This is our house

This is our house. Pleasant piano music plays in the background. We don’t know where it’s coming from, but we don’t care. We are in love. We dance to piano music every night. You always lead our dance.

It’s not a big house, but we don’t have many belongings, anyway. We sold most of them to move in here. You even had to sell the statuette you loved so much – you know, the one your mother gave you? Right before she passed away? It was of a beautiful human, made entirely out of jade. Its expression was very stoic and cold, but that’s to be expected of a statue. Kind of reminds me of you, actually. I don’t mean that. I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

Five days have passed since I made that terrible remark, and you haven’t spoken to me since then. I think you’ve forgiven me, though. I mean, we still dance every night, and you lead everytime.

Sometimes I miss my old alembic. I had to sell my valuables, too, you know. There’s this space on my desk where it used to fit so perfectly, its perfect glass painted with the reflection of my research. I complain about it every day, but you never respond. I miss your voice.

Not that I care much; I still get to use this desk. You built it for me for my birthday. Besides, I filled up the space with my diaries. Every day I write about you. I love writing about you. More text about you means there’s more of you. I love you.

I work from this nice desk most of the day. When I feel overworked, I look behind me and see your moveless self. The bed sheets hide most of your body, but they accentuate your uncovered arm and face. Your hair has such a nice glow to it. Your skin may have become gray and dry, but you’re still perfect to me.

I put a window above your bed. I felt you weren’t getting enough sunlight; you stay in bed all day. You only get out when night has fallen, because that’s when we dance; that’s when you lead, and I follow. I keep telling you to be more active, but you don’t respond. You never respond. We just dance. You don’t talk a lot. You don’t talk at all. I love you.

But I’m getting distracted. I have to focus on my research. I’ve lost track of the amount of time I’ve spent working, the amount of animals I’ve dissected, the amount of loaves of bread I’ve eaten. You don’t cook for me, and I don’t know how to cook. Bread is all I eat, but I’ll manage.  I don’t care about my own body. I only care about yours. That’s the reason why I’m doing this, that’s the reason I’m doing all this research, instead of dancing with you. Don’t worry, we’ll dance when it’s nighttime. We’ll dance all night, and you lead. You always lead. I will follow.

It’s been another two weeks since my last diary entry. I feel tired, ill, and scared. Your dancing is getting sloppy. I can tell you’re having trouble leading me. Are you sick? Don’t you love me anymore?  No, of course you love me. You have to love me.

My research is making progress! Instead of experimenting on animals, I’ve started experimenting on myself, and the results were amazing! I lost my arm, though. My favourite arm, my right one. I used to stroke your face with it. I hacked it off – it hurt a lot, but not enough to stop doing it -, and I managed to give it a life of its own. It tried to strangle me. That’s understandable, that’s okay. I ate it afterwards. I’m so hungry.

But this is good news! When my research is complete, you’ll be able to get out of bed by yourself. Maybe you’ll even stop decaying! Then we can dance ALL day! I lied when you said you always led our dances. I’m sorry. I’m the one who leads. You can’t.

This is our house. Pleasant piano music plays in the background. It used to be your favourite song. I play it for you all day. I miss you. We are in love. I miss you.

I love you.

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