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In the past few days, I have begun to feel a terrible curiosity for my landlord, which has caused me a great deal of trouble! Nelly’s stories have spooked me, and yet they have also aroused so many questions. I had no reason not to believe her recounting, and I do not believe she is untruthful, but out of some natural desire I still wished to see such a man with my own eyes which I really had not done. Heathcliff is nothing short of a cold and hard man, but when he had come to visit me (and with a present, no less!) his countenance was not that of any of the aggression Nelly had described to me. After chatting about some trivialities for around an hour (in which he seemed to me to be in a decent mood) he spoke to me directly, and without anger, he told me I ought to not come to Wuthering Heights unless it regarded my dues. I thought him quite rude in that then, but now I am aware of his habit of isolation. I have come to pity him, the same beast described to me! I knew then what I felt I must do, and being told expressly against it made me desire to even more.
I climbed over the garden gate, as I had last time, and was not foolish enough to think a servant would let me inside. The back door was unlocked, and I made my way into the salon, disregarded by everyone I saw, until I came upon Zilla. She was surprised to see me, since I appeared at such an early hour, but did not question it. I am unsure of what she assumed, but thankfully in this I was allowed to roam elsewhere. I came upon Heathcliff’s chamber, expecting him awake, since I for some reason thought he should not sleep. The door was cracked open, and I saw him in bed, rather gently asleep. He looked here even more peaceful than I had ever seen him, and I was struck with interest. I, not minding what he would be awake, approached his bedside and examined his softened face. Something about it endeared me. He seemed far from any troubles whilst he slept, like he was allowed to become a different man, his brow relaxed as if he could be dead!
Studying him, and I am afraid to admit to this… I had the odd urge to feel his whiskers. I suppose something had overtaken me in that moment, I am unsure if it was a bout of some stupidity or if I desired to provoke him awake. I slowly reached my hand towards his face, and stroked his jaw gently. He turned his head in discomfort, which caused him to begin to rouse from sleep. I froze in fear, and remained so when he jumped awake, realizing someone had touched him, and he stumbled out of the covers to shove me to the floor. He stood above me then, his usual expression not yet regained as it was marked by confusion. His eyes widened, recognizing me, and he demanded to know what was the meaning of my being inside his chamber.
I attempted to respond, still trying to regain my breath that had been forced out from me when my back landed on hard wood. He gave a harsh kick to my ankle, frustrated by my inability. This forced a small cry of pain from me, and I knew then that I had deserved it, thinking of myself in the same situation as he. I realized the anger in his eyes and my chest swelled. In anticipation, satisfaction, fear, of this I am not sure. I was apparently making a strange expression then, since Heathcliff’s face twisted in some sort of disgust. Even though I knew it was not possible, I wondered then if he knew I had been made aware of his life’s story. This sudden guilt brought on by his gaze caused me to breathlessly utter sorries as I scrambled to my knees. He did not say anything, but the question of why was still etched on his face.
I confessed that I wanted to provoke his aggression. He looked at me silently for a moment, bewildered, before pressing his lips together in contemplation. He then approached me, pulling me upright by my shoulders and suddenly trapping my back against a wall I did not know was behind me. My breath was gone again, but this time it was caused not by the impact but by the exhilaration I felt in that moment, his face so near to mine and his hands gripping my shoulders. He held me tightly enough that I felt I could not squirm. “You are a pervert, Mr. Lockwood?” He asked. I thought it was a taunt, only becoming utterly confused when I realized it seemed a genuine question. “No?” He had furrowed his brow at my response. He dug his fingers into me tighter. “You enjoy being degraded.” I whimpered, realizing that to be true. “If only out of curiosity towards you…”
He gazed at me again with his stern eyes, and my stomach seemed to churn. Then, to my disbelief, he leaned down, taking a hand to the back of my neck and pressing his face into the other side of it, biting and slightly suckling. He stepped away then and when I would not move, my arms flat against the wall, he shouted “Leave, goddamn you!” To which I hesitated, and he kicked at me as if he would one of his dogs. I took one more look at his face, now flushed, and ran until I was outside of the garden.
I do not know what to make of all this, but I know I am very troubled! I am certainly deterred from returning. My fascination still lingers, and I hope to be rid of it.