing about them.

I thought about Raoul in comparison with the other man that I've thought about a lot recently. The masked man that I met at the library, who gave me the wonderful book on opera and who, I am certain, has a mystery around him that is greater than the secrets of kings. But that sounds silly. I don't know anything about him, and certainly not enough to make that kind of judgment. For all I know, he's nothing more than an eccentric European gentleman. But I still don't think that's it.

I turned over the page, hoping to find some more about her thoughts of me, but I was disappointed. The next two pages just related her examination of this Raoul person, which, though amusing to read, was very troubling and though it gave me much information into his character, also bothered me with the minute detail with which she related it. I sensed, with mounting jealously, the admiration and frank attraction that she felt for him. But I knew her temperament with regards to love. She would never make a move, and certainly her inborn knowledge of the mores of society and the rules which governed man would tell her that a student/teacher relationship would be far beyond her grasp. I might worry about another girl, but not her. Still, an attachment of this sort would be difficult to supersede, especially if it grew any closer. I would have to see to it that I knew everything about this Raoul, in case it became necessary to take care of his influence. Yet another thing to add to my to-do list. If it weren't so much fun, I might begin to think of Christine as nothing but a bother!

Father was taken to the hospital. I came home to find him collapsed across the kitchen counter, barely breathing, with blood streaming from his mouth and his arms locked across his chest. It was a heart attack. The paramedics were very kind to me, and they assured me that they would take good care of him, calling me whenever something new happened, but they wouldn't let me ride with him to the hospital, because I had school in the morning. Oh, my God, school! How am I supposed to get up and do that tomorrow? I can't call myself absent, I'm not old enough, and my father's in the hospital. I have to get up, when I can't even think, when I'm paralyzed. Oh, God, he could die! What would I do without him? How could I manage?

Here her writing went into the hysterical. She was terribly afraid, and more aware of her difference and her loneliness. If her father died, she would have no one. And even through the storm of words and feelings, I sensed her better, more logical self trying to calm her down, and force her to write more logically, more specifically. After her flood of fears ebbed away (in another three pages) she began to write about how she would manage in the next few days, when the hospital was supposed to call her, and other details that helped her calm enough to begin her homework.

There was a soft sound in the house, little creaks and sighs, as if the house was settling down into its old, staid ways. There was age, and sadness in this home, and it was seeping into me, and I understood it. Her mother had died here, and very soon her father would too, I had no doubt of that whatsoever.

I watched her when she came home from school. She was running, panting heavily, and the first thing that she did when she came in was check to see if the hospital had called. There were no messages, and she slumped to the kitchen table, holding the phone in her hand and clinging to it like a lifeline. She pulled out the phonebook, and looked as if she was toying with the idea of calling the emergency ward. After a while, she spent a breathless five minutes on the phone, after which her body visibly relaxed. She turned on her radio and sat in the living room, doing her homework and evidently much easier. I would have given a great deal to know what could have taken away her anxiety like that; I assumed, naturally, that her father was greatly improved, but she seemed almost…cheerful.

I watched her for a half hour more, as she typed on her laptop and switched CDs, evidently thinking very hard, as she did a lot of pacing. I assumed she was writing and improving one of her operas, and the hand that held the key in my pocket twitched; I wanted to read the files that I had taken. But there was enough time for that later—I wanted a fresh day to begin to explore her creations. Tonight I would spend in the peaceful composition of music. Tomorrow I could examine the specifics of what I would have to work for. Considering her emotional state, there was still plenty of time.

I never really felt complete without music; it seemed to evoke all the aspects of my being and bring me together into one complete soul. Even while I was thinking of the missing piece of me that was Christine, I was more than happy while I was with my music. I was spending more and more time with it, exploring the new tonalities that were emerging with Christine playing the part of my muse. Somehow the music that I was making now was more beautiful, more poignant, and more yearning than anything that I had ever made before. The music wept and sobbed, begged and pleaded, even as it was triumphant and exultant. I myself was intrigued with this new combination.

Sometime during the early morning hours, I stopped. My fingers ached, since I must have been playing for six or seven hours straight. My head rang with the sounds of crying, of laughter, of the greatest happiness and sadness of the soul. There was no emotion now that lay untouched by my music. I had explored every human thought and feeling. My soul accepted and assimilated everything. I felt drained, as if I had given all of myself to the great endeavor that was my music.

I prayed that she would give me something to work for, something to strive for, that needed a greatness of music and a sweep of drama to carry the lyrics through. I knew that the drama lay right there in her soul—I had seen it behind her eyes, like a fountain waiting to be tapped.

God, how I loved her! That she could do this for me was something that I had never expected to find, in the whole course of my life, in another human being. That she could make me think and feel in a way totally alien to my usual train of thought endeared me to her and bound me to her: it bound the two of us together. I would not let her escape from that tie. There was nothing that I would not do for her.

There was nothing that I would not do to win her, to have her for myself, completely and entirely.

I now saw what a dangerous course I was setting myself to. But as I had decided before (probably from the first moment I had seen her) I could not care for those things. She had brought me back into the reaches of humanity, but I would violate every rule that humanity held dear in order to have her.