I saw a red pony atop a black hill, he pawed and he pranced and he told me his name; his saddle was pearl and his rider was bone and his eye sockets spun with flame.

I knew she'd left, but I hadn't worried; the mother had taken her out, but nothing--no furniture or personal belongings--had moved within me. And they'd spent the morning talking of it, so I knew where she'd gone. I wasn't pleased to let her out, but conversely, I understood that I'd be more able to focus on myself, on garnering my strength, if she were absent for a few hours, for if I intend to take her where I'd like, I must attempt to harness an inordinate amount of energy.

So why she's here, now . . . and why she's brought others with her . . . does she know? Does she know that I attempt to save myself for her, to hold back? Does she bring them in hope that I shall react and will have wasted my efforts? No! I cannot believe it of her. She would not sabotage me in such a manner. She has to know I'd punish her for it--and I very well may have to, whatever her intentions are. She must know me as her master. She cannot be allowed to act so selfishly.

And if it is not her purpose to thwart me, then what is it? How could she bring them so close to our most private place? It is a violation of--

And yet, wait . . .

I should not be so hasty. There are three of them, besides my girl. They have gone around to the back, and I do not know two of them. Ugly, uncouth young people. And—and yes, that boy I've been so desperate to be rid of . . . So close! Perhaps this was her intention? To bring him to me? So that we may dispose of him? But no, surely not. She can't know the extent of my jealousy. And she continues to divide her attention toward me with as much toward him . . . Yes, even now I see the restlessness in her body, evident in the way she tries to stay near him though without his noticing, the delicate mannerisms I've come to recognize in her, that show her tentativeness, her desire to please and yet simultaneous fear of pleasure's result. The boy speaks to her--what is it he says? It is so quiet . . . Will you forgive me if I go in? Is that what you want? And she, my mouse amongst the rats, she looks at him in some way I cannot read. And I'd like to focus more on what they say, how they react to one another, but there is frustration at my back door. Some ridiculous person touching me unbidden. I have so rarely been assaulted from behind like this, and at a time when I have grown complacent!

Why does she do this? If she would have brought them to the front, I might have trusted her intentions had some innocence to them, but the fact that she seems desirous of sneaking them in, of allowing them to enter my non-entrance . . . what does she mean by it?

But there, she tells him to stop, this unattractive person pulling at my door. She comes to me, scolds him for being rough, withdraws and inserts her key into me and--oh!--every time she does so (less and less frequent as little as she leaves, now), I am shot through with a trembling rapture. It lasts such a brief moment, and yet I'd almost forgotten what it felt like. The mother's gestures feel as almost nothing to me, but hers--oh, hers are delicious.

And I almost forgive her as I recover from the shock of her act, but then--now--she brings them inside.

Does she not know I will disprove? She must! Does she not know the position in which she puts me and these others?

Yet . . . I suppose she cannot know. For she is unaware of what exactly I did to the other, the one who attempted to invade me in order to get to her. But I must try to discover her purpose. I must listen . . .

Where do the freaky things happen? So speaks the ugly dark one; he reeks of pitifulness, of wasted flesh. But I want to see the ghosts he adds.

And the other girl--so nondescript, so void of intrigue in comparison to my very own darling--she responds with something slightly too knowing, with The basement. That's where you say you got freaked out, right Brian?

Brian . . . Brian . . . yes, my very being knows him, for I've felt him before, this one who's been pestering my delicate moth with whatever bright light she thinks he shines. He is just like the other, the one I've done away with. Certainly, for I knew his intentions when he broke into me with some other creature he was attempting to impress, to whose form he desired access, and I see it in him now--that desire--toward my very own darling--it is so easy to recognize in another when that other is so near to me. Oh ho, he knew why not to venture near me . . . he remembers; he sees me for what I am and yet, to my advantage, doubts as well! He would not be here otherwise, if he were utterly convinced of my sentience, unless he cares for her that much . . . and, does he? More imperative . . . does she, in return, care for him? How can I--what is this--ah! I find the proper words difficult to express the hollowing rage that begins to smolder within.

They're arguing, and I admit I've been too enveloped in my tumescent anger and disbelief to pay as much attention as is necessary to them. They've moved to the basement door, converse some--the unfamiliar two are laughing and seem to in some way be mocking that Brian. Ha! Good. For my own part, I do not hate their unkindness so long as it is not directed at my darling. But . . . they're descending. And she, mine, she remains with this boy . . . oh, they disunite my attention.

What am I to do? I cannot take them, not like the other, for she will know of it, and I dare not risk frightening her too much! And yet I cannot deny that I despise their presumptuous interrogation, their brazen irreverence. I would like to force myself through their flesh, my nails and screws into their bones, make puppets of them within my walls. I would desecrate their boundaries as they have found proper to cross mine . . . but I recall, and I must direct my concentration toward, my true design. Ruining them would be enjoyable, surely, but I have toiled for months to win my prize, and I will not risk the eternal delirium of possessing her for an ephemeral excitement.

As difficult as it is to do so, I will abstain. They will find no reason to fear me, to suspect me. I shall not touch them, bodily or otherwise, for to do so without ending them would serve only to inflame their effrontery, their curiosity.

She stays above, the girl, with this Brian. He is wary, yes. Though I do nothing to frighten him now, he knows. He does not believe my façade, and if I were not already determined to detest him, I might actually find him rather admirable in his intelligence, his propensity for reading aura. For I almost believe I could communicate with him if either of us were to attempt it. He is calling to those others in my basement, but they cannot have anything to say, for my lights are on, and my corners are conveniently empty; I have done nothing to them. My darling seems surprised: I told you it's not any bad kind of haunted, she is saying to him, and I cannot help but laugh at her ingenuity.

Is it enough? Are you still mad? he is asking her. What does he mean? She harbors ill will toward him? Good. I hope she continues to do so.

Footsteps echo, the others are emerging. I have paid little attention to the conversations. I have been so very preoccupied, so inattentive. But I have held back, and they are together, the four, in the living room, and they are saying how utterly boring I was downstairs, how normal, the very opposite of anything spooky. And the ugly young man wishes to know where the suicide happened--suicide? What they know of this, I cannot guess! But no matter, for my dear explains that she has no idea at all, which is as true as can be. Her ignorance of my past is honest.

Oh I do wish they would stop talking and just leave. I have avoided temptation, haven't I? I cannot do it much longer, if they continue to pique me. I will take action if they persist, if they grow impertinent, for the other girl, she says What about the other rooms? And the darker young man nods eagerly--I swear to anything listening that should they come near our room I will not hold back--

They leave! She directs them to the front door this time, opens it for them! I shame to have doubted her. She would never have revealed our heart to them, to any other. Why, she is even reticent to open our room to her own mother. Ah, the relief . . . it's as if some filth, some festering pocket has been scraped clean, and I am once more able to calm. I am weary of restraint; I desire only for her to return to me, to lie on her bed or better yet, my floor, to feel her against me. Perhaps she will fill more of my walls with her images, or she will sleep and give me entrance, and we can spend hours as guest and host, as explorer and explored, turning with one another in that infinite darkness of her palpitating mind.

Oh, why does she continue to toy with me? What binds us is beyond all, untouchable . . . does she stand there, now, on my porch, her delicate soles pressed against my concrete with only her shoes separating us--does she truly allow this, this Brian to speak to her so boldly, alone, though the others have gone? And now, even after the egregious intrusion for which she's offered no apology, no explanation . . . the look she gives him--I do not like it. I do not like it at all. He is far too close to her; his hands--they touch her! What do they say? It is too quiet and I am too inflamed and--

They startle and turn to my windows. I must have made some noise, some sign of my anger. Good. I have withheld judgment long enough.

She understands me. She tells him to leave . . . and he steps away, though I am positive he does so with regret, even as I recognize the renewed fear blooming black in his eyes. Well, fool, it is unwise to reach for that which has already been won by another. There . . . there, now. They say their goodbyes, and at last--at last, she looks to me, that knowingness in her expression. Yes, you've misbehaved, my dear. You've caused me suffering. Come back inside, wayward moth.

I must remind you of our love.