Discord

One week. One week since I first started writing in you. As I was flipping through you earlier today, I've noticed that my rhetoric against him has slowly reduced in its intensity. It's not that I have changed so dramatically. I think I was letting out all my feelings that have been stored up for so long and I am now coming back to the state I was in when I first began writing: confusion.

I find it hard to reconcile myself with the two wildly different images I have of Erik. On one side is the stalker, the murderer, the kidnapper, the controller. On the other side is the musician, the artist, the … man. The two are so different; I find it hard to believe that he is the same person.

One moment, he is sweet and pleasant, and the next, bam! He goes into angry mode, and God forbid I should anger him further. I sometimes wonder if he has schizophrenia. Or is it multiple personality disorder? I never could remember which is which.

If only he would stop oscillating, I would find it easier to define him. There doesn't seem to be any middle ground either, or if there is, I haven't seen it. Or perhaps I haven't noticed it. I don't even know what he looks like, so I can only rely on his eyes and gestures to decipher his actions.

I don't think I will ever see his face. Is it because my brain was unable to manufacture a face, and hence put a mask on him, or is he real and has he always worn that mask, or does he wear it to hide from me, or do I expend far too much energy in such musings? It cannot really matter, can it?

If he is not real, what will I see behind the mask? Will his face disintegrate and will I wake up from this nightmare?

When did things move from dreams to reality? (Is it the other way around?) I cannot say. He made the shift from haunting my dreams to being a major presence in my life very gradually. I became moodier as he did so. I was only truly happy when I heard his voice. When he was not there (often), I withdrew into myself completely. During that awful transition when I was terrified he would leave me, I turned away from everyone else. He was my only friend, the only one who 'understood'. I think he 'understood' more than I ever anticipated.

Mama persuaded me to go to a counsellor for treatment after a few months of extreme moodiness. I went reluctantly, complaining to the voice all the way about having to go. He told me that I should lie or they would take me away and lock me up and he would have to leave me.

You evil conniving man, I did just that because I trusted you. I told the counsellor that I was stressed out with school, that I fought with Mama often, that I missed my father. I manipulated everything. I think it was my fear of losing you that helped me to lie so effectively. In the end, the counsellor said that all I suffered from was mundane adolescence and that I'd grow out of it soon enough.

I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't been so naïve that I thought that all he cared for was my well-being. Would he have left me if I had told the counsellor everything? I've had so many chances to end this all, even before it began and I did nothing. I truly did bring this upon myself. Right until I came here, I could have stopped everything, but I did not. I don't know who to hate more: him or myself.

What would you think if you heard a voice in your head whenever you were alone, and if nobody else could hear it? Would you believe it as blindly as I? I thought I was mad for a while. Then I began to fear stalkers when I remembered those letters. Then I thought I was mad again because the letters had disappeared and I did not know if they had ever existed. I grew dependant on him. By the time he left for a year before he brought me here, I'd accepted him as an irreplaceable part of my life.

It took that long year to shake off his hold over me. It wasn't easy. Everything I had done since I had been fifteen had been with his voice and his music in mind. Now, with that anchor gone and Nana too (she passed away when I was eighteen; old age, the doctors said), I had no sense of direction. It was only Mama and I for a while—we finally reconciled with each other over this year, and I came to realise how much I loved her. Then, halfway through that year, she passed away too.

I was left with nothing. If Kate and Raoul had not been there for me, I don't know what I would have done, Bella. I really don't know. The thought of it scares me.

When I came here and realised the truth, I was furious. All I wanted to do was to rip into him and tear him apart for ruining my life. I was too scared to do anything in the beginning. Later, when I had assured myself that he would not hurt me, I did shout and yell and hit him as hard as I could. Why didn't he respond?

Do you remember I told you about that time he spoke to me in a dream and promised me all sorts of things if I would obey him? I inadvertently told Mama about that the next day. She immediately started questioning me further: had I had dreams like that earlier? what did the voice say exactly? what did I say in response? I got annoyed and walked out.

I wonder now if she had some sort of maternal intuition that warned her that the dreams were dangerous. They were dangerous.

So much of that part of my life has blurred up into one big gloop of melted ice-cream; the flavours that seemed so varied when I went through them have now become indistinguishable from each other. Am I senile? I am losing my memory at far too young an age.

Oh, no. Why, why, why must I always think these stupid thoughts? I just thought of what it would be like to spend an eternity here. I am only twenty-one. I have at least fifty years ahead of me. That's over twice the time I've lived! Fifty!

Another oh, no. I hate my brain. Hate it, hate it, hate it. He is far older than I. I'd say forty, at least (ugh! twice my age!). What if he dies first and I am left here alone? I don't know how to get out. He hides all the doors except those he wants me to see. He told me as much. Stuck down here forever, slowly running out of food and then….

Why must I think this way? I would have been perfectly happy to have not thought this and simply gone through life one day at a time. I hate the future. I need to get it out of my head.

Today, today, today. What happened today? This afternoon, after a short nap, I ventured out and found him in the music room, writing something. I rarely go there after lunch; he seemed surprised. I asked if he would play for me, and putting his papers away, he did.

He played some Prokofiev at the piano for a while, then his own compositions. After some more of this, he sang (he has the most beautiful voice I have ever heard. I don't know if I've mentioned it before; at any rate, it is worth mentioning again). Next, he asked if I would sing too. I did.

Music for a while shall all your cares beguile, indeed. Purcell is one of my favourite Baroque composers.

Do I still hate music? Perhaps I hate what it has come to represent. How do I define this? How can I? Hating it is to hate myself. I think I do hate myself at some level. But I don't hate myself. I hate him. I don't hate him.

I don't know what I know. I know somewhere that I should be thinking of my rights as a human being. I know that nobody ought to be able to do this to anyone and get away with it. I know that he terrifies me one moment, and enraptures me the next. I know that if I ever regain my freedom, I should go to the police and beg for their protection and demand revenge. I also know that all this knowledge is irrelevant because I will never act on it.

Oh, Bella. What did I do? Has he done something to me, or was it my own fault? Why does he like me? WHY ME??

.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout. I'm so angry at myself, at him, at everyone.

What am I thinking of? How could I ever have imagined that music would suffice to make me forget every single thing he has done to me? He has taken away my freedom, he has terrorized me, he has stalked me, he has messed with my mind. All this, and I considered forgetting? I cannot stop fighting. I just cannot.

He has nearly broken me down into what I despise. Why do I consider it such a favour to be able to go outside? What crime have I committed to be here, to be grateful to my jailor? What has he done that I have forgotten all this?

No. I will not forget who he is, and why I am here. This is not my fault at all. It is all him, him, him.

Love! If he wants love, he ought to have approached me like normal men do. My love is not his prerogative, nor anyone else's.

How do I contain the hate, Erik? You have made me what I am. I cannot accept you. Ever.

Anger. It's good. But not now.

Now, I want to forget everything.

Today, before we went up to the garden, and after the drawing lesson, I picked up a book at random from the library. It was called On Death and Dying by some doctor or the other. I don't know why I picked it up. Morbid curiosity, I suppose.

I flipped through it. Most of it was psychological mumbo-jumbo and went right over my head. I was about to give it up as a lost cause and get another book when I noticed one bit. It was about the emotions one feels when one loses a loved one or has a terminal illness. Grief cycle, was it? I think so.

It doesn't quite apply to me, to be honest, but I related to some of the stages in that they reminded me of my reactions when I first came here. What were they again? Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. Yes, that's what they were.

I experienced two-and-a-half out of five stages: no Denial (I'd have to be very thick not to notice it was happening to me), a lot of Anger (more on that soon), never thought of Bargaining, Depression (I have vivid memories, but I'd rather not recall them), and some sort of Acceptance. Could be better. I didn't read further; Erik asked if I would like to join him in a game of Scrabble.

As for the Anger story. It is at best amusing, at worst highly embarrassing. The more I think of putting it down on paper, the more I cringe at the memory. Nothing works like the direct approach, though. I won't linger.

Remember how he provided me with a supply book? This was some time before that, only a few days after I came here. I was mortally terrified of him. I only emerged from my room when he insisted on it. Oh, when I say 'insisted', I mean 'forced'. Terror clogs most of my memories of those days. This memory is clear only because of the anger.

Not once during those hellish first days did I ever think of menstruation. Big mistake. I went creeping to the bathroom one morning for my bath and was horrified to find blood. Of course, I couldn't go out, but I had to.

I improvised. No, I'm not going to give you details. Some things are best left unsaid. Having secured myself (somewhat), I crept back out and ransacked the closet (I did not yet regard it as mine) for anything resembling a sanitary napkin. Nothing. I ransacked the bathroom next. Still nothing. I went back out to see if I'd missed something. Nothing in the dresser, either.

My frustration peaked. Frustration combined with hormones leads to anger, and I was ready to confront him and kill him and do other horrible things to him when he knocked on the room door. I was near naked! Out went all thoughts of retribution. I scuttled to the bathroom and locked the door behind me.

He knocked twice or thrice, calling out for me. I did not reply, but pulled on clothes. However filthy they might get, they were better than him seeing me….

The knocks turned into thuds, then the click of the handle turning and he entered. He called out again, louder. Then, he came over to the bathroom and hammered on the door.

"Christine! What are you doing in there?"

I almost laughed hysterically, but settled for a silent shaking instead. I was so scared!

"Christine!"

The fear slowly galvanised itself into something harder.

"Come out right now, Christine, or I'll open the door." More knocking.

Anger. Boiling, raging anger that refused to be contained.

"You come in and I'll kill you, you evil psychopath!" Or something to that effect. I have the distinct impression that I used fouler language.

Silence outside for a moment, then, "Christine … come out, or I will enter."

"Like hell you will! I'm not coming out!"

"I don't want to do thi—."

"I don't care what you want! I can't come out!"

That silenced him for a moment. Then, through gritted teeth, "Why can't you come out?"

That silenced me. How on earth was I supposed to explain to him that—. Well, yes. I settled for the angry route. "Where did you keep the sanitary napkins?"

"The towels? Aren't they on the rack?"

I could have screamed. In fact, I did. "Argh! Did it ever occur to you that I'm a woman!"

I can almost imagine his eyes narrowing. "I beg your pardon?"

"W-O-M-A-N, woman. Female. You know, the fairer sex, and all that?"

"How is this relevant to anything, Christine? Stop this nonsense at once."

He is so thick. How could he not have understood? "Dammit, don't you know the least thing about women? Do I need to spell it out further?"

Pause. Then drily, "Please. Enlighten me."

"I don't believe this. Didn't you ever have sex education in school?"

"What?"

"Oh, c'mon! Women. Every month. Please tell me you know about that."

There was a longer silence.

"I don't believe this! I don't believe you! I'm not going to sit here the entire day or night or whatever the hell it is and give you a stupid effing lecture on menstruation!" My cheeks were burning. When I glanced into the mirror, they were red. I still can't believe it. How on earth did he not know about it?

There was a short, embarrassed, "Ah," at the other side of the door. Perhaps he did know.

"Well? Where are they?"

A longer, more embarrassing silence. "I will have to procure them," he finally admitted.

He didn't have them! I blew up. "You idiot! How the hell did it not occur you to get them? You know my bra size and you didn't think about that? How long have you been stalking me? Six years? Seven? And you've never seen me buy them? What is wrong with you?"

"I apologise. This was my fault and—."

"Of course it's your fault! Just get the hell out of here and out of my stupid mucked up life!"

"Christine…."

"Get out!"

And he did. I heard the room door click as it shut and I sank to the floor, shivering. All the adrenaline that had fuelled my anger drained out of me. There he was, my captor with the incredibly beautiful and threatening voice, who had stalked me for years, and there I was, the defenceless and vulnerable girl who was too silly to see the truth for it was. And I, the silly girl, had just hurled abuses at him. What was I thinking? No, scratch that. I wasn't thinking at all.

What was he going to do to me?

I remained huddled on the floor until I became conscious of a sticky wetness on my clothes. Horrified and disgusted at myself (ew! I'd never have let it happen if I'd been thinking straight), I stripped and huddled in the tub instead. The last thing I wanted to do was go out and face him. He seemed to be of the same view, for I heard no more of him for a few hours.

He knocked on the door as I was about to nod off to sleep.

"Christine?"

Instantly alert, I groped around for something I could defend myself with in case he was still angry with me. I found a shampoo bottle. He knocked again. I cautiously replied, "Yes?"

"Your—I have—the things you wanted … they're here, on the side table."

I didn't reply.

"I must apologise, Christine. This transgression is unforgivable. I…."

Unforgivable, indeed! What about the kidnapping and stalking part? That was perfectly fine, wasn't it? I didn't say that, though; the adrenaline had gone. I was polite little Christine now. "I…. It's fine. Thank you. Could you leave now? I need to…."

"Yes. Yes, certainly."

I waited for ten minutes after he had gone, then proceeded to bathe again and finally felt clean. Ugh, filthy, filthy, filthy I was. It makes me shudder to think of it even now.

When I went out much later, drawn by my growling stomach, I was scared of what he would do. I didn't see him immediately when I entered; I started and skittered behind a few steps when he stood up, always so imposing in those early days. He made no mention of the earlier incident. His only question was whether I wanted to eat or not. I was too jittery to speak, so I merely nodded. Food was laid out in the dining room; I ate my meal (I was still disoriented then; I could never make out which meal was which) silently, until he asked me if I wanted to spend the rest of the day resting. I jumped at the chance.

Call me manipulative, but ever since then, I've always used my menstruation to get a couple of days of rest from him. It works like a charm. All I have to do is lie in bed, moaning with–real, or imagined–pain, and he'll let me be. I know what you're thinking and I know that I've fallen a few scales in your esteem, Bella, but don't you judge me now. I don't want you to. I have few freedoms here and I will do anything to get more. I no longer care how they are procured.

I know this is crude, but it's also how I keep time here. I won't go into details of my cycle, but they are very regular. Give or take a few weeks, that's how I know I've been here for half a year.

And it also serves as a marker of sorts. I went from Fear to Anger about then.

Now, enough of embarrassing stories. I'm dead tired. I want to sleep. I think it's well past the time I normally go to sleep.