No Longer the Victim

Christine was afraid of many things- spiders, heights, death- her head sometimes when she tried to count the numerous other things she was scared of, like slippery doormats and suspiciously unlocked doors. Sometimes she was afraid of her own shadow, and more often even than that, her reflection.

She had heard from Meg that eyes were the windows to the soul, and she had seen her own bright blue eyes. They were sad, tired eyes, but from what she did not know. She did not feel tired, and went to her room later than midnight still restless and jittery.

Perhaps she was tired of living. Or was it that she was tired of her dark, underground environment and her practically involuntary marriage? Was she tired of the domestic work she had taken upon herself just to keep busy? Maybe she was tired of herself: her little, plain self with a quiet sadness and near-fearful meekness in the presence of her husband.

Erik had given her an ultimatum- a life with him, or the death of Raoul. He had been so angry that night, and so afraid, and so vulnerable that it broke her heart. She was not sure she could love again, or live, even when her- angel, husband, teacher, whatever he was- deserved so much to have someone to live with. He had survived for over thirty years without the slightest help from anyone, but that was not the same as truly living.

Even now, he was still only surviving. Christine was also afraid to look at his golden eyes, afraid of what she would see there. She was afraid of his weakness, of his strength, of his infinite generosity towards her. She was afraid because she had seen them before, and knew she would see in his eyes that he was only just surviving on her presence.

He never ate, drank, or slept, or so it seemed. He read or composed or sketched for hours on end, but she did not know what for, and he never seemed to notice her except for when he brought her meals, or the things she timidly requested from the world above. Yet, at times, when she passed him on the way to the kitchen, the sound or his pen or his organ would stop almost imperceptibly, and from this, Christine knew that he was very aware of her presence.

She was not happy, she knew. Part of the reason she feared her reflection was because she saw that her mouth now turned down at the corners. It looked almost like Mme. Giry's perpetual frown. It was this strange, unofficial, involuntary, captive marriage that made her frown.

Erik was a mystery to her. She knew her angel, her teacher, but not this recluse, this person who had practically forced her to marry him. I am married to a stranger, and I know nothing of him except his genius, his temper, and his appearance. Perhaps one day she would know him, but that was far away, was it not? Now, she was too afraid to know him.

Erik was also plain and understandable to her. He had so much love to give, and she had none to offer that she knew of. He tried so hard to please her, and could not. No, that had ended when she had screamed at him to get out and leave her alone when he had entered her room after Raoul had left. He had left the room with his typical cold silence, and closed the door behind him. She had stirred after a minute of stunned silence, amazed that he had indeed left her alone without complaint, and approached the door.

The floor had been wet under her slipper-clad foot. She had looked down, expecting (and afraid of) another view of the many tears Erik had shed. The fluid she had dipped her fingers into had not been saltwater and clear, but thick and dark and sticky. He was understood because she knew how he coped with the pain of her presence and her subsequent fear.

Raoul had left. He had left, and then she was in Erik's cold house, weeping over the warm blood on the stone floor. She had cried for a long while, for Raoul and his false love, for he had left her. She had cried for herself and the terrible, long existence ahead of her, for Erik would not let her die. She had cried for Erik, too, for his pain and obsession and love that she could not bring herself to return or spurn.

Now, however, she was simply tired and afraid. There were no more tears left in her to shed, for she was quite sure now that she was tired of crying.

"Erik." She said his name, alone in her room. He had not told it to her directly, only rambled in a panicky sort of way about how he had made her cry. She had heard him outside her door, pacing, rambling, and nearly sobbing when she could not see him. He often spoke as such when he was too engrossed in music to notice her.

"Erik…" she said again, under her breath. He could have heard her. Who knew what abilities the seeping madness in his brain provided him? But indeed, his name was good. It was human, not the name of an angel, monster, or demon. She could accept his name.

Hesitating, she looked into her mirror again, probably the only mirror left in the house. She did not like what she saw, for she saw a gutless little girl with very little heart in her and even less of the person her father had raised her to be. That would have to change. If she was to be happy, she would have to try and accept all of Erik- his words and arts and love.

Her father had always said to her that love could only be happy as a mutual thing between people.

…

It was cold in Erik's house. It was always as such, for the many candles he kept lit provided little warmth, and he never lit the fireplace. He saw no reason to either. The mob had burned or ruined most of his music and sketches, and for months he had been replacing them from memory.

It was still unknown to him whether it was cold in Erik's heart as it was in his house. He was cold, he knew, for he did not feel the chill of his stone home, and the temperature of his skin was like that of the cold metal instruments he kept next to his coffin. So strange, then, that he felt warm when those instruments bit into his flesh, when he should feel only pain.

He loved his Christine very much, and it hurt to avoid her as he did now, but she had commanded that he leave her alone, so he obeyed, ever her slave. The only warmth in the house came from Christine, even if she was afraid of him, or angry with him, or simply sad. Christine made his frigid house that elusive thing called a home.

He had to pause when she entered the room, simply because he could sense her movement, and the great difference between her and her environment. She had taken it upon herself to do her own chores, but Erik dearly wished that she had not. He would do anything and everything for her, if only she would ask.

Perhaps he needed to do those things for her when she was asleep. Then she would know that he did not pretend that her existence mattered nothing to him. But…she had told him to leave her alone. To disobey his Christine, even for her own good, was a crime, one that he had committed repeatedly. It was a crime he had committed so that his heart would beat longer still, and because he needed her desperately, as he needed no other.

Was his heart cold, then? No, perhaps it was not. Christine warmed it and made it pained, heavy or light, but she proved its existence and fiery, terrible, possessive love for her every time she trod past on her soft, white feet.

Still, when she did not emerge from her room for even a few hours he had to remind himself that he could still feel, if only just a little. He locked the door to his room and slid his white sleeves up his bony arms, and cut into the softer part of his arm. He had to remind himself that his blood was warm, that he was a man, and that because Christine was with him, he could feel.

When the bleeding from the numerous shallow cuts stopped, he always cleaned and bandaged them, and rolled his sleeves down again. Christine could not know about his habit! Knowing would make her sad, so very sad that his heart would break in place of hers.

The cuts were to count as well. They were to count the weeks and months that Christine had been gone from him before she had agreed to stay. They were a calendar of his pain, so that he would never forget and let her leave.

She had not spoken since the night she had ordered him away. Her silence was a tangible thing, for it often extracted tears from him when he swore he would not cry because of another. He was afraid to break that silence with his true music, for fear of what it would unleash. Would she be furious, or hateful? Would she be afraid, as he hated? Would she be an apathetic stranger?

She was the victim in the situation, he knew. She had become the victim when he had refused to play that part any longer. She was the hurt one now because he was too selfish to let her go, and too frustrated with his own helplessness.

The cuts were his punishment, too, so that he would be weak and unable to hurt her for the loss of fluid. He replenished himself when she slept, by eating the foods he knew to be good for those with little blood in them, so that he could safely punish himself again, remind himself that he deserved nothing.

He was not her angel any longer. He knew that for sure. What was he, then? Was he an evil dragon, made and set on keeping her captive? That image certainly fit- only, the dragon was a much more handsome creature than he, and Christine was certainly more beautiful and virtuous than the fair maiden.

He pressed a key on the organ, wincing when the instrument created a sound too loud and blaring for the silent awkwardness of his house. Worse still, it echoed when he released the key. Perhaps he would use the piano today instead.

Or, perhaps he would approach Christine. Yes, I should attend to her- she might be in want something. So, instead of traversing to his music room to take out his frustration on the piano, he made his way across the room to Christine's door and knocked just loudly enough that she would hear. "Christine?"

To his surprise, she opened the door herself instead of verbally granting him entrance. She looked different than when he had last seen her, and just as surprised as he to find him at her door. For a moment, neither spoke, absorbing the moment. Erik swallowed hard, suddenly unable to speak. Damnable effects she had on him, especially when he had no idea what she was thinking. Thankfully, he did not have to speak.

"What is it?" she asked, "Is it time for lunch already?" She was radiant, and for a moment, he forgot what he had been about to say. Even if he had remembered, he would not have been able to say anything. His mouth had gone quite dry.

Then he stammered out a shaky "Do you need anything- anything at all?" Good heavens above, she looked as if she barely remembered who and what she was speaking to! Had she forgiven, or had she forgotten? He desperately hoped for the former.

He kept his gaze just over her shoulder, focused on the edge of her soft, curled locks. In the long pause that followed, they both avoided breathing. It seemed that breathing would only increase the tension, when in fact it only made them both reluctant to speak.

"I need to apologize."

…

Christine swallowed back the strong tea and grimaced. If her endeavors- to be a wife, or a love, or whatever it was Erik needed- succeeded, she would need to ask for something a little gentler on her taste buds.

Erik had been completely shocked, as she'd expected, but he had also recovered enough to sit her down on the couch and demand that she explain herself. In trying to delay so that she could think up the words for her explanation, she had requested tea. Unfortunately, there was no cream to weaken the strong, bitter flavor, and there was no sugar to feed her insatiable sweet tooth. She could have asked Erik for those ingredients as well, and she knew he would have provided her with them, but that would have taken far too long. Her apology and explanation was well worth missing a little cream and sugar.

Erik was watching her every move intently from the other side of the couch, his head angled just so that it appeared that he was gazing at the fire, but his eyes angled so that he could watch Christine out of the corner of his golden eye. He started, though, when she fixed him with a stare of her own and said, "Thank you very much for looking after me as you have."

"What? I have done nothing but-"

"Provide for me when I hunger, or thirst, or am in need; this is why I must apologize. I have done nothing in return." Erik's impulse was to argue away her apology. Why would she presume that she need give him anything more than her presence in the cave she was making into a home? Her work to clean and sometimes prepare her own afternoon snacks was more than enough.

"Christine, you have done more than enough!" he nearly pleaded. "You chose to be here. It is my duty to provide for you, and you must desist with that slavish behavior you call housework."

"What 'slavish behavior'?!" she burst suddenly, surprising herself with her own boldness. She set her cup down with enough force that the porcelain clinked sharply against the silver tea tray. A drop of the hot liquid splashed over onto her finger. "You have done practically everything for me-"

He stood suddenly, pulling her to her feet with him. His bony hands gripped her upper arms with such fervor that she was sure they would bruise. "Yes, Christine, for you! All I ever did for a decade was for you, to have you and keep you, so you would never run, never leave of your own will! And I am a selfish enough monster that I will never, ever let you go!" His visible face was twisted and flushed with intensity, and his eyes were molten with a passion she had never seen except for when she had sung for him on her first journey underground.

He was not angry. She was not afraid. She had decided not to be, and glared back at him. "If I am your wife, you will let me care for you," she declared, defiantly keeping her eyes on his. I will not be afraid of his eyes any longer. I will not!

"Care? I know not care. Care is something I have not received, and do not need." His voice was suddenly, frighteningly flat. "Care is what I intend to give- to you." He held her as if he had forgotten he was holding her at all, still as a statue.

Christine's eyes still burned into his, but he seemed to have forgotten he was looking at her as well as holding her. "Then care for me! Speak, sing, make me hate you, but I am exhausted of being sad and tired and- and- pitiful!" she shouted to his masked face. "And I cannot stop in my endless circle unless you care enough to help me break free and make us both happier than we are!"

This startled him into releasing, almost repelling her. He hurriedly stepped back, and she almost regretted her yelling- almost. His demeanor had shifted yet again, to the vulnerable, insecure, half-insane Erik that had not the ability to break her body, but her soul. He was retreating again, pacing and muttering and ignoring her. "Of course Erik cares, he cares more than his Christine knows- but he does not know how to treat her! She cannot be as other wives, she is special-"

Suddenly, he was just an inch from her face, blinking owlishly and looking for the entire world like a lost child. She swallowed back a gasp. "So what does his Christine wish for? Jewelry or outings?" Then he turned away just as quickly, talking to himself again.

It took a surprising amount of nerve for her next words, to answer him in a way that he might fully comprehend in his strange, half-mad state of coping. She took a steadying breath and steeled herself. "Erik. Christine wishes to have Erik back." He stopped in his pacing, frozen by her words. "Christine wishes for Erik to have her back, too."

In a heartbeat, she was swept up into the air, carried by arms like metal cables and giddy with virtual wings of her own. His joyous, unrestrained laughter was probably a first for both of them, and she loved it. Everything would be right, because he loved her and because she knew, for the first time (and quite for certain), that she could love him not only as her teacher and angel, but as her husband.