The Nature of Freedom
Where was I last time?
Oh, yes. No more Erik. Speaking of whom, might I bend that rule just a tiny bit?
Excellent. I love that you never overrule me.
I've noticed that I've been getting weaker. It's nothing tragic, but it's been happening gradually, over the months. It wasn't that bad in the beginning; it's only after he stopped taking me up to the garden that it's become noticeably worse.
Take this for example. I can't write for long without stopping and resting for a bit. My hands have taken to twitching at odd times. I try to hide it as best I can, but there are times when he sees it and then he makes me rest. I don't mind that. I feel so exhausted all the time. I've taken to napping in the evenings before dinner, too.
That's been happening for a while. Nothing new. I wouldn't have mentioned it if it hadn't been for today.
We were walking from the music hall to the dining room after a very grueling lesson when suddenly, my head began to spin and I saw black dots in front of my eyes. My knees buckled and I would have careened into the wall if Erik hadn't been right beside me. I wish he hadn't been. His hands were around my waist as they steadied me and they lingered a few moments longer than necessary.
To get them off me, I hastily backed away, all the while leaning against the wall. He didn't move. Well, he did, but it was just a fraction of a second too late for me to not notice how he was staring at me. I wavered again, and he came back to normal. Escorted me gently to the dining room, inquiring after how I felt (what do you think, Erik? You have enough of the grey stuff), whether I had slept well, hadn't I better drink some water, could he get me anything sweet, etc., etc.
I think I managed to put him off effectively–I vowed a long time back that I would never tell him more than was necessary, and since I'm not particularly dying here, and he seems adept enough at finding out things about me without any further assistance, this applies to the vow.
He sent me back in here after lunch and told me to rest as long as I wanted, and if I needed anything, I was to call out to him immediately. Good. I don't have to go to the library today. And even better: no drawing.
I'm a bit worried now, to tell you the truth. I don't think he'll ever let me go, as he'd promised so long ago. If he doesn't let me go, and I stay here forever, how long will I be able to live in this condition? My muscles are deteriorating; will my brain also follow suit? Or is there a point where my body will rebel and hold itself together to make sure I don't die?
I don't know which option appeals to me more.
The part about Erik is officially over. No more about him for another seven days (how long have been I writing in you again? Three days? Four?). I swear.
Blast. Isabella, you're going to hate me for this, but I find that I can't write anything for long that doesn't ultimately concern him. I tried, believe me! I haven't written anything for at least ten minutes because I was thinking of what to say.
No, no, no. This will not do at all. I have to get him out of my mind. Out of my mind, out of my mind, out of my mind. Ha! I just realized that that bit can be read differently. I'm out of my mind, and so is he, and I need to get him out of my mind and he needs to get me out of his. I feel like laughing hysterically.
I think I am mad.
What do I talk about? There is so much to write, but I don't know where to start, what to start with, how to start. And even once I do start, how do I continue? I'm not the kind of person who has a timeline memory. I jump all over, without a thought for chronology, or making sense, or whatever. And somehow, everything leads back to him.
Fine. I have to talk about this. It's been nagging at me ever since I mentioned it.
I've mentioned a garden before, and that he has stopped taking me there. There is a reason for that. I'll have to skip over at least a few weeks of narrative that I'll cover later, during which time I was … kidnapped (makes me clench my fist every time), brought here, and suffered a great deal of mental and emotional trauma that continues to this day, if in a somewhat abated form.
Got your bearings? Know where we are? If not, just try to imagine my psyche at the time. I was terrified of him, but still had the naïve idea that he would let me go, and that I'd be free again.
When he first took me up to the garden (it's definitely up, because you have to climb two flights of stairs to reach the outhouse that opens on to it), I hadn't seen the sun, or any light other than the dim yellow ones he insists on using, for several days. Maybe weeks. I don't know.
My hands are trembling now. Can you understand my handwriting? I can't. I don't know if I'll be able to read this tomorrow. Beautiful. So beautiful. Grass and trees and wonderful flowers so sweet so fresh so alive and the sun the feel of the sun on your face warm so warm and birds chirping they are actual living beings and the first I saw in so long and the
Sorry. I have to stop for a bit. My tears just smudged the last few words in the paragraph above. I can't read or write. Forgive me.
.
.
.
I'm better now. I stopped and walked around the room a bit. The tears ran their course. They always do. Funny, isn't it? I'm so well acquainted with tears that I can even predict how they'll fall.
My hand isn't shaking anymore, but it does hurt. The other one is twitching; I'll sit on it for a while.
When I first saw the garden, I wasn't able to stop crying. He sounded faintly alarmed at my tears. Can't imagine why. It seems that all I did during those first few days or weeks was cry or shout. Nothing new about it. I honestly believed that he was letting me go and that the garden was just on the way out.
He swiftly crushed that hope. He informed me that he would be leaving me up there until evening, and that he would bring me back down for dinner. And then he pointed out the walls–so high!–surrounding it and told me that escaping would not be particularly fruitful.
How true that was.
I did not try to escape that first day. No, I just walked around the garden for hours, relishing the warm sun on my face, my hands.
He took me up almost every day after that. There was one week in particular where he locked me in my room for almost the entire day. This is going to be a long narrative, so I don't think I'll be able to talk about that week now. If not now, then next time. It makes me feel cold inside.
After a few weeks in this almost … pleasant routine, I became restive. I began to believe that he would never let me go. Back then, it was only a tiny feeling, but it was enough. I still had hope, you see. It is the worst thing you can have here. The more you hope, the more it hurts when you are dashed back to earth. Or to hell, if you look at it that way.
I decided to escape.
I'd tried earlier, but he had caught me easily enough. This time, I planned it out to the last detail. I'd climb a tree (I can't believe he overlooked the trees near the wall; did he orchestrate the entire thing? I no longer know what he is capable of), jump down to the other side of the wall and run as fast as I could until I found someone, preferably a police officer, who would take me home and keep me safe.
He left me alone one afternoon, after telling me that he wouldn't return for a while and that I was not to enter the house until he came to fetch me. I'd been waiting for just such an opportunity; I did not question him.
To cut a long story short, I climbed a tree (pear, tall) and jumped over the wall, narrowly missing breaking my ankle. I won't go into the details of how many times I fell while trying to climb the tree, and how I was doubled up in pain on the other side for a really long time. None of those were in the Plan.
Once I managed to shovel the pain out of my way and into a recess of my mind where I could ignore it for a while, I began to run blindly. I didn't care where I ran, so long as it was away from that horrible, deathly house.
It was heavily wooded outside. There were slopes going up and down and roots and stones and general wildness. And there were insects. Horrible little bugs and creepy crawly things that I seemed to collect all over me whenever I tripped and fell (often). Whatever romantic ideas you might have about woods, dispel them. They're repulsive places if you're an urban dweller at heart.
I don't know how long I ran, but some time into this, I got winded and slowed to a desperate limp. I'd run for quite a while, despite the near-blinding howls of my ankle, and had compounded the sprain. I was panicking. I was terrified that I'd be lost in the woods forever, and that I'd be eaten by wild animals. In the midst of my fear, I got spooked by a noise behind me. I still think it was him.
In my haste to escape 'Erik', I tripped over a root, fell down a slope, acquiring several cuts, grazes, scratches, and sprains along the way, and finally fell flat on my front, bruised and scratched and cut and aching.
Dispel any romantic notions you might have of falling down slopes as well. It hurts. Badly. And all that about being able to pick yourself up almost immediately after such a fall? Rubbish. I couldn't move and I suppose I passed out after a while of groaning in pain. I wasn't keeping a watch on the time. All that was going through my head was that I had failed miserably and that if Erik ever found me…. I let that thought stay incomplete.
I don't know how much later it was when I woke up. The woods were dark, so I presume it was at least a few hours.
I couldn't move at first because I had an excruciating headache. When I finally managed to sit up shakily, I noticed that, among other things, my head was bandaged and there didn't seem to be any blood anywhere. The cuts on my arms and legs were also cleaned up and my ankle was bandaged. Only my torso had been left untouched.
Panic, you can presume. Who else would do such a thing?
Fuelled by my fear, I managed to stand up and stumble a few steps backwards when his dry voice floated across from somewhere. "If you are looking for the highway, you only need to limp towards your left for another ten minutes or so. Going backwards won't get you far."
I shifted, expecting to see him leering over me in the shadows. Nothing. I didn't move further.
Then, from another direction, "Aren't you going to go? I imagine you might find a few cars at this time, if you hurry."
He was toying with me. Of course he was. I didn't know what to think. I didn't know where to look, what to do. He kept assailing me with his voice; it came from all directions, even from below (at which I quickly crossed my legs in horror). I was terrified of what he would do to me; I begged him to come out from the shadows again and again and again. Seeing him would be far better than hearing his voice everywhere. It reminded me of the time I thought I was mad.
He did not emerge. I even brought myself to apologize, all the while sobbing and pleading. My unanswered supplications eventually made me believe that I was alone and delusional. Or even worse: I was dead. It's a horrible thought to have. It's how you know how much you want to live.
That thought, though, didn't last; my muscles were aching far too much for this to be true. I could not hold myself up for long. I crumpled to the ground, unable to even break my fall with my arm. None of my pleas for him to show himself had worked; this did. He was at my side before I could move.
I wanted to curl into a ball and hide, but he would have none of that. He helped me lean against a tree for support, then promptly backed away.
Pointing behind me, he said, "That's the way to the road. This is the only chance you'll get, Christine. Why don't you take it?"
I couldn't believe he was letting me go. I asked him as much, between hiccups and tears.
His eyes—fiery in the dark, now that I could see them—were unreadable as he approached me once more.
"You must try to understand what I am about to tell you, Christine. Will you?"
A pause, in which I gasped and tried to look away from his eyes, unsuccessfully. He curled his long, bony fingers around my shoulders, and clasping them painfully, he continued, "Until I release you, you may leave whenever you want, but I will always find you."
He did not raise his voice a single decibel. It merely grew colder and harder. And his eyes. Something beyond feeling. Apathy is a feeling. This coldness is not. I find the lack of emotion more frightening than anger. I've heard both. Anger makes him human. Coldness makes him something far worse that I don't know how to deal with.
I blinked and looked down; my mind was too overwrought to attempt filtering his words into coherence.
"You have always been free, but I do not have the same privilege. I cannot let you go." He shook me. "Do you understand?"
No, I did not understand. I'm not sure I do now, either. It is probable that I do not recall the words right. If I did, then I know one thing: you are wrong, Erik. I lost my freedom when you entered my life. I have never been free. It is you who choose to act the way you do, not I.
I had stopped crying, but I was still dazed. You know the emptiness you feel after crying for long? That's what I felt. Nothing. A coldness of my own kind.
I nodded and he released my shoulders and pointed towards the road. "Go," he said.
"And … and you won't follow me?"
He did not reply. I did not move. I know why now. I had no energy left in me. If I had been able to run, I would not have gone far before being caught again.
And there was my second reason. Although I did not understand his words then, I had managed to decipher this: he would find me, he would drag me back with him, and there was no hope left for me. I was utterly trapped and will always be so. Caged in this place with no air, no windows, no doors. Just him and his music and his infernal obsession.
That is the reason I have not since tried to escape. The claustrophobic knowledge killed any thoughts I might have had to that effect.
He asked me if I was going to leave, one final time. I did not move. I followed his every movement with my eyes, feeling utterly dead inside. That was when I learned that feeling nothing is better than hoping. It's easier that way. I've found it easier to switch off from myself since then. I stopped fighting my lack of emotion.
Back to him. He carried me to his car, which was parked on a rutted lane some distance away. I don't know how long I was passed out in the forest that he was able to bring medical supplies and a car and still have time for me to regain consciousness. I don't want to think about it.
The last bit is left now. I'll finish it quickly and go for dinner.
He drove me back in silence. Perhaps that was because I was nearly unconscious on the back seat. My memory is unclear about that part. I remember the car jerking to a halt. Then his frigid arms under my knees and back and cold air rushing beneath me. Then a door that appeared in a blank wall. More darkness.
An immense labyrinth that seemed to wind downwards in a never-ending spiral. Or perhaps that was dizziness combined with a feverish brain. So many doors and pauses and tunnels with choking blackness. Were they in the garden?
Hades and his Underworld. Was I his Persephone, then? I'd settle for staying with him for even half a year, if it meant that I was free for the rest of it. Or was I merely a dead soul who had not even that meager freedom? My brain latches on to the oddest things when I am not in possession of it.
We finally emerged in the main passage here. I was more conscious by then. No mythology.
He brought me to my room, and sat me on the couch. Then, indicating for me to stay where I was, he left and returned a few minutes later with some ointments, bandages and an ice pack for my ankle.
He asked if I would tend the wounds on my stomach on my own, or if I would prefer he did it. I shook my head vehemently before he could finish; I did not want him anywhere near me.
He refused to leave when I asked him to. I wonder what he was thinking. He did, however, turn his back on me while I cleaned up gingerly, hastily. Having him in the room forced me out of my stupor. I don't know what energy I used for that exertion. It was fear, I think. Thank God for small mercies, Nana used to say, but I can't bring myself to do that here.
When I was done, he knelt at my feet, and gently applying the compress to my ankle, and never once looking at me, he lied again. He told me that he would release me, that he was not my captor. I shook my head, wanting to tell him to stop lying. I did not have the courage to do so.
He went on in this vein for a while until he suddenly looked up and saw my silently shaking head.
He stood up then. His voice was noticeably harsher as he pronounced my sentence. No more going up. No fresh air. He was going to lock me in my room henceforth, and perhaps I would learn where I belonged in his house.
He has kept his promise for the most part. The first few–I don't know how long–I was confined to my room because of my ankle. He got me crutches and I hobbled around awkwardly. After it healed, the door remained locked.
Only now does he let me out of my room freely. No more locked doors. Only ones that have disappeared. And … and this little hapless bird has learnt her place in this prison. I no longer question him, or speak to him unless I am spoken to. I don't fight anymore.
It is very easy to typify him as an emotionless monster at moments like this, to hate him. So easy to hate him. I hate that he grovels and pretends that he exists only for my pleasure, while he is all the while the one ordering my life. I hate that he lies that he will let me go. I hate that he gives me hope and then sadistically dashes it. And most of all, I hate that he claims to love me. I don't want to be loved. I don't need to be loved.
I just need to be free.
Bella, do you think I'm a coward for not trying to fight anymore? I'm so scared all the time. Please don't judge me. I … I couldn't bear it if even you were against me. I know you aren't alive in reality, but in my mind, you are as real as your notebook form. Sometimes, I pretend that I am writing a letter to you, and that you are a real person.
You are my only friend, Bella. Please don't leave me. And never betray my secrets, either. If he ever reads what I have written here, I don't know what I will do.