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It had been a full day- no, more than a day, a full twenty-eight hours- since Caligari had found his prized somnambulist missing. Cesare was never gone for this long; he was always back before dawn, no matter what he had been sent out to do. Caligari made sure of that. Now, he had no idea where he was- off somewhere by himself, or worse, in the hands of someone careless enough to damage all of Caligari’s hard work- someone who could potentially break him as easily as a reckless child’s favourite toy, one that had already been broken and pasted back together countless times.
He’ll be back soon, Caligari attempted to reason with himself. He always comes back. But ever since that one night back in Holstenwall, he became less and less sure of it. Since then, Cesare’s treatments had only become more rigorous, in Caligari’s words, but despite the long hours in his box without food and the memories of defiance long forgotten, there was something new about Cesare that Caligari wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to extinguish, and that terrified him. His suspicions seemed to be proven correct, as much as he tried to suppress them.
Without Cesare, I can’t be-
Caligari stood up suddenly, slamming his cane on the floor. He wouldn’t allow this to happen; such an act of disobedience was not to be tolerated under any circumstances. Or perhaps his somnambulist had been taken captive, or worse, killed- then the whole tedious process would have to start all over again. And suppose he were to train another to be Cesare; what were the odds of finding a specimen as perfect as the one he had? Tall, decadently svelte, intimidating in his gracefulness… and, for the most part, wonderfully, deliciously obedient. Even if Caligari were to obtain another Cesare, it would not be his Cesare, the one whose absence had been tormenting him, from the sound of muffled breathing to the clammy feeling of his delicate, papery skin under Caligari’s fingers. And for all his efforts to possess him, what was Caligari without him? He couldn’t be Caligari without-
“No!” he protested, suddenly sweeping a collection of books off a shelf in one violent stroke. How dare Cesare exercise this power over him- the one bit of power he had, but devastating enough to deal such a blow? Caligari wrenched open a drawer, pulled out a knife, and stabbed the wall multiple times, despite hardly making a dent. Why this? Why now? Wasn’t Cesare aware of the punishment that would await him should he disobey?
Was he no longer afraid of punishment?
Caligari plunged the knife into a table with such force that the tip became lodged into the wood. Destruction was such a marvellous balm for all the anguish Cesare put him through- but he was limited to exerting it only on books and tables; gone was the giddy satisfaction of destroying the source of his spite. How truly, impossibly pathetic of him- without Cesare, he was no longer truly Caligari, but rather a weak old man whose wrath could only be applied to furniture.
Seething, he approached the cabinet that lay beside the wall of the caravan. He half-expected Cesare to still be inside, asleep as usual. It was Cesare who was supposed to be the pathetic one- weak-minded and submissive, useful only as an extension of Caligari’s will. It was Cesare who Caligari could use to take his anger out on everyone who had wronged him- and if that did not satisfy him, he could just as easily take his anger out on Cesare. That was what it meant to truly be Caligari- having the power to make anyone regret humiliating him, delivering them a fitting end through the very symbol of his dominance; the somnambulist had initially protested during the early days of his conditioning. What a trophy to have- the mind and body of such a dissenter, all his to control!
Except he was gone.
Caligari flung open the cabinet to find the life-size replica of Cesare inside- hardly a worthy substitute. He dragged it out, positioning it on his knee as he sat down. He took a deep inhale, his nose buried in its dusty hair- it, at least, still smelled like Cesare, although the scent was fading. He stroked its face, but couldn’t ignore his disappointment; it was by no means the same.
“Why did you disappear?” he whispered to the dummy.
The dummy, predictably, did not respond. Caligari shook it.
“Do you know what you did to me? How much you have cost me?”
The dummy’s head lolled to one side. Caligari threw it to the ground, where it landed with a thunk that seemed almost defiant. He kicked it, and the silence enraged him. Raising his cane, he bludgeoned its stomach, straw and stuffing littering the floor as its contents spilled from the gashes he tore into it. This sudden, consuming hatred for this abominable thing that served only as a mockery of what he had lost sent fury coursing through his blood, and he laid siege to its face, the painted eyes betraying no fear or pain as the head cracked open. With every blow, he imagined the sumptuous, sunken-cheeked face of his beautiful, wicked Cesare, shattered and bleeding beneath his heel, pallid skin torn, black, gasping lips desperate for air. Caligari hungered for his presence, how it felt to seize that thin little throat from inside its thick woollen collar, to grab fistfuls of hair and hold those fragile cheekbones, ready to shatter like glass between his fingers… Every minute Cesare was gone dealt a painful blow to him, and Caligari ached to have him back in his control.
He looked down at the broken dummy at his feet, and gave it a final kick. It was hardly recognizable now- a tattered mess of fabric and stuffing. He picked up what remained of it, cradling the ragged thing in his arms. The head, barely attached to the rest of its body, rested on his chest. Caligari breathed in, salivating at just a snatch of its scent. He stroked its hair, which was falling out in clumps.
“You horrid, naughty thing,” he whispered in its missing ear. “Soon, I’ll have you right back in my arms, where you belong. We’ll be happy, and you’ll never disappear again.”
The dummy, as usual, didn’t respond. Caligari dropped it to the ground, watching with a smirk on his face as the last remaining stitches connecting its head to its shoulders tore open.