I am delighted with our progress. Things go more smoothly and quickly than I had anticipated. Aunt Imogen had always said that it took easier with children, so perhaps there is something childlike in my dear Violet, for she is the perfect pupil: attentive, needful, wanting to please.
I have let her bonds be looser over time so she can traverse her room with more ease when I am not with her. She does not buck against my rule, nor does she try to parley for more freedoms. She seems to know her place and accept it. Of course, she could be trying to fool me, I know, for I recall how I would try to cajole and convince Imogen that I was obedient and programmed so that the sessions might lessen or stop. But there is no fooling in the process, nor shortcuts to ending it before it is complete.
We must continue, therefore. Her senses will be so attuned only to bearing the pain, dissociation and survival, that no trickery or strategy can remain within. I am purifying her with fire and pain, and soon if she does dream of freedom, that concept will be transformed and she will realise the only way to true freedom is through me, to be with me, for us to be one.
You may think, of course, given my hatred for Imogen that no love can arise from this process. You might say that I never reached that point of acceptance, so neither will Violet. But this is not true. I do embrace the process, I do embrace my generational, blood requirements, I do see the need and I am a better person for this process. I just hated Imogen because deep within she was mean. Her cruelty was not from the process, from dire necessity, but from preference. Had she not been in this family she would have been cruel in any case: a torturer, a killer, of a more banal kind. As I said, her flavour was spite.
My flavour is love, at least where Violet is concerned. And perhaps I am also the base line flavour of a fine stock for a soup, necessary as a grounding for the greater work. I have my purpose and I accept it, and this is partly why Violet is so perfect for me. Our union is the recipe, the greatest recipe of all. In time she will come to see this and embrace it as I do.
I do sometimes catch her watching me, though, as I prepare and I sense that she is trying to calculate something. A part of her still rebels, and I understand that. All those years with Aunt Imogen I wanted her dead, I wanted it over, and indeed I planned and waited. So I am aware she might do so with me.
But Imogen bred hate. She had no finer feelings. Apart from the very real pleasure she personally gained from causing pain, the process was just a requirement of our family, not a soothing meant to draw us close. I doubt Imogen was close to anyone really, and possibly I am the only one who could truly be said to have come close to her. But not in the way she intended, not in the way she dreamed. Just in the way she deserved.
That’s how I won with her, that need to know her flavour. So I must remember, dear Violet is a chef, and so she will have similar sensibilities, and so I am not so confident as to be foolish. And I know the process must take its time at any rate, even when coloured by love.
Still, Imogen’s tools and processes are refined in my use, using the quickening element of love. I know Violet knows. I can see she understands this, understands my love and my longing. Sometimes I think she tries to flirt with me, to draw me in, but it is too soon and I know a flattery when I see it. Just as I will know when it is real, when her arms open to me, a flower blooming from the dark pit of her pain, seeking the succour and comfort of my unalloyed affections.
I saw the calculation again today, however, which gave me pause. I had just strapped her down to the bed, saying soothing words as I reached for the machinery. Having watched her convulse with the electro shock therapy so many times now, I also knew the fear that attended these simple preparatory rituals: fastening her bonds more tightly than usual, wheeling the machinery from its dark corner to the side of the bed, placing the electrodes to her temples. I could see the alarm in her eyes. Every time. I supposed this was how I looked to Imogen, but she did not look at me with the kindness and concern that I look at dear Violet. She did not whisper the soothing words I use, lulling her down, coaxing her to shut those frightened eyes and welcome the passageway to the dark. Oh no, Imogen was clinical and cruel, where I am exacting but kind, or as kind as I can be in this process at any rate.
Just as I was about to begin, and she had finally closed those dear eyes to surrender to the process, a loud banging at my door above splintered the air. In truth it was more a profound vibration through the roof of the room rather than a noise as this sanctuary is almost soundproof. But still, there it was. Her eyes shot open and I could see her thinking, rapidly, how strange this was – for no-one ever came here – and then, perhaps, whether this might help her gain freedom.
I was largely unconcerned. She could cry out now, but given how soundproof the room is it would have little effect – it has to be able to quell such little rebellions, given the activities done within. The only window of opportunity would be when I opened the door to go upstairs and see who has the temerity to call and disturb out work. I could ignore the knocking and I presume the visitor would leave, but I wanted to test something, see if my programming had taken properly, if one of the key visual triggers worked. It was a risk, but a small one – if she did cry out I’d quickly close the door behind her and tell the visitor I was watching a horror DVD of some sort. People don’t care to get involved, as a general rule, and so that would satisfy any minor curiosity her cries might arouse.
And I could see her thinking about trying. While this was disappointing, it was not unexpected: far less unexpected than the visitor was. The banging happened again – they were not going away. Her eyes were wide now, flicking to me, then to the door, and I could see her wondering, willing that I go, calculating whether she could call out. I dimly wondered if she’d realised the room was effectively sound proof, for she was silent now, or whether my proximity and the machinery made her afraid to try anything till I was up the stairs at the doorway to this room.
In either case, I moved away, heading up the five stairs and turned, lingering at the doorway, looking back at her. And then I tested the trigger. I held my right hand up to my face, my index finger extended over my lips, and softly said ‘shhh’. It was a trigger to silence. She blinked. I did the trigger one more time, to be sure, then opened the door.
No sound came from her. I looked back as I was about to shut the door behind her and I saw a stricken look on her face. The struggle to call out and her complete inability to do so was dawning on her, but with knowledge came no release and no way out. The trigger had held well. Confident, I actually left the door open as I went to see who had arrived. I knew she would not be able to call out, even with me gone, and the knowledge of her complete capture by the trigger would imprint in her even more strongly as she lay helpless all this time.
When the visitor turned out to be a Jehovah’s Witness coming to tell me how I could be saved, I laughed in his face.
‘There’ll be no saving here today,’ I announced, closing the door in his face, amused by the double meaning of my words.
I hoped dear Violet could hear us from up here. I thought she might appreciate my jest.
(c) Helen M Valentina 2015, All Rights Reserved