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Dear Violet asked me for a journal to write in, and some loose leaves of paper for poems and drawings. It seemed she has a creative spirit beyond just her culinary skill and I was happy to oblige. A part of me wondered if she foolishly thought she could somehow get a message outside. If so I could indulge her false hope with some kindness and no concern, for nothing goes up and down these stairs to her room but me, and there are no windows or doors to push a missive out of from this room. Aunt Imogen saw to that, many years ago. The place is hermetically sealed in many respects, it is a world unto itself.

And today, I came down to find her sleeping softly, and to such joy, my heart almost burst in its chest. For there was a poem there, on a fresh sheet of white paper, which had fallen by her bed, as though she had lost her hold on it as sleep overtook her and it had gently fallen, waiting to be found. Found by me, for it was written for me, for me, I know it must be for me, for there is no-one else, and the words in any case could not fit for any other.

I read it once, first out of curiosity, but finding my joy and wonder building with each line. Then I read it three times more, almost stumbling back with delight, and by the third reading her lovely eyes opened and I saw she saw me with the missive and she blushed slightly, unbidden roses on her pale, perfect cheeks.

‘Forgive me,’ I said and then remembered myself and continued, more stern, ‘but I should have made it clear, any writing you do must be available to me to read, you do understand?’

I did not want to be harsh, but my joy could make me seem weak, so I made sure to establish boundaries even as I delighted in her work. She nodded softly.

‘Of course,’ she said, ‘For in any case, it is for you. Everything I write is for you.’

And with that she looked at the journal I had gifted to her as well, which lay on her pillow next to her sweet head, and I scooped it up greedily, eagerly.

In the sessions I have been working to instil in her the sense that only through me is there healing, only through connecting and opening to me is there hope of a truer freedom than anything she has known before. We are transfiguring freedom, transfiguring love, from the pale chimeras they were into something more vital and true. To be honest I have been unsure how effective this might be. It has been weeks now, and I have been despairing of a sign, remembering my own tribulations and their passage. Imogen never gave such hope, just discipline and over time the knowledge of the techniques and their necessity. I came to understand and accept, not to crave and need. But I need her to crave. I need her to need.

As I crave, as I need.

I need her to love. And now, with these sweet, dear words, it may be that she does! It is a beginning at least, it is a start!

I turned to leave her, as I could not wait to read the words and drink them in. She seemed disappointed and asked me if I might stay a while, as she was lonely, so lonely here. I told her firm, but controlled, that I would return in good time. If she is to crave, she cannot be sated too often. Even the lover of fine chocolate finds the appeal palls with over-supply. She will want my presence more the more it is denied, particularly in times such as this was, where no session loomed in our immediate schedule.

She nodded again to me, silent. I did not need to trigger her silence then, she was a good, obedient girl. My earlier concerns about our progress were dimming rapidly, for now it was clear that the programming was taking so quickly with her it was breathtaking.

With that I hurried up to my lounge-room to settle and read. First, I turned again to the lovely poem I had already read, hearing her recite it in my mind, her sweet voice echoing these unutterably sweeter words.

In silence and in darkness I’m alone
There’s energy ‘neath trembling skin, to bone
All my secrets are mine and mine alone
Separation was the only thing I’d known

But here a path is calling to my name
Its yellow promise like a flickering flame
In this crucible I’ll never be the same
My heart has found the one that it should claim

These eyes that gently turn their gaze to me
A hand that holds with needful cruelty
That is yet love, it’s only what must be
Resolve secure now that shows me to be free

In life before adrift and so forlorn
So lost, all finer feeling I’d foresworn
Yet from darkness shines the brightest, truest morn
I find the face I loved before my soul was born

From all my past I’d now be joyful, happy, torn
To see the face I loved before my soul was born

She knows the quest! She knows! And other writings, some prose, some poetic, spoke of her wonder in understanding the path I am taking her on and its cruel but firm necessity. I am in awe of her revelations, her honesty, and how well this has taken.

But then a shadow fell, a doubt, upon my reverie. Was this too soon and too perfect? Was it a trap? Did I ever do such tom-foolery with Imogen? I can’t recall. Most of my memories of my time with her are of pain and fear and hate. I do not remember if I ever played the trickster to lessen a session or to beguile her into thinking she was succeeding while I stayed aloof. She was not a one to be beguiled, but am I? Does the fact I come to Violet with love make me vulnerable somehow, and could she know?

But this is absurd! No true human could withstand this and stay separate. She would either fall into submission as I did in an apathetic, fearful way until she saw the colder need of it all, or she might go mad.

Sometimes they do go mad, Imogen told me once, and then they are used differently.

But to take even that path would show a deeper grain in her making than someone as fine as my lovely Violet. To be like that would be to be hard in some essential, distant way, almost alien to humanity, and dear Violet is the epitome of humanity. Imogen said that’s the province of true psychopaths but even they are likely to succumb more than they wish. She said that in some circles that’s how they create serial killers – the way of turning the ruined original programming intent into something wild but useful. She said an uncle of hers was like that, and they used him, so he was not as distant or as powerful as he thought.

‘No-one escapes the purifying fire, no-one,’ she had said, ‘Just some take to it differently, that’s all. And those that think they are above it, control it, understand it, those that think they are cleverer than it.. that’s the sign, the sign they are like that, and of what they will become. Which is just what they always were, really, just set free.’

But dear Violet is a cook, a maker of beauty, a lover of life, and now, it seems of me. Our love story is not a tragedy, it is not a horror story, it is sublime. So this cannot be! Her poetry is not proof of her distance and reserve, or of some deeper warp in the weave of her soul, but its complete and lovely opposite.

It must be real! My lovely Violet is finding the way to the impossible love. I am a master, a genius, as I always suspected, always knew, and she will be my lovely bride. My love.

I cannot let my fears and doubts besmirch the perfection of what we are creating together. Love such as this is a fragile flower, which must be tended to with care and belief and concern. Doubt would make it wither on the vine and snatch my wonderful future away from me by sheer perversity. I cannot be the thief in the night plundering my own dreams. I read the wonderful poetry and rose again, to fortify my soul, and allowed myself the simple, complete joy of belief.

(c) Helen M Valentina 2015, All Rights Reserved