Extremely morbid oneshot. I was trying to figure out the opening chords to"Because" (the Beatles) and finally, feeling that my fingers were grubby or just not quite clean enough, I went to wash my hands with soap. I suddenly thought to myself, "My piano teacher always told me to wash my hands before playing." This thought (In Erik's voice) was accompanied by an unexpectedly detailed visual. Thus, this short little fic was born.
Disclaimer- Property of Gaston Leroux
A pale finger, sticky, pressing the cool ivory. Another, then another, moving upward in a progressing chord. Skinny fingers- skeletal- from two bony hands, moving fluidly over the keys.
"My piano teacher always told me to wash my hands before playing."
He spoke calmly, conversationally, not turning to that whom he directed his words to.
"She always told me. Every lesson."
Fingertips, not slipping in spite of the slick fluid coating them. They swept, ever graceful, ever certain, over the keys.
"Did you know that, dear?"
His unblinking, yellow eyes were set on the music, though he knew it by heart. Not down at the keys- never down at the keys. He knew his instrument too well.
"But she was an idiot- a foolish woman! Do you know what else she said?"
One hand crossed over the other, reaching up to play higher notes, while his right hand continued repeating the same four keys.
"She told me that I would never marry, would never have a bride, a loving bride to call my own."
He seemed to play a bit fiercer, masterfully and forcefully pressing down on the piano. Strong emotion rang in all the thundering chords.
"She told Erik that he would be lonely. She told Erik that no woman could ever love him."
The song was nearly finished, and now there was a slimy coating over almost all of the ivory keys.
"But she was wrong, wasn't she dear? Christine?"
He completed the piece, then turned to face his fallen bride.
"You're not feeling well, hm? Awfully quiet today, my dear. You must rest."
She lay on the cushioned sofa, her head drooping, her fair hair covering her face. The blonde was stained and slightly matted with a darker colour. The same colour seeped through the bodice of her dress, drenching it with the liquid that had stopped flowing from the gash on her neck. The throat that once held such a golden voice was now torn and bleeding.
"Poor thing. Erik will go prepare you some tea. That will be nice, won't it?"
He stood, wiping his bloody fingers on his pants as he crossed the room.
"But Erik mustn't make it like this."
He peered down at the messy fingers as if seeing them for the first time. He raised his eyebrows slightly, then shook his head.
"No, no. Erik must wash his hands first."
He paused at the doorway. "Do you know Christine, my piano teacher used to tell me to wash my hands before playing?"
He continued as he went down the hallway, as he entered the washroom and began to rinse his hands off. "Well, she did. Every day, before the lesson."
Creepy, right? –shivers-
Reviews, please?