Page 29 of Sinister

Why not you, the beautiful girl who cares for others far too much and for herself far too little? Why not you, the girl who would rather suffer punishment than silence her curiosity? Why not you, the lost lamb searching for guidance?

I want to be that for you, my beautiful Petra. I want to be the recipient of your kindness. I want to be your guidance, your beacon of light. I want to be everything you think of, from morning until night, and from night until morning. I want to be the sole object of your curiosity.

The letter ends, once more signed,

Yours.

I read it again. And again. Each time more confused, yet more curious at the same time. If he meant to arouse my curiosity, he’s certainly achieved it. So now, he should quench it, too.

I take a pen and write just one word.

Why?

When the next letter arrives, the response is just as brief.

Yours.

I frown. What does it mean? Why would he write that? Why would his answer to my question be this word? I don’t understand. Perhaps I am not worldly enough to grasp its meaning. Perhaps this is the kind of seduction spoken about in hushed tones.

Perhaps this is what drives women to jeopardize their virtues, all for the attention of one man.

And to my great shame, I can see why.

Because I crave his attention. I crave his next letter as much as I crave my next breath.

Taking a deep breath, I put pen to paper once more, this time with firm resolve.

If you do not tell me the reason why you are so interested in me, I will stop replying to your letters. I will stop taking your books. I will stop interacting with you. So please, tell me. Who are you? And why are you so concerned with me?

I don’t sign the letter.

Yet, as I reread my own words, I realize that concern is not the right term. It is not concern, is it?

It is something else—something far closer to obsession.

The next day, I go about my chores, waiting for nightfall. And when it does, I rush to the window, expecting another book, another letter.

But to my surprise, there is nothing.

No book. No letter. No sign of him.

Did I—did I do something wrong? Did my last letter upset him? Was I too direct? Too demanding?

Or was this all just a game to him? Had I simply been an amusement, something to be toyed with and discarded?

The following night, still nothing.

Each evening, I check the windowsill, and each evening, I am met with silence. No words, no stories, no letters.

Day by day, my mood darkens.

I think back on our exchanges, replaying every word he wrote, every word I wrote in return. Now I regret burning those letters. They are gone, reduced to ash, and yet the questions remain.

What went wrong?

Perhaps he has finally realized that I am not so easy a target.

But why does that thought bring no relief? Why does it not make me feel victorious? Why does it only leave me feeling hollow?