[Slipped under Wolf's door later that evening]
You asked if I'd ever been in love, just before I had to go back to my own room--- the answer is yes and no, I'm not sure. All of the above? When I was very young I loved my parents, but I don't think that's the sort of love you meant. Beyond that, no. I don't think I've ever felt it. No one has ever gotten to know me and certainly no one's ever said it to me. I don't blame them. Every book I've read about love says that it's the ability, the willingness to die for someone else, to put them completely before yourself. It's such a strange concept. Love is so often unrequited but it ruins so many lives. Probably as many as it enhances, actually...
Every night when I have bad dreams, I feel like it's a punishment, my penance for being bad. My Beast always knows where to find me and He is always angry when He feels I've misbehaved. The doctors always tell me it's a nightmare but I'm never sure. It could be real and maybe since I don't have a roommate there's no one there to confirm that it really happened. I find it hard to swallow that all of this, my entire life, could be inside my head. It makes more sense that I'm inside someone else's. There are books written about me, you know. My father wrote them before I was born, even. So I think that maybe I was just dreamt into being, the final product of his creativity. He said it was my fault that the stories started to fail--- I was bad and I distracted him from his work, and that's why the Beast found me in the first place. I was where I shouldn't have been. Now I never go anywhere.
This is turning into something it wasn't meant to be. I'm sorry. I just don't like to talk to people. Writing's different. Things come out on the page like they have a mind of their own. I'm not afraid; the blue lines on the page are safe. They keep the words between them like walls on the paper, and my ideas are kept safe there.
These letters give me something to write besides my story, although don't worry... I'll never stop working on that, either. It'll never be done. It's hundreds of notebooks long already, almost one a week for the past twelve years. I am so afraid that something will happen to me that will keep me from finishing it. I want to write my own ending. Doesn't everyone?
Maybe some day I'll show it to you. The pages about you, anyway. Although they're sort of personal. I don't mind.
Dr. Reid prescribed me some herbal tea and something to help me sleep... I don't. Sleep, that is. I'm usually awake until after dawn, because the night is when He tends to come... no one's around to stop Him and they just tell me I'm having nightmares again. I told Dr. Reid that I didn't like to sleep in the nighttime but he gave me the medicine anyway and I feel like I should probably try because he's such a nice man and he believes me when I tell him what's happening to me.
I'm going to take it now. We'll see what happens. I wonder if you dream on this medicine.