Enter of Your Own Free Will

"The gazelle freezes and pricks her ears up. She can sense the danger, but she can't see it. Her brain is no match for the lion's, whom evolution has honed into an almost perfect predator. He waits patiently. Soon enough, the gazelle relaxes and resumes her meal. This is the moment for the lion to pounce! He tears straight into her thighs, her most vulnerable spot, ensuring that she has no hope of escape. Now the lion can take his time over his meal. Doomed, the gazelle struggles for a few minutes, but eventually she becomes almost co-operative, compliant in her own demise, maybe sensing for one sacred moment her place in the vast circle of ..."

CRASH!!!!

I am stirred from the evening's televised entertainment. What in Hell's name was that? I rise from my armchair and walk into the dining room. There is virtually a gale blowing in through the window; the curtains are flapping like the robes of an angered priest. And on the floor: glass! Pieces of coloured glass, everywhere! Not cheap modern glass, forged on a bed of molten metal. No, hand-made glass. Seventeenth-century glass.

Irreplaceable glass.

I roar my anger and storm to my front door, opening it almost before I reach it. Children everywhere, with their parents, all looking in my direction. What do they want with me? Some older ones, running away fast, looking behind them. Looking at me. Laughing at my misfortune. Begone with you all!

Then I see her. Standing in the eye of the tornado, eyes wide with fear ... there she stands.

This sainted night used to be for the children alone, but now those of age also participate. The children wear gaudy costumes - witches, vampires, zombies - with no idea what they represent in reality. This one ... should have known better.

I scan her image, bottom to top, in the blink of her eye. She wears black shoes, pointed and buckled, with two-inch heels. From those emerge a pair of knee-length stockings, made from a black cotton that has been woven into a spiderweb pattern. Above that, her smooth white thighs are on display, dotted with goosebumps. There is no hint of cellulite; her thighs do not even meet in the middle before leading up into the skirt of an indecently short black cocktail dress. It has a strap over one shoulder and comes down at an angle, disappearing beneath her arm on the other side. Black ribbons spiral like snakes up her pale sleek limbs, accented by a black velvet choker around her neck, and on her face she wears deep red lipstick against a ghostly white foundation, with dark eye makeup and scarlet earrings.

"What have you done?" I demand.

She looks at me in horror.

"I'm sorry!" she cries. "I didn't mean to break it!"

She is genuinely terrified. Good. I walk up to her and gently take her chin between my finger and thumb. I tilt her head up and smile down kindly at her.

"Did your friends put you up to this?" I ask her sweetly.

She nods meekly. A single tear rolls down her cheek. I wipe it off with my finger, and taste it. Very interesting. She is no child, but this is a child's tear.

"Why don't you tell me what happened?" I say.

She looks up at me and sniffs.

"I ..." she begins, but I halt her with my hand.

"Let us go inside, where it is warmer," I propose.

She looks at me, then she looks up at my house, with renewed fear. It is an ancient and imposing building. The children have some stories about it, I'm sure.

"I ... I don't know," she says, shivering.

"But look at you! You must be freezing cold in that outfit. At least allow me to prepare you a hot drink before you go on your way. Then, in return, you can tell me which of your friends is truly to blame for the destruction of a very expensive antique window of mine. Because I can see from your face that you are completely ... innocent."

She looks up at me uncertainly. I see the beginning of a smile.

"Do you have any hot chocolate?" she says quietly.

I scan my surroundings again. Nobody is looking in our direction any more. People's attention spans are so short in these times, although the mist that has suddenly risen must also be obscuring their view somewhat. Certainly, nobody seems interested in her any more. She has no companion waiting for her out here. She is ... unguarded.

I guide her towards my front door with a gentle hand on her back.

"I have the best hot chocolate in the world. You will never taste such luxury elsewhere."

"Why do you talk so funny?" she asks. She is becoming bolder.

"It is because I am very old," I tell her.

She turns and looks up into my face.

"You don't look that old," she says.

I smile at her naivety.

The front door is still ajar when we reach it.

"Please, enter of your own free will," I say.

"Pardon?"

"You agree that I am not coercing you to come inside?"

"What? Well ... no, of course not. I'm coming in for hot chocolate and ... I guess, a little telling off. Which I deserve," she says sadly.

"Good," I say, and I watch eagerly as she voluntarily steps over the threshold, out of the public world and into my domain.

I glance behind me. The mist has risen quickly tonight; it is barely possible even to see the street-lighting across the way now. Satisfied, I follow her into my house, and the door shuts silently behind me.

"Wow!" she says, looking around her in amazement. "You must really love antiques!"

"Not really," I say.

"But you have so many ..."

"These are just my possessions, collected over the course of my life. I do not think of them as expensive antiques ... until I have to replace them, of course."

She looks at the ground.

"I'm really sorry about your window," she says.

"Come, let us retire to the drawing room, there you can tell me all about it."

I follow her into the room, observing the way her dress clings to her body. Her buttocks are firm as she walks, a sign of good parental heritage.

"Oh, thank God!" she says with obvious relief. I ignore the blasphemy.

"What is it?"

"I was worried your sofa might be an antique too!"

Then she sits, without waiting to be invited.

"Not everything I own is so ancient," I say, smiling down at her. "I find modern sofas to be vastly more comfortable than their eighteenth-century equivalent. Nobody desires a cast-iron spring poking them in the backside."

She laughs. It is a soft sound that thrills me.

"You're funny. I don't know why everyone is so scared of you."

"That is something I try to cultivate."

"You want people to be scared of you?"

"I prefer to be left alone. Most people succeed in that. Did you not see the notice on my door?"

"No trick or treaters? Yes, I did see it," she says, looking down again.

"But you and your friends chose not to respect my wishes in that regard."

"They thought it would be fun."

"And is it fun?"

Unexpectedly, she smiles at me, relaxing back on the sofa with her hands in her lap.

"It might make for an interesting evening," she says quickly, and I see a glimpse of something in her eyes that I have not seen for a very long time.

"I see. Shall I prepare the hot chocolate now?" I say.

"Oh, yes please! Can I have extra sugar in mine?"

I stand up. "Of course. You will be pleased to know I also have a modern kettle, so this should not take too long. Please wait here until I return."

I prepare the hot chocolate in the basement kitchen. As is often the case, I cannot help but marvel at the convenience the modern world has to offer. The water boils during one minute, and the drink is prepared from a selection of powders in the next. I add plenty of cow's milk, then I pour a somewhat less childish drink for myself.

When I ascend the staircase again, she is at the front door. She turns to look at me, her face full of shame.

"I ... just wanted to see how your front door works."

"You have an interest in locks? It is a tricky one, this. Very secure. Nobody can enter this house without my permission."

"Heh, or leave, by the looks of it," she says. Her face is nervous.

"It has a method to it. Did you wish to leave already? I prepared hot chocolate for you. And, I must insist that we discuss my broken window before your return home."

She looks down. "Yes, of course, I'm sorry. I guess I just got a bit scared, that's all."

"What is there to be scared about?" I say gently.

"Er ... nothing ... I guess," she says. "I mean I can handle myself. Don't think I can't. I have a green belt in karate, you know!"

I cannot help but smile at her spirit.

"I am sure you will not be needing to recall such skills while you are here," I say.

She smiles at me. She seems somewhat reassured.

"Of course not. I hope you don't think I'm being rude. It's just ... you know, a girl my age, alone in a house with a strange man, on Halloween ..." she says with a nervous laugh.

"I have heard stories, of course. There are some violent people in this world. I hope you will accept my assurance that I am not one of them. I would never take that which was not freely given. Do you believe me?"

She slowly looks up, into my eyes. Surprise flickers across her face for a brief instant, then her mouth relaxes, hanging open slightly. She speaks, but her voice is flat, almost a monotone.

"Yes, I believe you. You seem very kind and gentle. I think I can trust you completely," she says.

Then her eyelids twitch for a moment.

"Wow, your eyes are amazing!" she says suddenly, with her more usual inflection.

"Thank you," I say, smiling at the compliment.

"It's like they've got lightning around them or something."

I laugh softly.

"It's just a trick of the gaslight. I suppose you are not used to these antique fittings."

She shakes her head and blinks.

"No. I like it though. The lights at home are too bright."

"I find this tends to be the case with modern houses. When you chase away every shadow, you also lose a lot of subtlety. The darkness can be quite beautiful too."

"Is that why you live in such an old house?"

"It is one of many reasons. Shall we return to the drawing room? This cup is getting hot."

"Sorry", she giggles compliantly, having already forgotten why she was at the door. She walks, almost skips, into the other room. She seems far more at ease now.

I place her drink on the Victorian coffee table and she sits down in front of it. I elect to sit in the armchair, and I watch as she takes a sip.

"Mmm, this is delicious, thank you," she says.

"As I told you, it is the finest hot chocolate in the world."

She takes another sip, swirling the liquid around her mouth before swallowing with a heavy sigh of appreciation.

"I thought you were exaggerating, but this might actually be the nicest hot chocolate in the world! Is that wine?"

I hold my glass up. "It is a very special kind of wine."

She laughs. "My parents only drink special wine on special occasions."

I smile at her naivety again.

"Tonight is All Hallow's Eve. Is that not special enough? After all, you appear to be ... dressed up," I say.

She looks down at her clothing and her cheeks redden.

"Do you think I look like a slut?" she asks.

I laugh. "I'm sure a prostitute would wear something rather less revealing than that."

She laughs too. "Like what?"

"You must have seen them on the television. Corsets, bloomers, skirts all the way down to the ankles."

"You mean like in the olden days?"

"Well, of course. Prostitution has since been outlawed."

"Er, just because it's illegal doesn't mean nobody does it," she says.

"I suppose that could be the case. I have little experience with such things."

"Well it's nice to know you're not a kerb-crawler," she says, smiling.

"And it's nice to know you're not a prostitute," I reply. She laughs again.

"You're funny. I'm starting to quite like you."

"I'm flattered," I say, taking a sip from my drink.

"Can I try some?"

"I'm not sure. Are you old enough?"

"I'm eighteen. I can do anything I want now."

"Anything?" I inquire.

I see it in her eyes again: a momentary flash of something familiar, yet long forgotten.

"Yes, anything," she says assertively, her eyelids flickering wide at me for a second.

"Then you may try some," I say, holding my glass out for her.

She rises from the sofa and performs a sultry but badly-practiced walk across the room. She perches precariously on the arm of my chair, her stockinged legs splaying slightly in her dress as she lowers herself down. She takes the glass from my hand and sniffs at it.

"It's definitely just wine, right? There's no vodka in it or anything?" she asks, looking down into my eyes.

"There is nothing to worry about," I say, staring deeply into her pupils.

She shakes her head slowly, never taking her eyes off mine.

"No, there is nothing to worry about," she replies. Her voice is flat and monotonous again.

"Taste some. See what you think."

"I will taste some and see what I think," she says, lifting the glass up to her lips with one ribbon-entwined arm.

She takes a reasonably large sip, and lets it wash around her mouth before swallowing.

"Now, tell me what you think of the wine, in your own words," I tell her.

"It is very thick, for red wine," she says tonelessly. "The taste is ... different than I expected. It has no sweetness. It almost has a salty taste. The sensation as it runs down your throat is ... interesting. It reminds me of something that I cannot quite place."

"Good. Go back and sit on the sofa now," I say.

She slides off the armchair, and her dress rides up for a moment. The skin of her backside is pale, smooth, and flawless. I catch a glimpse of red, a mere shred of material between her buttocks, then it is hidden beneath her dress again. She sits back on the sofa and looks across the room at me, blinking in slight confusion.

"Er ... can I try some of your wine then?" she asks.

"No," I say, "it's better if you stick to the hot chocolate. Your parents might not approve if I gave you alcohol."

She flinches, instinctively reacting to the mention of her parents' authority.

"But I'm eighteen now!" she complains. "It's not up to my parents any more!"

"But it is up to me whether or not you take some of my wine," I point out.

She nods disappointedly as she submits to my decision. "OK," she says quietly.

"Besides, it is time for you to explain yourself, and to explain how my stained-glass window came to be in shattered fragments on my floor."

"Yes," she says. "I guess I owe you that much at least."

"Proceed, then. I am listening."

"OK, well, you see, me and Natasha and Mary were going out for Halloween. They told me they were going trick-or-treating but when I got to Natasha's house it was pretty obvious they'd been drinking. Like, there was a half-empty bottle of vodka on the table, and they stank of it."

"This is legal for them?"

"No, it isn't actually. I'm the only one who's eighteen. They're both still seventeen. Natasha isn't eighteen until July, and Mary is in March."

"So you are the oldest of them."

"And the most sensible, I guess. I've never drunk that much alcohol. I like getting tipsy sometimes, but they just get totally smashed, it's ridiculous. And I'm always the one that has to clean up their sick, or make sure they don't get attacked or something on the walk home."

"I see. It seems to me that you deserve better friends. These two sound like a liability, not an asset."

"Yeah well my friendship with those two is in serious question after tonight. Ha, listen, I'm starting to talk like you now! But, yeah, I'm not sure I want to be their friend any more after they left me in the shit like that."

"Who threw the rock?"

"It wasn't a rock, actually. It was an egg."

"An egg?"

"An egg. Out of an egg box."

"I believe they come out of hens, actually. But how did an egg break my window?"

"I don't know! Honestly, I have no idea!"

I stand up.

"Shall we investigate?"

She follows me into the dining room. Against the far wall I do indeed find an egg, of sorts. The shell is cracked and broken away in places, and the contents are not the usual contents of an egg.

"Is that plaster?" she says.

"I suspect it is cement. See this circular hole here? This is presumably how the egg was filled."

"Those fuckers!" she cries.

"Let me hazard a guess at the earlier situation. Your friends ..."

"Not my friends."

"Your former friends gave you this egg and said it would be fun to smash it against the window of the spooky house, to annoy the weird hermit who lives there?"

She nods contritely. Another tear runs down her cheek, which she wipes away quickly.

"And, thinking it was just a normal egg, you threw it with some force against my dining-room window?"

"Yes," she says.

"Which then shattered into a hundred very-expensive-to-replace pieces?"

She nods, then shakes her head. "I'm so sorry," she says.

I start laughing loudly. She looks up at me in puzzlement.

"It is a clever ruse! Your friends fooled you well!"

"You're not mad?"

"Anger is but a fleeting emotion; appreciation of a person's cunning is longer-lasting. I think I would like to meet these girls!" I laughed.

"They're total skank hos."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sorry, they're, er, filthy prostitutes. I mean, not literally, but."

"They are women of easy virtue?"

"Ha, yeah, definitely! They've been fingered by at least five different guys just when I've been in the room with them. Lord knows how many guys have ... you know, been inside them. Ew."

"You find this sort of behaviour ... disgraceful? You would not do such things yourself?"

"I'm not that easy, thank you very much! I'm a good girl. I'm saving myself," she states proudly.

"Are you ... religious?" I ask uneasily.

"No, not at all, what do you mean?"

"You are saving yourself for the sacred bond of marriage?"

She laughs and shakes her head. "Dude, this is the twenty-first century. Nobody does that any more."

"What then?"

She smiles and looks into my eyes, and I see a sparkle again.

"I haven't really decided yet. I guess I'm just waiting for the right guy. Someone I can trust. Someone who will treat my first time as something special, instead of just ... a conquest."

"Of course," I say. "You deserve nothing less. It is the most precious gift a girl can give."

She gazes deeper into my eyes.

"You understand me so well," she says, losing herself in my flaming irises.

"Better than you will ever know. Do you trust me?"

"Yes, I trust you completely," she says in an unnaturally flat voice.

"Then will you answer a question for me?"

"Yes, I will answer a question for you."

"Please describe what you are wearing underneath your dress."

"I'm wearing a matching set of red lacy underwear - a strapless bra and a thong. I wear these when I want to feel sexy."

"Do you feel sexy tonight?"

"Yes. The way you look at me makes me feel very desirable."

"I would very much like to see your thong later. Just a glimpse, as if it were an accident."

"I will make sure that happens."

"Good."

She blinks and shakes her head, trying to clear it. Then she shivers, and hugs herself.

"The broken window has made this room cold," I say. "Come, let us finish our drinks in the other room. I will light a fire to warm you up."

We walk back across the corridor. I watch her face and body carefully as she sits down. She is calm, relaxed, and confident. She is also intrigued by my study of her.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asks curiously.

I sit down next to her on the sofa.

"I apologize if I make you nervous."

"No, it's not that. I mean, I don't think you're creepy, if that's what you mean. It's just ... why?"

"I find you interesting."

She smiles bashfully. "I find you kind of interesting, too."