For my birthday, my sister, Penumbra, gave me a writing set because she knows I love poetry and reading.
A blank page is a curious thing. It is like looking at one's own life: empty, barren, and as yet unwritten. Whatever has happened before does not exist ... not until it is captured in ink, or blood.

The first words I write should be profound. When I write, my words are free from the stutter that embarrasses me when I speak.

My childhood was not profound, growing up in a priviledged household, daughter of a wealthy Greek shipbuilder. Who was that innocent little girl, and where did she go? Sometimes I see memories playing through my mind, like watching a stranger from a distant time. The girl I see is a faerie floating on the moors, with wonderous eyes and fanciful dresses, dancing with the wind and the flowers in her hair. The faerie becomes a water-lily, drowned in a lake, looking up through the surface of the water as the sun slowly fades away, to set for ever more.

I have seen myself in the mirror.

I try not to look anymore. Sometimes, when I pass a window at dusk and catch a glimpse of my reflection, I jump in fright. "Who is this scary witch, coming to torment me?" I realize it is my own face etched on that dark glass. I am a skull with the skin of a pale white drum; stretching to the point of breaking, exposing an artificial Sunday smile of grotesque white, bony teeth. The little girl, the faerie on the moors, had been pretty, nimble, airy and light; before she was defiled. I am not that girl; that girl is not me. I am death. I am flesh consumed by darkness. I am the picture of the tormented soul that Dante and Milton described. Look no further than here to know the face of the damned. In my eyes, see the seven circles of Hell.
My lips do not kiss, but they suckle the life from your body, desperately trying to steal one more breath.

And the demons take me.
In the night, when I sleep, drugged and dreaming of devils who cackle between themselves, I am carried into the bowels of the labyrinth. Past the stone hewn portals, down the rough paths and tunnels, through the smoke and incense and brimstone to that place by the river of blood where I am set down upon a rock, unclothed, and left to the mercies of the incubus. They feed on me with a hunger which never dies. They chew on my flesh and devour the life from my soul, extinguishing the light from my eyes. I tremble as they silence my voice, and summon my spirit upwards, so that I float above my body, staring down. Who is this I see? Why is she doing this? Why would she let such a thing happen to her? Perhaps I should tell her that next time, she can run away. Perhaps, while I float, watching with indiferrence, I can prepare an escape for her. The demons may come, and may block the paths, doorways, and cages; but that doesn't mean they have found every exit. All I need, while floating over her wretched display of self-indulgence, is to take careful note of the details surrounding her circumstance. Is there something she missed? Fire, swords, witches, devils, druid, candles, spells, chanting, guard, cloaks, blindfolds, ropes, chains, boats.... what did I hear them call this place? I heard a name. I know I heard a name.

And then I go to church.
And I sit in my Sunday white dress, and recite the words that come disapassionately from everyone else's lips; and I curtsy and sing and blush and kneel. But all the while, I feel the burning inside me. I am a scab on the sacrament of God.

New Entry: What do I love?

The violin is a cherished secret box of delicate imported wood, holding within it the secret sighs of genies, and distant place and time. The bow is my saw, and I hack upon that wood and strings, conjuring the secrets within, forcing them to reveal themselves, to expose their private parts to me. Faster and faster, I make them dance, these spirits in my head. I lick the blood that freely flows. I can taste their life in my mouth, oozing like a dark nectar from caverns deep underground. Thrusting, jarring, pulling, prying, plucking, screaming, tearing the sound through the air like a whirlwind of anguish. I love the violin. It is the only thing I do well. The only thing.

New Entry: Snakes

Penumbra is obsessed with snakes. I hate my sister's obsession with snakes. They disgust me. It disgusts me. I hate the way they look, and the way they move, and the thoughts that hiss from their dirty little mouths. They are vile, soulless beasts, and I know she is attracted to them for a reason she is too young to understand. The way she plays with them, and fondles, and kisses them; pure obscenity.

One time, she held one to her mouth, kissing its head, like a lover with whom she had longed to be reunited. I felt my body explode from within. I don't remember it happening, but they told me I started shrieking ad screaming, tearing out my hair. I began throwing books at her, pulling one after the other from the shelves of bookcases, aiming at her head. Sometimes, I think she is just another one of the hundreds of China dolls scattered around my bedroom. I wanted to break her into a thousand pieces.

New Entry: whores and liars

Like a little dark ugly bird in a big golden cage, i sit on my cushioned swing, looking out my barred window. This house stifles me. There is no air. There is no light. There is no day. Only night. One long frightful night that suffers through shades of white, black, and gray. There is no escape. No friends. Except my dolls. And my sister.

The girls I know from school and church smile and say a polite hello to me. They ask me how I am, but they don't want to know. They snicker and mock. They parade themselves in their white gloves and bonnets with carefully planned innocence.

They are whores and liars.

I see through their clothes. I smell them; dirty little country girls. I read the wrinkles near their lips and eyes. Hypocrites. Jealous of my father's wealth. And our power. They know our power extends beyond this town, beneath this town, beyond this life. If my hatred had form, I would be the shadow of vengeance and devour them all. I would leave nothing, which is what they are.

These thoughts in my head leave me feeling torn, split in two, never certain who I am, what I am, what I love, what I want, what I desire. My only hope is to be loved, a doll to truly call my own, to care for. A doll that not only loves back unconditionally, but is warm. A doll who loves me for who I am. A doll I can dress and bathe; and which sucks the life from my breast.

Penumbra saw a boy in her vision. I could raise his child, the perfect doll. He would fall before the cross of Christ, she said, kneeling in the house of God. Blood, blood, everywhere, flowing. Why are her visions so cryptic?

New Entry: ghosts in our house

This house is full of ghosts.

I hear the footsteps echoing under the floors, the creaking and rattling of chains, the pained groans of malevolent strife. At night, when the fires are out, I sometimes see them walking in the halls.
Wrapped in black, like widows mourning their husbands - lost at sea - clasping the shadows tightly against their breasts, hurrying nervously, I see them float over the balcony, dropping far away to the vestibule below.

When they think I am asleep, they stop at my door. I close my eyes tightly, afraid to let them know I am awake. I feel their presence and the room becomes cold. I hear them approach, the black cloaks slither like snakes - those awful snakes - across the wooden floor, and they stop, and stare at me with malice. I shiver under my covers. I feel the icy fingers touch my skin, and they drag them across the back of my neck, like a lover remembering the woman he died defending.

No one speaks of these things.
We do not speak, the Delidakis family.

I do not speak. I speak to no one.
I see the world through haunted eyes, and breathe the air through stifled screams.

I long to tell, to dare to reveal, to risk the rebuke...
if only...

New Entry: I had a boy for dinner tonight

Just as I knew he would, he came. He was drawn here by fate. He stood outside the house, looking for me; and my father was ready to kill him, I am sure. I was inside at the time, but I felt a strange prickling on my skin, and sensed that something was wrong. I looked out the window, as if summoned, and saw him. Sometimes, knowing that we are going to receive the greatest gift of all is just as much joy as receiving it. I almost waited too long. My father had begun to confront him: I know his temper. I ran outside, like the Great Liberator, the Great Salvation, his Goddess, his Mistress, his lover-to-be. I intervened and offered my blessing. He was the Prodigal Son. He had insulted me outside church, but now he apologized and had come home. To me. My father took him, Luna cleaned him, and gave him new clothes. Then, for dinner I was there. With very little to say. Aloud. It would be imprudent to say too much, too soon. My sister and I sat in the room, and I felt the warmth of his skin. So close. I think he likes me, this boy. He doesn't exactly show it, or say it, but there is something about him which feels so familiar; the way he is shy with me, averting his eyes. It helps me know it to be true.

But what troubles me is that I smelled something new from Penumbra, as well. Something has changed inside her. I smell her body in subtle transformation. She is awakening within. She is becoming like those other girls, waking up to the whore within. I hope she isn't destined to become a liar. I have seen her future, and it is not pretty. It is mine. I can't blame her for responding to him, but she doesn't understand that once this transformation begins, it can not be undone. There is no going back to innocence. The blood flows, the smell begins, and the mighty whore rides the horns of the great beast.

If she does not tame the beast, she will be gorged from all sides.

New Entry: Close enough to lick

The stars bring converging paths together. This is a crossroad of destiny; an elixir of fate. My sister saw the future, and we are powerless to prevent it.

Lucas. His name is Lucas.
It is not my favorite name. I might prefer Gordon, or Franz. But he is mine. I feel him inside me.
He is not the most handsome boy, a little too thin. But if I say that, I look in the mirror and face my own demons. He is bruised and scarred, inside and out. I see him smile, but happiness is like a ghost on his lips, something which lived within him long ago. Now he is a phantom, hovering with unfinished business.

I like the way my father invites young men into our house, though they are usually disappointing in the long run. Men hurt you, and boys leave. Only the devil is constant. I always know what he wants, how he feels, what he will do. He has no heart, no soul. He is burning, dripping-flesh on a stick.

He stays with SnakeEye. SnakeEye has been a reluctant guest at our house for as long as I remember. Rumors say he is in league with the devil, though I have never seen them together, ha ha. Rumors say he is a pirate, smuggling and stealing, building a small fortune while working as a foreman at my father's shipping company. Rumors say he has killed men, and done things unmentionable to women. They say he has raised spirits and fathered demons. When I chance to meet him in our home, I avert my eyes, lest he knows I have seen the horrors that he has seen. A chill runs down my spine as if an icy hand from the grave has reached up my dress and stuck a confident finger inside me. How I long to know this man. He is the mystery my father could never be.

Lucas. My sister foresaw it. Our church ordained him. SnakeEye patronized him. My father invited him. The stars are turning, and the moon is ready to reveal her golden wonders, when the moon is full. Will he still love me when the moon is full?

Father has given him a blanket invitiation to join us for dinner. Lucus will be close enough to lick.