Six

Bonjour ma chérie,

Today is your birthday. Six years old, Elise. I remember holding you in my arms, a tiny baby, and dreaming of the conversations we would have, ma chérie. The conversations we would have when you were old enough to have questions and understand the importance of some of the answers. I dreamed of teaching you to draw, of teaching you of anatomy by drawing the body for you, having you draw with me. I was excited to see you scribble, and scribble alongside you. Happy birthday, ma belle petite fille.

Mama et Papa are not bad parents. I know they do these things with you. I know you are probably so capable, so clever, opinionated – does our portrait still hang on the wall? The one I drew of us while you slept. It was only biro and it was awful because you were sleeping awkwardly, but Papa framed it anyway and put it on the wall above your crib. Is it still there? Above your bed? Would you recognise me from it? I look exactly the same now as I do in that picture. You probably don’t remember my face, but at least you can hear my voice. Even if you think it’s only a dream, what I sing for you is true and will never change. Your mother is always going to protect you.

There is nothing I want more than to hold you in my arms. Nothing. But there is a beast in me, and the beast doesn’t scent the freshness of your hair, or feel the softness of your skin, or crave a smile from your too-serious eyes. The beast smells your blood. It wants your blood, my darling. I could not, my dear Elise, put you in such danger.

So I keep our key, the key to our home, out of sight around my neck. The weight of it reminds me of the responsibility I have to protect you from this world.

Do you remember the stuffed bear – Terrence – I had delivered on your birthday? You were 3, so I suppose not. As I write, I am watching Terrence the puppy chasing one of His socks. I don’t know where he got it, and no one but he is throwing it for him to chase. I’ll have to take it from him before he destroys it. The little fool. Not so little anymore, but…I think you would love him. I’m sure I’d have persuaded Mama et Papa to let me get you a puppy eventually. You need more friends. I hardly ever see you going out for sleepovers, or having sleepovers at home, unless they are when I am away with Him.

Your singing is coming along nicely. I heard your choir perform. You were wonderful and I am so proud, ma chérie.

I wonder, sometimes, whether He would have chosen me if I hadn’t gone to medical school. In the early years I was so angry at Mama and Papa for forcing me to go in exchange for their help. Now I find it hard to feel that anger toward them – they’re looking after you so well – and I think they feel guilt enough already for encouraging me to spend time at the library without my anger weighing on them too.

I wish, Elise, I wish I could be more angry with Him. I wish I could be furious all the time, I wish I had it in me to diablerize and not care about the consequences. But I don’t. I can’t. He’s far too powerful anyway, but even so…

You, ma chérie, have Mama and Papa.

You have daylight and blue skies and hopes and so, so many sweet dreams to come.

All he has is me.

He needs me.

I think I help him feel alive. I think I help him feel important. For all his confidence, I do not think he feels important.

You lost your mother. He has lost childer.

He cares for me, in his own way.