Dichotomy

Blast, blast, blast! I am such a big idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot. I feel like banging my head against the wall, or kicking myself, or both. How could I have been so careless?

He knows about you.

It's entirely my fault. I have been feeling too lazy to open out the drawer and stick you behind it, so I've been leaving you on my desk and putting some papers over you. Today, however, Ms. Incredibly Clever (I, if you have any doubts) did not hide you under papers and went out with you left completely exposed.

After today's lesson, I ate lunch alone; he was too occupied in tuning the piano to join me. I dawdled over the meal. He was very generous with his praise today (one good thing!), so I wasted a great deal of time recalling that. His praise is so rare, it feels like … the sun. Oh, I know that's not a normal metaphor, but that's what it feels like—a precious commodity that must be treasured.

When I finally emerged from the dining room into the corridor that leads to all the other rooms, I found him carrying a large carton of things I'd asked for in that supply book. He told me that he would put it in my room, so it would be easier for me to arrange everything. He does that a lots, so naturally I held the door open for him. I was merely trying to be helpful. So far, so good.

He entered my room, placed the carton on a coffee table, and waited while I extracted all the assorted items he had brought. It must have been around then that he began to fiddle around with all the papers on my desk. All I know is that when, with a soap bottle in my hand, I looked up, I saw him thumbing through you.

I panicked and over-reacted and panicked some more. Snatched you from him. Told him that it (you) was personal. He asked if he could read you. Stupid me, instead of dissembling and being vague, told him that you were my diary. Big mistake. I can still see the way his eyes changed when I said that. He was suddenly more interested and looked at you very calculatingly.

His eyes disconcerted me. I wanted to run away and hide you, but I could not. We stood, staring at each other. I suddenly became acutely aware of the fact that if he chose to, he could easily take you away from me and read what I have written. The moment passed. His shoulders loosened and he told me that he would not read you without my permission.

Do I trust him despite that? I don't think I do. He has lied so often, my dear Bella, that I no longer know what to believe. At any rate, I must hide you and I have found a better place. Under my bed, there is a hollow space between the base of the mattress and wooden slats that support it. I discovered it when I first came here and was trying to hide from him. I can roll you up and stuff you there. Unless he crawls under the bed, it is unlikely he will discover you.

So much for that. I'll try to forget it happened.

I was flipping through you (again) when I woke up this morning and it struck me that I'm far more vociferous and vocal with you than with him. This afternoon, while I dawdled over lunch, I came up with a theory that could explain why I subdue myself around him.

Consider if you will, two people.

Imagine Christine. She's been around for a while, but has recently disappeared. She had thick, curly, blonde hair and a healthy, ruddy complexion. She was never fat, but she had muscles that she used. She was confident and self-assured, and never faltered in professing her opinion of anyone or anything. She knew many people, but was close to only a few. She was fiercely loyal to those few, and would do anything for them.

Now imagine christine, a recently born person. She has lank blonde hair that falls out in clumps. Her eyes are lined with dark circles that resemble bruises and have sunk into their sockets. Her skin is near white and you can see her veins through it. You could count her ribs if you tried. She stumbles and loses control of her limbs more often than she cares to count. When she walks, her head is always bowed and she rarely makes eye contact while speaking. When she sits, she always brings her knees up, so as to curl into a ball. She is a nervous, cowed down creature.

Christine and christine are related. They live in the same body, but christine, defying all definitions of weakness, is stronger. She is more capable of facing Erik than Christine, who lost all her battles with him. christine knows that she will never win and has accepted it. Christine lost hope and that was why christine took over. Someone had to.

christine is less human. She locks all her emotions away and saves them for Christine. Christine comes out less frequently, so she feels less. On the rare occasions that Christine emerges in front of Erik when they are not singing, she blunders and stumbles and loses control. Her other part hates losing control and takes over soon enough.

The one who can truly sing is Christine because she knows what emotions are. When christine dominates, she is only a shadow of the talent Christine knows she has.

Christine is the one who writes in you, Isabella. If christine wrote more often, there would be little but a recounting of the exact events of the day. No memories. christine has no scope for memories.

Christine used to ask Erik questions like, "Where did you get all your money from?" ("You would not like the answer"), "How old are you?" ("Old enough"), "How long have you been stalking me?" ("Not as long as you think"), and "What kind of a sick person are you?" ("I can assure you that I am in good health.").

On the other hand, christine asks questions like, "May I have some salt, please?" ("Of course"), "Could we please stop for the day?" ("How about one last song, first?"), "What is the time?" ("Four o'clock, my dear"), and "…?" which isn't a question at all.

Christine is more alive, but she is dying. If christine could feel, she would feel regret at the life that will be lost with Christine's death. She does not know how to feel, however, or how to succour Christine, so she watches apathetically as her fellow withers away. One day, I will only be christine and my life with Christine will be a vague memory, if that.

Who is this 'I'? By being able to see the dichotomy between Christine and christine, do I have a third omniscient—so to speak—entity within me? Or is that entity Christine now, who knows and accepts that she is disintegrating with each day spent in this crushing atmosphere? Maybe I am neither when I write. Is this the real 'me'?

Does it make sense to you? It makes sense to me.

I don't want to spend my life as christine, but I feel safer that way. Is it better to live a dead life, or to die, having lived? I was never obsessed with mortality before I came here.

I wonder if Erik is the same: two people living in one body. Could that explain the irrational mood swings?

Let me see what I know about him. Most of this was culled over games of checkers and walks in the garden.

He does not care for his parents and he does not like discussing his childhood. He sneered at mine, in fact. Yes, thank you very much, Erik. From what I managed to extricate, he wandered all over the world as an adolescent, and later as an adult. He spent some time in the East, where he said he first learned how cruel men could get, then in the Middle East, where this knowledge was compounded into hard fact. He did not elaborate on the reasons, and I never asked. He left the Middle East several years ago, and did not settle anywhere until he found me. (Thank you again; that was a most gratifying compliment.)

When he first noticed me, at the Gala as I suspected, he extended his visit to my city ("Business that you might find nasty") in order to fully ascertain my talent. He told me yesterday that my suspicions were true; he had sent me those notes. I let christine take over before Christine wrought any damage by reacting; I don't know yet if he would have left me alone if I had ignored his notes.

He did go on to say, however, that he had originally intended to procure an instructor for me, but thought better of the idea once he heard me sing his song. All with a disconcertingly adoring look in his eyes, as he leaned towards me. Christine fought briefly for control, but christine won out. Ought I say 'thankfully'? Perhaps. Peace was maintained, at any rate and he went on uninterrupted.

He decided to see how responsive I was to music; that was the night he first played to me: he was satisfied. He boasts of a 'system', a network that can run itself. He executed (was there a particular reason he used this precise word?) some important commitments and cancelled others, then made arrangements for it to move on without him.

Increasingly fascinated by the prospect of tutoring a voice with such potential (bah, humbug!), he settled down here. Or is it 'here' anymore? He settled down, then, in the same city as I was in. He says that he did not realise how much in love with me he was until Kate told me that Raoul had a crush on me and I grinned at the idea. He grew jealous of Raoul (the thought of it!) and—.

Right about then, Christine took over and retreated back here, after a few biting comments. I think I'm christine now. Christine would have spewed vitriolic rhetoric against him here.

I went back and apologised some time later. It was christine's doing, not mine. I don't know if he's angry with me or not. Oh, he said that I should not let it worry me and then asked if I wanted to listen to music. (It seems to have become his escape route from awkward situations.) I said yes, but it did not alleviate the tension a bit. We certainly did not continue talking.

I miss them, Bella, but they seem so far away. I want to talk to them once more, even if it were to say goodbye.

This depresses me.

I think I'll reconstruct the rest of his story from what I know. He has several hideouts all over the world, but this has always been his main … headquarters, shall I say? He said a long time ago that when he started working on it, it merely consisted of two rooms: a small garret that later expanded into the music room, and a tiny bathroom that has since disappeared. When I asked him where we were, he did not answer directly. I don't think we're anywhere near home.

I don't know … I feel so … small … when I think of what he has done to have me here with him. It used to make me feel claustrophobic and trapped, but now I'm able to stop the panicking.

I don't understand him at all. I know all this about him, but it changes nothing, explains nothing. A nagging feeling tells me that all the answers lie behind his mask. I would know for certain whether or not I am mad, and why he wears it, and if I'm ever going to leave here.

I wonder if I'm dead. Anything is possible.

He knows about you Bella. Why, oh why am I so stupid? And now I'm sleepy. All I want is to just curl up and sleep righ

A/N: Once again, the word cutting short is intentional. Hope you enjoyed!