Chapter 6
Tantrum
I find my way back to the cellar, and it is almost as if I am drawn there. She sleeps, curled up on the twin bed. I watch her as she seems to be dreaming, with her eyes moving quickly beneath her lids. She tosses and turns, looking distressed at what should be a peaceful moment. She kicks aside her blanket and she is wearing only my shirt. Her legs are long, tan, and bare and my shirt threatens to expose even more of her as she sleeps fitfully. I don't know how long I stare before I get control of myself enough to leave. My hand is in my pocket grasping the key to her cell as I rush from the cellar.
Back in my suite I pace the floor. I cannot think of anything that will hold my interest more than the woman below me. Books, music, art, even my journals are no match for watching her sleep. Impossible!
I again leave the house and haunt the town. It is late and the department stores are nearing their closing time. Our accountants are going to wonder what happened when the bills from this time show up. Not that we have never purchased food; we do just to keep them from questioning. But it is always donated anonymously. It is tonight's purchases that will have them wondering what we need with women's clothing. I have to grin myself at the thought of why two bachelors would buy such things. The thought of Vladmir cross dressing comes unbidden into my mind.
I find myself laughing as I drive through the town. I don't laugh often; at least not in my normal daily activities. Vladmir laughs, but he enjoys the entertainment that technology provides. He loves cartoons and anything animated. He also still loves the comedians of the mid twentieth century; Groucho Marx, Abbott and Costello, Bob Hope, and of all things the Three Stooges. I can hear him laughing every time he watches those comedy routines. I do not understand how he can find them so funny over and over again, when they are only mildly amusing to me the first time. Perhaps that is what I am missing; my friend Vladmir who fills up so much empty space in my life. He is a good friend even though we do not share many of the same interests. He likes playing cards, any game of skill and chance. He also paints, though not as well as you might think for someone who has seen many masterpieces painted in person. Well, at least he is not terrible, and he truly loves it.
And then there are the dogs. Usually we are only able to keep one at a time, and he will go through the animal shelter for days until he finds just the right dog that will not react negatively to him. Then he lavishes it with attention and trains it to guard the house and property. He would be very upset to know that the thief drugged his precious Aro! Again I find myself laughing, almost uncontrollably. He names his dogs after the Volturi. Aro is a brown pit bull with a happy disposition when he is not on watch. Vladmir especially enjoyed training Aro, using the name every time it did something wrong. It was 'Good Boy' when it did the right thing, and 'Bad Aro!' when it misbehaved.
I am wondering what people must think of me, out shopping when it is rare to ever even see me. At best I am the recluse who lives in the manor house. At worse I am the threat mothers use to keep their children in line. I typically only venture out when absolutely necessary. The modern age moves faster than I enjoy, and the people who share the world with us have little patience.
Vladmir has recently begun leaving the house more regularly. Ever since our visit to the Cullen family in America he has adopted some of their particularly human aspects. He has put away all of his old suits and dresses more like Carlisle instead. I have even seen him sporting denim and T-shirts like the younger one, Edward. And he goes out in public; to theaters, to restaurants and nightclubs, and even to daytime recreation places and parks when the weather permits.
Of course he has also adopted a strange hunting habit and I worry about him. He travels to major cities and hunts the streets. His newest prey is drug addicts – those so far gone they don't even recognize the danger he represents. He tells me their tainted blood sometimes affects him in strange ways before the venom in his system overcomes it. Still with all the changes Vladmir is making, I know he would think I have lost what is left of my mind if he knew about Summer.
I cannot stop thinking about her. I have purchased clothes for her and even shoes. I do not know why I feel I have to make up for burning her horrid attire, but I will try. I even have to ask for assistance from the sales person. I remembered her sizes before I destroyed her things. But trying to explain that I want something beautiful and modest, and comfortable brings more strange looks than I am used to seeing. The woman shows me many things, the doubt plain on her face until I start to nod and agree to purchase her selections. I spend an enormous amount of money on clothes for my guest. When I leave the store I am laden down with what I am assured is everything a young lady will need to present herself in public.
In the back of my mind I wonder why she is going to need so many clothes if her life expectancy is so limited. But I am not ready to contemplate her death, so instead I look forward to Carlisle's visit. I should know better than to put so much hope into a desired outcome, but I find a small spark of excitement in her presence and her mystery. Well, more than a small spark if I am honest with myself.
Once again I am back home and I am comforted by the steady sound of her heart. She sounds like she is still sleeping and I store my purchases in my room. I rush down the stairs to see her curled up in bed with her knees drawn up like a child. My shirt barely covers her, and her bare legs look so enticing. I wonder how she can sleep so much, and I cannot resist, I click my heels noisily on the floor to startle her awake. I love to watch her stretch as she wakes and the surprised look on her face when she sees me watching her.
She looks irritated with me as she runs her fingers through her tangled hair. I remember how much I enjoyed brushing it when she was upstairs. She gets up and slips back into my pants, cinching the belt tight around her. Then she begins to pace the room, glaring at me each time she passes near the glass. I ask her how she slept, but she doesn't answer, instead giving me a look that tells me she thinks it a foolish question. I had hoped we had gotten past her anger at her captivity, but it is back in full force.
"How long are you going to keep me here?" She looks at me and asks, as if I know an answer to tell her. "Why would this stupid glass keep me from feeling whatever it is you're doing to me?" Again a question I cannot answer. "Why are you just standing there like you can't speak? I've heard you talk, I know you're not mute! Or is it your voice that holds the power over me? Is that it?" My smile seems to irritate her, but I enjoy the way she is thinking through our problem. What if it is my voice? I do not recall trying to influence her, but I have never truly tested the limits of my talent. I know that it is partly my voice, and partly my will that affects people. But why would my will leave her wanting...what we were both wanting? I really wish Carlisle were here to find an answer to these questions.
I do have the ability to give her commands she would feel compelled to follow. But I have not been doing that, and we have both been so drawn to one another, it is as if we are magnetic. It is her desire for me that I find most shocking. I have not been intimate with a woman or another vampire for so long, even my memory of the event is fading. The idea would not have come into my mind if not for her suggestion. And now that the idea has been planted in my mind, it is seeking to grow and I cannot unthink it. She is so lovely, even in my clothes, and even angry at my lack of answers.
I do not like having more questions than answers. I experiment for both our benefit. I give her a sampling of my voice; bits of political or revolutionary speeches I've made in centuries past. I try to influence her through the glass, but she remains impassive and still irritated. I try to push my will upon her, suggesting that she should wear the dress I gave her. She picks up the dress and flings it at me where it hits the glass and slides to the floor.
"Listen you...creep, you might have the power to kill me, but you're not going to make me do something if I don't want to!" And then she blushes, clearly remembering what she allowed and invited. She growls in frustration, clenching her hands into tiny fists. My laughter sends her flouncing onto the bed facing away from me. She sits up suddenly, looking my way. "Oh, and by the way, your books are BOR-RRING! Turn of the Century Politics? Great Leaders of the Napoleonic Era? Ancient poetry written in Latin? Who reads this stuff? She indicates the stack of books I've left for her before flopping down onto a pillow. "Oh, why don't you just go away until it's time for you to eat me, or drink me, or whatever it is you do!" I hear her words muffled in the pillow.
I am not sure what to make of her contrary behavior. On one hand it is insulting the way she seems to throw my hospitality in my face. She obviously has yet to grasp the idea that she should be dead, and instead she is alive despite all the problems it is causing me. But then again it is the only rebellion afforded her in a situation that is far from ideal for either one of us. I watch her lying face down on the bed, with her ankles crossed swinging back and forth over her body like a pendulum. I try to pull myself away from her, but something about her ankles peeking out of the cuffs of my own pants...and the way my clothes are hugging her body. I dip my hand into my pocket and grasp the key.
I should resist. I know how dangerous it can be, but I have the strongest desire to upset the balance of her world. Ah how power doth corrupt! I place the key in the lock and stop breathing. The sound of the door opening sends her scrambling in a panic, scooting for the far corner of the bed. I relish the sound of her heart racing and I smile malevolently in her direction. Two steps into the room and I snatch up the dress from the floor. I hold it to my face as if I am smelling it, but still dare not breath. Not breathing does help, but I forget it is only helpful for me. Her own eyes watch me, first with fear, then with fascination. I am feeling smug in my ability to rattle her when she moves to the edge of the bed, closer to me. Her blue eyes stare at me and her delicate mouth opens in a look of pure desire that shakes me to my core.
She puts one bare foot onto the floor and I have the distinct feeling I am being stalked! I turn to pick up the tray and she stands. "No!" I gasp as I whirl toward the door with the tray and her rejected dress. I am so much faster than she is, which is the only reason I make it out before she races to where I was standing. I lock the door behind me as she tries again to open it herself. I back away from the door and when I start breathing again I feel like there is not enough air in the room. I close my eyes to block her from my sight. Somehow the look of dejection on her face is more an accusation than a triumph.
When I look at her again, I can see she has recovered her sanity and she knows exactly what I have done. She is angry with me and she screams in frustration at the glass wall. "Coward! Why don't you just finish it! I'm not a freaking goldfish in a bowl! Just do it already! Do something! Anything! You can't keep me here forever like I'm some kind of hamster...some lab experiment to play with!" She screams then, but not like I ever expected her to when she was frightened. This is anger and frustration seething up from a dark place inside her. She is not finished as she grabs the books I have left for her and she hurls them one after another against the glass, each time she snarls or screams as ten rare antique books thud against the wall and crumple to the stone floor, some separating from their bindings and some with pages crumbling to dust.
It pains me to see my books destroyed, but more than that, I cannot stand to see what I have done to her. She is right. I have treated her as a pet; some kind of curiosity to distract me from my dull existence. She shames me. I cannot say a word to her, but instead I gather up the dishes and her dress and leave her to regain her peace. Once upstairs I clean and put away the dishes. I move up to my suite to make sure I stay far away from her. I am anxious for Carlisle to get here so he can fix what is wrong with me.
Once more in my suite I strive for calm and the order I have established in my routines. But there is evidence of her all around me. The bed is still disheveled and the bathroom bears evidence of her explorations. My closet needs to be straightened and the door frame needs repair. And it smells like her throughout. I spend time putting everything right, except for the wood, which will take an expert to repair the antique molded detail. Even with everything set right it still bears witness to her presence.
I spend time just listening to her below me. Not only do I hear her heartbeat, but I can also hear her muttering aloud to herself. I wonder if she knows I can hear her, as the things she says about me are not flattering. Well, except the part about being gorgeous and sexy. No, she obviously cannot know I can hear or she would not give me that much of a complement. I make a list of expletives and other adjectives she uses to describe me. I actually write them into my journal, hoping that some day I will be able to laugh at them.
Once I start writing I cannot stop. The subject is of course Summer, and I fill pages about her, using a nib and ink in what Vladmir calls old-fashioned script. I am a bit of a writing snob when it comes to my penmanship. I like that my journals look like they are written in calligraphy, with all the swirls and curls that have been lost as time moves forward. It is how I learned to write and I see no reason to change if it works. It is barely enough to keep me from descending to the cellar to explore all the dark desires with which her presence taunts me.