It had been two days since Gideon had read Lisbeth's first passage in her journal. He would find himself outside her apartment building, hoping to catch a glimpse of her thru the curtains. He found himself holding his breath, as if she could hear him breathing from across the street. He would give anything to find himself in her home, sitting next to her as they watched TV, leaning against the frame of the kitchen door, watching her sing to herself as she did the dishes. His heart tightended when he thought how her face must light up when she laughes.
What was happening to him, "this has to stop!" he would scold himself, "You have to let this go," the words repeating like a mantra, but he would soon find himself sitting in front of her journal, debating with no one if he should read more. The struggle was mute, he would read on, he had no choice.
"Well, journal, that night was three years ago, and I can still see it as if it was yesterday's dream. Although I was happy that I was finally able to burry myself in my passion rather than try to run from it, I was sad for change in our relationship outside the bed. No longer would I sit in his lap with him telling me stories and the legends of his younger days. Sometimes I would long just to have that again, be sitting on his lap, listening to his tender musings.
I learned to late what it meant to be his lover.
At first things were very passionate and loving. His passion consuming me like fire when we were together, my body weak and feeling devoid without him; but I only had to wait a few waking hours before we would be reunited in my dreams. He seemed to grow stronger, the evidence found in the realism of our environment. I began to see more than just a chair, a bed, a fire. I could see great detail in the walls, the paintings being hung had more detail, the sound of the curtains rising up in the breeze from an open window, the sweet smell of a moonlit garden. We carried on this way for the first year, but then something in him changed.
He started disappearing for weeks between visits; weeks soon turned into months. I don't know if it was pure withdrawl but sometimes on these long breaks I would swear I could feel him following me during the day or hear him call my name as I went for a walk. Did he know how lonely it was for me? Did he care?
My friends and I began to grow apart. I felt starved without him, I hadn't the strength to be emotionally available for them. I would smile at their new discoveries and cry at night for the loss of my own. I watched helplessly as one by one they drifted away to find love and passion. I was left alone devoid until he would appear, my everything, shining new light into my dreary existence. And this pattern would repeat and repeat. Leaving me to battle with myself over his existence. Was he real, a dream, a sick fantasy? Always, just before I would break, he would return.
During some of these absences I tried to feel like a normal teenage girl, saying yes when boys would ask me out. However, these relationships would never last long. I had no real feeling for them, I would not return their touches, my kisses passionless. They would become frustrated at my lack of passion, say the meanest things; and I would accept their frustration, apologize and let them move on to more willing partners.
Soon, what friends I had left began telling me of their first sexual experiences, I would smile and pretend to be interested in what they thought was deep knowledge. I resented their condescending attitudes as if I knew so little about sex and pleasure. When I knew so much.
So now I simply record my encounters in you little journal. My only confidant, for there is no one else to share my life with as I wait for his touch, his kiss, his need, and his bite.