Monster

10. The Diary

Unknown date and time

The Diary

Elsa opened her eyes. All she saw was a wooden wall, and then a table with an unlit candelabra, a stack of books, a hair brush—She sat up and looked around. Her bedroom. 

She was in her bed. She pulled the quilt off of her and slipped out, her bare feet touching the cool wooden floor. She swept up her brush and ran it through her hair—it was untangled and soft to the touch. Setting her brush down, she flipped through one of her books; the words welcomed her into the story. She pushed the drapes of her window aside and froze. 

All she saw was a brick wall—there was no window. 

She stumbled back so abruptly she fell, her side colliding with the floor. "Matilda!" she hollered. "Matilda, come, quick!" 

But Matilda never showed. 

Elsa lay, heart in her throat, and then stood. She at last realized her dress was blood-stained and ripped at the sleeves and hem. Her pocket-watch around her neck was gone. Her body was bruised, her hands rusty with dried blood. 

She ran to the door and opened it-outside was the room with the rose petals, which swirled serenely to the dirt floor, the candles glowing like stars all along the wall, up into complete darkness. 

Nicholas sat by a candle, a book on his lap. 

"Nicholas!" Elsa hollered. 

He looked up. "Good day, Elsa." 

Elsa leaned against the door and let the tears, at last, fall. They streamed down her face, to her chin, and along her neck, the wounds there burning. Elsa had never in her life felt so helpless. 

She started desperately to feel over the walls again, for the door she had escaped through the last time Sven had visited these chambers. 

"It is no use," Nicholas said soberly. 

"You've told me, countless times," Elsa snapped, her tears already dry on her cheeks. "And I realize that it is probably no use, but I would rather search in vain than sit and read!" 

Nicholas closed his book, releasing a tendril of dust, and stood. "Only the witch can let us out, if not Sven." 

"The witch?" Elsa repeated. She was about to exclaim that witches were only myth, but then she realized she was trapped by a vampyre and closed her mouth. Mentally she chastised herself, for she had to believe in it, just had to. Look what not believing in vampyres had done to her. 

"How can anyone find us in here, let alone a witch?" 

Nicholas shook his head. "Nobody can. That is why I stress to you that we are trapped, and Sven won't let us leave. He says he is fond of us, for particular reasons." 

Elsa knew the reason she was there was because of her blood, and the pocket-watch. "Why are you here?" she asked.  

"I do not know." 

"Surely Sven has told you why, after seven years." 

Nicholas ran his finger down the spine of the closed, raggedy book on his lap. "It does not feel like it's been seven years. It feels like it's only been a few days. Maybe a week. Mind you, very long days." He looked at Elsa and tilted his shoulder. 

"I see," she said, feeling quite miserable. "Perhaps if we prove we are useless to Sven, he'll release us?" 

"Or murder us," Nicholas said blandly. 

Elsa noticed scars on Nicholas that she had not noticed before—on his wrists and neck. She felt she was in a nightmare that she'd never wake from. She should never have went to the ball. But how was she to know Sven would sneak past the SKS and make it inside?