Chapter Text
Excerpt 1: February 8th, 1872
Since Carmilla arrived, screaming, holding on for dear life in that runaway carriage, my life has been greatly enriched... and complicated. I waited so long and in such anticipation to speak with her at any considerable length as she recovered in bed from the shock of the whole ordeal. Upon my asking, Madame Perrodon and Mademoiselle De Lefontaine praised her beauty with such ardor I must admit I felt a pang of jealousy. Any semblance of envy, however, evaporated from me when I beheld her candlelit face. I was dumbstruck by her strange loveliness, but, more than that, I was shocked. Her face ~
"How wonderful!" she exclaimed, and then she verbalized my thoughts exactly: "Twelve years ago, I saw your face in a dream, and it has haunted me ever since."
And from that moment I knew it ~ our meeting had been written in the stars from the beginning. I had read of happenings like these in fairytales and mythic lore from the time I was small, but I never truly believed one would happen to me.
Some force within ~ maybe a combination of my loneliness, wonder, and admiration ~ overwhelmed my shyness, and I took her hand in mine. She returned my passion twofold. But alongside the flush of warmth and fondness was a hint of foreboding. Slight as it was, I noted the sense of revulsion, or maybe fear.
We never quarrel, but her refusal to grant me relief from my intense curiosity vexes me, more and more greatly over time, so that I begin to, to the point of impoliteness, pry. She never relents, but is always so gentle in her refusal. She will hold me close and speak sweet consolations into my ear. During such embraces, which occur only on occasion, but often enough to mark, she'll plant soft, warm, placating kisses on my cheeks. Time seems to slow down. Being held in her arms is like soaking in a steaming herbal bath, or drinking hot cocoa on a chilly winter night. During and especially after, however, I become aware of another contradictory set of feelings that lurk beneath the surface ~ an unpleasant sensation, one of inner discomfort, guilt, even, and anxiety.
But even stranger than these embraces are times, even fewer, but more bizarre, when Carmilla's affection becomes so exaggerated, I cannot fathom an explanation that seems any less than fantastical. She clasps my hand in hers tightly and gazes into my eyes with a sort of burning countenance, and her chest rises and falls with such quickness and depth, I suddenly feel as though in the company of a lover. Soon she draws me close to her and kisses my cheeks, her kisses slow and hot. I feel her spirit pulling on mine, and, despite my bewilderment and fear, sparks ignite in my chest and I lean in, my body betraying my inhibitions. Then, suddenly, she'll pull away and fall back into her seat, covering her face. I question her, and she sighs tremulously, leaving me thoroughly shaken.
Carmilla despises funerals and, I think, any mention of death and dying. One day, as we walked outside, a funeral procession passed, singing solemn hymns and carrying the small wooden coffin of a young girl who died of a wasting illness after rambling for weeks about ghosts and monsters visiting her in sleep. Carmilla covered her ears, cursed the singers, her face suddenly alight with barely-restrained anger, and insisted we return home. I told her of the girl's fate, which upset her even more. "Everyone must die some day!" she said. "I cannot concern myself with the plight of every peasant. Disease and death run rampant, it is a plain fact of life, why must our senses be bombarded with this awful noise! Please, hold me, Laura." She buried her face in my neck, trembling, as if on the verge of a fit.
Occurrences such as these embarrass and confound me. Her mother, before she left, did mention to us that Carmilla's health was delicate. Maybe these incidents stem from her fragile state. My reaction to the former incidents, however ~ those in which Carmilla becomes overly amorous ~ makes me wonder about my own health. I almost seem to reciprocate her passion, or at least begin to. It scares me. Maybe it is for that very reason it scares me so much ~ in Carmilla's visage, flushed and full of strange desperation, I see a reflection of myself.