"I slammed the door in his face, went into the bathroom, and took a bath after putting a magnificent pair of scissors beside me, determined to kill myself with them if, after behaving like a madman, he stopped behaving like an honorable man." -- Christine, Leroux
Unseverable
I had bought her everything she might ever need and it had pleased me to do so. For, you see, I had known she would come. I had known it from the moment the screams began to ring through the stalls. She had flown to me then on the current of her love for me. For she loves me, you see, she loves me as I love her.
I had brought her here to my home, I had shown her what was real and I had soothed her outrage with my music. For, you see, she is a virtuous girl. And, so, I knew there were things she would need. Clothes and shoes and gloves, hats, pins for the hats, and combs for her golden hair, rose water for her bath, delicate perfume to counteract the sweet odor of the rose, and a pair of the most beautiful, most magnificent, sharpest silver scissors I could find. This last gift was for the both of us, really. I needed them just as much as she. I had chosen scissors, you see, for they were more delicate than a dagger, unassuming and innocent, but just as deadly. They were heavy, but I knew that would only make her trust in them all the more. And I had not put them on the bed with the arrangement other gifts, no, I had slipped them into a drawer at the dressing table where she would know to look for them, for I knew she would be looking, you see, for she is a virtuous girl. I love her for her virtue, her resolve; so you see, the scissors were for me as much as they were for her.
She is bathing now. The scent of the rose water mingles effortlessly with the baskets of day-old flowers that fill the rooms, affecting me with their frailty. Her bath is hot, for she can change the temperature of the water at her will, you see, and the steam has drawn me to her door. What is to stop me from passing through? I love her and I know she loves me as I love her. She would never have been so cross with me if not for love. What is there to stop me but those scissors? Those heavy, razor sharp blades that would pierce her heart the moment she heard my hand on the doorknob, and tint her rose water with that color of flowers.
I am trusting in her to be the strong one, for I cannot trust myself. But what if she is not so strong? What if she is not strong enough, virtuous girl that she is, to virtuously die? If floating in the hot, rose-scented pool of her own blood, her heart beats on, what then? Then there will be nothing standing between us, nothing to stop me at all. Nothing. My hand itches to feel the smooth roundness of the doorknob against my palm. My feet throb with the desire to step across that threshold. If only not for the scissors.
The scissors actually mean nothing, you see, and she knows this. They are only for her peace of mind, only to remind her that she is a good girl. She is bathing now. Actively. You see, I can hear her, I just cannot see her. No. So close am I, with nothing standing between us but a door and our love and a pair of sharpened scissors. The scissors that she does not know I bought just for her. It was I who put them there. I could just as easily take them away. But her blood would already be flowing by the time I could feel them, hard and smooth in my hand. And so I do not touch the doorknob; I do not make a sound, for you see, those scissors are there for the both of us. For safety.
She is humming now, and the smell of fading flowers sickens me when accompanied by her voice. My voice. My mind swims. The scent, she is humming, I am aching, I am itching. Perhaps, don't you think, perhaps it could be worth it… Perhaps even those little scissors do not mean so much. Perhaps even that brief moment before her fear would seize her would be worth an eternity of restraint. Perhaps it's not so tragic now that I find the doorknob feels hot against the palm of my hand, you see, because I love her and she loves me as I love her. Perhaps it is not so bad that it creaks as I turn it, and the steam begins to escape. Because, you see, after all, there really can be nothing that stands between our love.