A/N: I've had this written for a while, but I've been thrashing certain details out with my beta (who is wonderful; please applaud gravity01 for me), hence the delay. I'm sorry for that.
Murder He Wrote
Some day, or perhaps night, in the year.
My Room, his House.
My dear Isabella,
I hope that this letter finds you in good health. My health continues to be as dismal as ever, but I am sure you do not want to hear about that.
My dear, dear Bella, you must learn to express yourself more adequately. You have only ever been silent ever since I met you. No matter now. I feel it incumbent upon myself to carry forward this meager conversation.
Am I mad? That would be nice, wouldn't it, Bella? I think being mad has several benefits here. Maybe I should ask him to order me some madness one of these days. On second thoughts, perhaps not. No, I don't think that is a good idea. Or is it?
Well, on the bright side, at least I can identify the madness as such. What will be disturbing is when I'm no longer able to discern between madness and normalcy. On the other bright side, if I'm that far gone, I doubt I'll care much to be disturbed. I win both ways, see? I think I'll tell him to get me some insanity tomorrow, then.
Today was not a very good day. Neither was last night, for that matter. My mind was distracted throughout his lecture on something or the other. The intricacies of Scriabin's or Dvôrak's music, no doubt, or Monteverdi's L'Orfeo and its significance to the operatic world.
He did not take very kindly to my inattention and lost all the solicitude he had shown when I emerged, dazed, from my room. "Concentrate, Christine!" are words I have become all too well acquainted with.
I was tired after writing so much for so long. When I am tired, I grow irritable, so I snapped back, without thinking of the consequences. He grew angrier. He threatened not to let me go if I was not serious about music. An empty threat, because he is not planning to, but it was nonetheless … frightening. I am scared of him. It must have showed on my face because he apologized after a while. His apologies mean nothing to me.
He is never abusive. He rails at me whenever I make mistakes (many), but he has never once used abusive language, though I've given him (without regret, mind you) more than enough occasion to. He has never raised his hand on me, either. Should I be grateful that he is just a psychopathic madman and not a psychopathic abusive madman? I would be in a far worse situation now if he were.
Once–just once–have I seen him … I can't write it down like that. I need a build-up to the incident to build up my own courage. I don't mind bad words, but this word frightens me. It's very childish of me, but…. I wrote about it yesterday. Why he kept me here for a week.
It was one of those days when he had taken me up to the garden and left me alone. I needed to … well, I needed to return to my room for reasons that I shall not write here. I knew the way down, so I did not wait for him. I just had to go to my room, do what needed to be done, and then I'd return upstairs.
I went down the stairs silently and entered the grand living room soon enough.
There are four doors in that room. One to go upstairs, which has disappeared now; another that leads to my room; a third, which hides his room behind it; and a fourth that opens into a vast corridor that contains the entrances into the music room, the library and the rest of the rooms that I shall describe later.
Our rooms are opposite each other, so I would normally have turned away from his side to get to mine faster. However, I heard voices coming from his room.
Note that I said 'voices', not 'voice'.
One was his and the other belonged to a man speaking in a strange accent and a foreign language.
Did I say speaking? I meant shouting.
Ever curious and thirsting for human contact, especially one that seemed to disagree so vehemently with him, I made my way there instead. The door was slightly ajar and as I snuck towards it, I heard a crash and a snarl.
If I had been sensible, I would have gone right back up and stayed there until he came for me. Drawn by my infernal curiosity, however, I edged the door open, only to be greeted by the most horrific sight I have ever seen.
His red-but-normally-white hand was holding the man at least half a foot (that's a lot) off the ground by his neck. The other hand, equally bloody, was wresting a small box from the man's grasp. He had choked him so much that despite the man's dark skin, he was blue in the face.
I don't remember much after that. I must have gasped or cried out or made some noise, because he suddenly whipped around. The lights in his room and the living room went out. And before that, he thrust the stranger to the floor with a snarl. I backed away blindly.
The door leading upstairs was still open and some light came from there. I ran towards it, tripping over myself in my haste to get away from him. I'm not sure of anything. I remember running up the stairs two at a time. The lights went out there too. I stumbled. He caught me.
Eyes. I could only see his eyes. Blazing into mine. I don't know what happened after that.
Hysteria. Yes, definitely hysteria on my part. I refused to let him touch me. I must have screamed a lot because when my memory clears up, my throat was hoarse.
The overwhelming emotion I felt was terror. I had never seen him that angry. Fear forced everything else out of my head. There was blood all over my clothes. I only saw it much, much later. It wasn't mine. Was it his? Did I kick him, or were my feet bruised because I tripped? And the bruises on my wrists that I noticed a day later: how did I get them? I don't know. I don't want to.
The next thing I remember clearly is him dragging me back to the living room. I was no longer screaming, having realized that he was not going to kill me, but still horrified of what I had seen. I couldn't stop crying.
He made me sit on the sofa, and sat beside me. He reached for my hand, but I flinched away, cowering. I have a vivid image in my mind of him withdrawing sharply at that.
I'm not too certain what he said. I think he was trying to reassure me and explain away what I had seen. I wasn't listening. I kept darting looks over his shoulder, towards his closed door, at him, at the dark stains on his dark jacket, and at the tinge of crimson-turning-brown I could see on his shirt.
He noticed, of course. He took my hands in his to force me to listen. I could only see the blood, feel the sick, sticky stuff smearing me and staining me indelibly. Another man's blood, another man's blood. I could only think of what those very same hands had been doing a few minutes ago and what they might do to me. I struggled futilely to free myself from that sickening vice.
"Enough! I am not going to harm you!" he snarled.
I froze. Even stopped crying for a few seconds. His tone belied his words.
He said something. I don't know what. It was as if my brain had shut down everything but the Panic Mode. I tried to make myself listen, but I couldn't. Those hands, those awful hands! I wanted to throw up.
He stopped talking. My hands were still in his. The silence, normally disconcerting, was now crushing. Blood! I had to stop thinking of it. I had to break the silence. I asked him who the man was.
He looked away.
I would not have questioned him further–I did not have the nerve–but after a few seconds of agonizing silence, he said that the man was an old acquaintance.
An old acquaintance! He tried to kill his friend! Until then, I had thought that the man was an intruder or a thief or something equally sinister. A friend, for God's sake! I was so shocked that I could not speak for a few seconds.
He stared at me defiantly, daring me to judge him.
I did. Condemned unilaterally by the jury.
More silence.
Very hesitantly, I asked him if the man was still … well, you know, alive.
Annoyed, he snapped again. "How many times do I have to tell you that he is?"
I was confused, but I did not push the matter. When did he say that? I don't know. I must have asked earlier. I don't remember.
"And the … the…?" I indicated the rapidly drying stains on our hands.
No reply.
He released my hands. The blood had dried between them, so they stuck a bit. I hugged them to myself, far from his grasp. I wanted to run back to my room, but I did not. I asked him if he would still…. I couldn't bring myself to say the word, so he supplied it for me. He said that no further harm would come to that person … for the time being.
My eyes widened and I leaned away. I suddenly felt very sick in my stomach.
He sighed and stood up. Told me to go to my room and that he was going to lock the door until I learnt to not look where I was not supposed to. I obeyed him blankly.
I remember him saying, "Please do not fear me; I would never harm you." Empty words. Nothing more.
Door shut. I saw the blood on my clothes. Fumbled my way to the bathroom and retched over and over again. I kept gagging even after I had emptied my stomach and all that came up was wretched, burning bile.
Oh God, there was blood on me! And it smelled so metallic and wretched! I couldn't scrub my hands enough. I showered thrice and compulsively scrubbed so hard that my skin peeled and my blood joined the other person's. I couldn't wash my hands enough after that. Awful blood!
What I had seen was the closest I had ever come to witnessing….
The word I was scared of earlier? It's 'murder'. Erik is a murderer. At least he would have been if I had not interrupted him. Dear God, have pity on me. I'm at the mercy of a cold-blooded killer. Why can't you save me?
He kept to his word, just like after the garden escape. He did not take me up for a week, and during that time locked me into my room after lessons, only letting me out for meals.
I'm sick of memories. I have a sudden urge to rip you apart into a million little pieces and forget you ever existed. No. I'm not going to do it, but would you mind if I stuck to the present for a while, Bella? I know I wrote 'Isabella, The Memory Book' in large letters on the first page, but you've become more than mere memories to me.
Memory Keeper, Diary, Friend, Instrument for Insanity.
I'd rather not think about the side of him I discussed right now. I'll continue with why today was a bad day, instead. It might help to stop my throat from clenching and my stomach from revolting at the thought of that man.
He has been trying to perfect bel canto with me for a while now, but it takes up so much energy that I am unable to cope with it. And it doesn't help that I feel nothing when I sing. Earlier, there used to be something, however imperfect, that made me want to continue. Now, I sing as if it is a chore. It is one of his constant complaints.
I hate this. I have never been athletic, but I have never been a delicate, wilting, flowery damsel in distress, either. It's not the distress that bothers me. I can't deny it. I'm not waiting for any knight–white or black–to rescue me, though; I've had enough of men. But I am weak, despite my best efforts. It is very aggravating not to be in control of your own body.
It took a bit of pleading on my part to get him to stop for the day. I see that he is getting increasingly frustrated with my reticence and inability to live up to his expectations. Praise comes far less readily than censure with him.
Ha. It just occurred to me that if I botch up my music more, he might begin to hate me. He told me himself that he 'fell in love with me' (his words, not mine; I'd say 'began obsessing about me') because of my voice. Take away the music and I could be free.
Oh. No, no, no. I had the most disturbing thought ever. If he hates me, he might not let me go. He might just…. Oh, God. That is a vile thought. Forget that. I did not think it. Not at all. Not at all. Not at all.
Banal trivia. Yes, that could help me forget. Banal trivia. I am running out of soap and shampoo. I need to go out and make a new list of things I need.
More banal trivia. When I first ran out of soap here, I was far too scared to ask for more. Instead, I used whatever other soapy thing I could find to have a bath. When I ran out of those as well, it took me two days of dirtiness to build up the nerve to tell him that I needed more.
He was quite taken aback. I don't think he had bothered to factor in the slight possibility that I might actually have baths and run out of soap.
Ever since then, he has kept a supply book on a coffee table in the living room. Whenever I need anything, I just go there and write it down. I can normally expect to see a neatly parceled package there a day later.
Even more banal trivia. The first ten or twelve lists all have 'Freedom' written in huge, capital letters on top. Needless to say, all these requests have been denied.
Why am I writing this, anyway? Oh. To forget. I did forget, but now I remembered again.
This is pointless. I think I'll just continue another day. The surprise is waiting for me.
Oh, right. I didn't tell you. He told me after today's drawing lesson (better than usual; I think I'm getting the hang of perspective) that he was going to give me something this evening, and that I would like it.
It will probably be some 'masterful' recording of a symphony or a concerto or something. One thing he can't do is play several instruments at once, although he's certainly gifted enough to individually play them better than anyone I have ever heard. The man is a genius. Evil, but intelligent. What a terrifying combination.
Will I be brave enough to look him in the eye today? I should not have thought of this. Memory hurts. I want to forget. Enough of bei—.
He's knocking at the door. Give me courage, someone. Let me not be afraid of him.