I find it next to impossible to do my job, knowing Chris is waiting for me in his box in the basement. He should be singing, now, practicing Lucia’s aria.

   I wonder if I consume his thoughts the way he consumes mine.



   Christopher tried to kill me with a steak knife today. Luckily, I was across the room and he has poor hand-eye coordination, but I was hurt nonetheless. I thought we were making good progress.

   I didn’t feed him, so perhaps he got what he wanted. Though I had half a mind to put him back in the box, his suicide attempt has made me wary to use it as punishment, so instead I cleared out the guest room closet and handcuffed him to the bar. I’ll leave him standing tonight while he endures morphine withdrawals. Perhaps he’ll be more polite in the morning.