Disclaimer: No can do, mates. It belongs to Leroux and Dickinson, and other respective owners. Even the words aren't mine - those belong to Shakespeare and Webster. I just reordered them. (Well, if we get that technical, then the grammar and punctuation belongs to Dickinson and Faulkner, or any other writer that would have given my middle school grammar teacher a headache.)

Mine eternal gratitude for Arcelia, my awesome sauce beta, who thought that this was "très sexy" (yes!). Apparently, I'm starting to write some good stuff.

He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys –
Before they drop full Music on –
He stuns you by Degrees –

Prepares your brittle nature
For the ethereal Blow
By fainter Hammers – further heard –
Then nearer – Then so – slow –

Your Breath – has time to straighten –
Your Brain – to bubble cool –
Deals One – imperial Thunderbolt –
That scalps your naked soul –

When Winds hold Forests in their Paws –
The Universe – is still –

Emily Dickinson

My heart – soul… stop – I am burning – fire! Stop!

Erik!

I want to shriek, let him know that I am here – burning! It hurts! I cannot stand the fire! If he doesn't stop, I will go insane – the heat! It is painful, it is beautiful! It is the worst thing I have ever heard, but still, it is brilliant – it blinds my soul until I cannot breathe. Oh, God! Grant me mercy from this wretched place! This… this monstrous hell! The longer he plays, the more I want to pull all of my hair out and yell and scream and cry and die and…

And yet…

I don't want it to stop.

Is that such a sin?

There is no more sobbing, as I first presumed. No, it is worse. Much, much worse. I can't pity him in this way. God, what have I done? What have I ever done to deserve this? I have no penance to give! There is no reason that I should go through the flames of the inferno! Sweet Angel in heaven above – give me peace! Give me music, like my father used to play! None of this awful music that… that…

God, what is this I feel? It doesn't feel –

…normal.

I feel… disgusting. Filthy, revolting, dirty. I feel hot and smothered, like nothing on me belongs there. I want to rip myself open – expose myself. I feel as if I can do everything. I feel his burning… my burning! God, I don't understand it! I feel…

…naked.

Sinful.

My soul is laid bare, and I can feel his fingers all over it. He slips and slides and handles it so delicately, so… scandalously that I can feel fire in my cheeks. They fumble gracefully, and they are full of fire. It is loud – hot. I want out of all my restraints! Nothing! Nothing can be on me! Such wicked fetters, manacles, irons! They are soft, gentle, and concealing, but Erik has showed me what they truly are! They imprison me!

His hands, like white spiders, creep across the keys, across my naked soul. I shiver, I pant – like a furnace – I sweat. Rivulets of sticky fluids stream through me, hot and unclean.

A jarring discord makes me jump – surprise – stunning. Even his most awful notes are the most beautiful – striking. He keeps on pounding away, but all I can think of is that I wish he would pound away on me! But it keeps on going – building – heightening – amplifying – intensifying – until at the greatest climax –

I cannot think – the fire sweeps through me. The ethereal blow strikes me incoherent, and I cannot help but scream. It burns! Scalds! Scorches me! Hot streams of tears run down my face – down my body. It sears into me – it is so hot!

Oh God! Why doesn't he stop?

As if he has heard my cry, he intensifies, thrusting the notes deep into my very soul until the pain wracks me with unendurable torment – sweet pain – beautiful agony! I am torn. I want relief – cool and sweet as a mountain stream – but the fire is as beautiful and mesmerizing as it is dangerous.

With one last brutal thrust, the fire slows – smolders. The raging fire has passed on, but I can still feel it moving on within me. It is a naked scar across my soul – a black scorch mark upon my breast. My heart is pounding with exhilaration – the music. I catch my breath – the race is over. My mind… my mind…

The rains shower down on me – smoke and steam cloud my eyes – disperse. I breathe slow and steady – slowly – in and out. It feels wonderful to breath clean air again. The frothing water bubbles cool…

Sweet relief. I half expect the sun to peek out when it is over – the world is quiet – tranquil.

My tears run their course – they are dry now, as if they evaporated the moment they fell during the fires. My body returns to normal – my soul does not. I can see the scar, the thunderbolt that has scalped across it. Only I can see it – Erik has claimed me as his own. He is on me, he is all over me.

But all is still now. The organ has died – is silent. I can hear him now, moving around. My ears feel unclogged since he played that awful music – as if he yanked tufts of cotton out of them. It will never be the same, anymore. Erik has shown me true beauty – true music. The music that makes you feel, that makes you burn. My eyes are unveiled – I cannot see the veil of innocence as I have used to. I have been purged, I have tasted the forbidden fruit, and I can see everything, now…

I can hear him walking…

…here. He is here now – knocking at my door – opening it – so slowly…

Could he not move any faster!

"Christine?"

His shriek is loud – aghast.

I smile at him. I should feel horrified, but I am not. After all, I have already felt the heat… his heat. I can almost smell him – taste him.

"Where are your clothes, Christine?"

My clothes? I remember the fire, how suffocated I was.

"It was hot," I reply.

He walks slowly towards me, carefully. It reminds me of a ravenous wolf. If he comes too quickly, he might start running to rip his prey apart.

Am I his prey?

Warily, he picks up my dress and tries to put it on me, but I can see a glint in his eye. He is hungry.

"Let's get you decent, shall we, my dear?"

But I don't want it. Though the fire has left and made me cold, I am afraid that the dress will make me hot again – suffocate me. I could never breathe in that dress, in any case.

"I don't want it," I say stubbornly, like a child. But I am not a child.

I push his hands away, but then I notice that they are on me, touching me. His awful hands of death – stoking the fire again…

I thought I knew what fire was – I thought I felt its brilliant heat once before.

I was wrong.

Erm... heh... Sheesh, was that me??

FYI: This is the first -ahem- scene that I've ever done, and really, it kinda skeers the bejeebers outa me! But when I read this poem in my English class - and heard my English professor's pitiful interpretation of it (really, it was incredibly anticlimactic!) - I just had to get this out of my system. Besides, that poem just made me think of Erik, you know? C'mon, you can't just look at that poem and not think of Erik! I mean, "My Don Juan burns, and not with the fires from heaven!" respectively (I'll be darned if I got that quote right).

Another FYI: You will hopefully never see one of these from me again. I know that there are some fics out there that are even more explicit, but... -shudders- My mind feels like the gutter... I need a good chickflick.

And, no. No sex scenes for me. Which means, this remains as a one shot-er.

Loves and opera cookies!

gray seal

PS. My computer is gurgling at me - that's not a good sign, is it?