Charles

~~~

I'm afraid. God knows I am.

It's been two days since I last wrote anything.

I brought the journal to Arthur's house. The possibility of him reading it is my smallest worry right now.

After leaving the house two days ago, I hurried to his house. The door was closed, but not locked, as I discovered after rapidly knocking, trying to get his attention in case he was sleeping. After I received no answer, I tried entering, and was successful at it.

I was chilled to find that the house was completely empty, and it seemed to have been like that for the last few hours, at least.

I checked in the garden, and he wasn't there.

Increasingly nervous, I made my way to the lake, where we had gone the last time he wanted to paint.

That's where I found his easel, with an unfinished painting placed upon it. Arthur was nowhere to be seen. Dread overtook me as I realized that the painting had been there overnight. Furthermore, I was thrown into a state of sheer panic as I recalled wolves from last night. All I could think of was how heavily it snowed, and how I wouldn't be able to find his body at least until spring finally came around.

The terror made me want to heave, and that was probably the only reason why I found him in the end. As I doubled over, my stomach violently contracting, my eye was caught by an elongated pile of snow. Blinded by the few tears of confusion and frenzy, I kneeled in the snow, and brushed off the snow.

I got lucky. Arthur was laying right there, his skin as pale as the snow around him. I remember being relieved that I found him for a moment... until I realized that he had been there for a long time - possibly throughout the entire night. He wasn't dead yet, but if he stayed out there any longer, he would've been.

I brought him back into his house, as the light snowing began to develop into a hail.

Once again, he was barely dressed at all - the silken shirt, the linen slacks. And he was soaked.

I'm no doctor. That's a given. I never was much of a reader, either, which meant that I didn't have the chance to have read any medical scriptures in my leisure. I was still scared, but for different reasons now. I knew he had nearly frozen to death, and I knew that he was already sickly when I first met him, but I hadn't a single idea of what was - is - wrong with him. All I could do was remove his wet and cold clothes, put him to bed, and start a fire.

That was two days ago. He hasn't woken up, and his breathing is heavy. I'm afraid to leave him alone for any longer than it takes me to dash back to the summer-house and return.

Never before have I felt such uneasiness and worry when it came to someone else. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I'm a selfish man. I always looked out for myself first, and then for others. The only exception was Mark.

But now I'm scared. I'm scared he'll die, I'm scared I'll lose him. I don't want to lose him. He's become a friend, a comrade, if you will. I hold warm feelings for him.

Although I've only known him for ten days or so, I'd be willing to go a long way for his sake.

Last night he began to moan like his whole body was aching. It scared me to hell, but now I wish he continued to wail, - at least then I'd know for sure that he was still alive.

It's been twenty-two days.

~~~

Almost ten days ago I was afraid I might go insane because of the guilt and paranoia that I was meant to feel after what I did.

Now I'm afraid that Arthur will die, and then I'll go insane as a consequence of that.

Such character development, isn't that right, Charles?

I feel slightly delirious. With Arthur's state, as I've already said, I'm too scared to leave his side. This means that I'm not able to go home and sleep properly, and the few moments of rest that I managed to catch were on one of the kitchen chairs, with my head down on the table.

Exhaustion is starting to eat away at me, as I do my best to take care of my friend.

He's running a high fever. Has been since around midday. I've been replacing compresses on his forehead one by one for the last few hours.

To be completely honest, I have no idea as to how to help him. As a child, I had a fever once, but I don't recall what the maids did to make it better. I was far too young.

I'm terrified by this feeling of complete helplessness. I don't know what's wrong with him, and all I can do is keep him warm and dry. He might be dying, for all I know. And I can't do anything to help.

Throughout the majority of the day I just sit here, looking at him, searching for a change, drowning in the emotional turmoil of fear and heart-sore, lost in the daily chaos of taking care of someone you love that might be on their deathbed.

Because, by the end of the third day in this imprisonment, I have made the conclusion that "love" is how I feel about Arthur.

I love him as a friend. As a best friend, even. Being the only people to see almost every single day, we developed a bond, - I developed a bond, - that others would take years, even decades, to develop.

That's one part of my connection to him. The other, I think, is just the instinktive human fear of being alone. Or just my personal fear.

I was a neglected child almost from the very beginning - that much I know. I have a few faint memories of receiving parental love - back when my real mother was still alive.

After she passed, I was taken in by my father. The life of a lord's child was not what I expected, - or at least not what I received. The moment we entered the mansion, I was assigned a maid, and forgotten by my father. Most of the days that followed I spent in solitude. That's when I began to hate being alone, - and yet bask in loneliness. The idea of has been since then engraved in my mind as the sign that I am useless, unworthy of my father's - and other's, - love.

Maybe that's why I describe my feelings for Arthur in this way. He was the man to rescue me from what I associated with lack of love, it's only reasonable if I believe that I love him because of it.

It's ironic how I call him my saviour, just like he called me just a few days ago. I wish I could go back to that time, and do something to prevent the events that took place.

If only I wasn't as prideful. Why didn't I go visit him? To prove something to myself? I was a fool, and still am, and it's my fault that he has to suffer now. It's my own fault if he dies, and I am left alone, yet again.

I'm ranting, and I wish I could say that my guilt is light on my heart. It's not.

Arthur is moaning again. I can see he's in pain.

I'll go to him, see what I can do.