Author's Note: This took much longer than I'd expected, but so many changes are going on for me. I do apologize to anybody who is following/has been waiting, if there are any of you. None the less, here is chapter four for you. I wish it was more of a pay off with the wait and all, but it all needs to start coming together some time.
One note I just want to add about my Erik in this... he is a steady mix of Dance!Erik and ALW!Erik. I normally keep Leroux in mind, but with this being a different twist for me in doing a modern POTO phic, I figured I should alter my Erik and Christine a little. Christine, like I said before, is sort of my own creation. Erik has his moments when he just radiates with that sort of sexual tension sort of side, but as a person, if very shy and awkward around people. I will eventually get to background on him, though. In the meantime, he will remain mysterious. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and please Review so I can get an idea on what you all think. :)
Paints and brushes lined the counters, dripping paint from their bristles. The colors merged together on the pallet, turning their vibrant rainbow into an ashy gray. Just beside the items stacked to be washed sat an easel with a finished work featuring a nightingale perched beside an opening rose bud. The pedals seemed to be opening reluctantly, to the song of the bird, as if the thought of the dark of night frightened the bud. The background was a deep blue, with a fog rolling in from across the distant plains. The rose was pure and white with its opening lips stained with rogue blood from the wing of the bird. It appeared the nightingale attempted to embrace the flower, but was pierced by its thorn. On one pedal, still white as the bird, a single dew drop glistened amongst the darkness, like a tear.
Christine pulled the pallet from the side of the painting, sticking it under hot running water. Her hands smeared the paint in the sink, distilling the colors even more within her fingers, removing the thick substance and turning it into a watery mess. Soaked brushes sat out of the sink, drying on the face of a paper towel and Christine continued swirling in the paints. The pallet was always Christine's favorite item to wash after working. She'd often make a mess of her hands until her supplies were spotless. Then she'd wash her hands half-heartedly, not caring how much paint was removed from under her fingernails. It was one of the few moments that she felt allowed to actually use her hands amongst her tools. Painting required a brush and a canvas to her department. The tools allowed were immense, but it was the joy of actually feeling the paint against her fingertips that made her feel accomplished at the end of the night.
After the pallet and brushes were finished, she dried her hands, turning back with the towel crinkled in her hands. Her eyes swept over the studio, stopping at a canvas that she'd started at the beginning of the night. She covered the entire surface in a black, blue and gray background, but nothing else. An idea was stuck in her head, yet a few details were failing to be clear to her. Rather than working through it, Christine abandoned the piece for the time being. Finishing the nightingale piece was a major accomplishment for her, so she'd sleep well tonight based off of that.
Christine put the brushes in her box and began sorting those pictures she wasn't fortunate enough to finish. They were stored and locked inside of a closet reserved especially for her artwork for the upcoming gallery. The unfinished ones were kept in front, covering those ready for display. The nightingale piece was stored in back with two other pieces. The rest she slid in the front. She closed the door and hung a lock on the hinge without locking it and turned out to the dark coated canvas.
Pulling a chair up to the table, Christine climbed on top of the table's surface and rested on the table behind her, her feet set on top the chair, placing her elbows on her knees. She looked straight into the face of the work in progress, as if staring would assure a spark of genius. Perhaps she could persuade the canvas to tell her what it was that was missing in her mind's image.
The gloom of the existing art stared right back at Christine, challenging her to further pursue its completion. Every detail at how it should look was so clear to her, yet in the shadow of her thoughts, she wondered: should she create it? Who would learn too much about her through such a piece? After all, every piece she'd created told some story about her. Even if this image in her mind was to be displayed, there was still not enough to complete it, truly. She didn't want to portray the actual near-rape, she only wanted to show the feelings.
Maybe the black and gray alone could portray it better than an actual scene. Christine related to this picture the most now, rather than any of the others. Her feelings couldn't be sorted into a painting, she had too many questions running through her head. She could tell anybody what happened, but she knew she could never explain how it all felt. In reality, nothing even happened, but with the way Christine felt, it was difficult to say if it was fear or adrenaline she felt.
Christine slid off of the table and grabbed the unfinished painting, letting it swing at her side as she walked it back to the closet. With a hard click of the combination lock, Christine put the rest of her supplies into her art box and locked them up in another cupboard. She shoved all the rest of her belongings into her back pack and slung it over her shoulder, rushing out of the studio. Class called in the morning, then a few hours of work at the café before what Christine predicted would be a long night of painting once again.
The door of the arts building screamed as Christine opened it, sending her sense wishing to reply the same way. She buttoned her coat high on her neck and braced herself before stepping down the stoop. She felt a strange air about her, as if she was the focus of everybody's attention. But nobody was present. All students were surely resting her class in just hours, like she should be doing as well. Christine took a deep breath of air and quickly descended down the steps, taking each step quickly as she looked down to assure her footing. Just as she hit the pavement at the bottom, she felt a dark presence all around her. It was a presence that was with her just the other night in the alley. It was suffocating her, yet stopped her in her tracks, keeping her in a dark curiosity. She turned around to face the shadow.
Instantly, Christine saw the shine of the black mask. It was the man from the strange abandoned room, standing tall in the shadows beside the stoop of the art building. He was watching her, with his hands behind his back, staring at her as if he was expecting her to turn around and know it was him waiting for her. Part of her was shocked, but she was relieved by his presence, for his was the most comforting considering their odd history.
"It's you," Christine said in a near whisper.
The figure stepped forward, into the light. He seemed reluctant to the idea of being exposed by the purity of the beams of light pouring on the street's surface. He looked thinner in the light, like he was vulnerable in the glow. He looked at Christine sharply, his eyes the one source of power coming from him, and she noticed for the first time how pale his amber eyes were. His hood shadowed many features of his mask and the skin exposed beneath it, yet his eyes glowed.
"How did you find me?" Christine asked.
"School ID," the man answered.
Christine nodded, feeling rather stupid at how simple the answer was. But at least it was one more answer to the questions filling her mind ever since the encounter. If only every question were so simple to answer.
"Oh," Christine replied, finally.
Though delayed, at least it was a response. She could feel his shadow shifting in the unnerving spotlight on his back, anxious for more than such a simple response. His arms came forward from behind his back and shot forward, holding a grey coat out in his grip. Christine gasped and looked at the coat, recognizing the large black buttons and characteristic plaid lining on the inside.
"My coat," she said, reaching out for it cautiously.
The man offered it to her, letting his hands linger in the air as Christine removed it from his possession. His fingers curled in with a rhythm that Christine found to be peculiar, yet she smiled at his gesture.
"I thought you might need it," he said.
"Thank you," Christine said as she held the coat close to her face, letting its warmth flush over her cheeks. Perhaps this was the proof she needed to believe that he was actually real. "For everything."
The man took a step backward, removing himself from her appreciation. He was much leaner than Christine imagined, for her memory of him sitting beside her bed was limited. Though he was just as tall as she imagined, he had no curve beneath the bulk of the long jacket and dark jeans. His hands were inside of his pockets now and his dark hair was shaggy, as if he had been keeping it up himself.
"May I walk you home?" the man asked suddenly.
"Yes," Christine said immediately. "Yes, of course."
The masked figure seemed taken back by her instant response and stared at her for a moment. Then, with another graceful sweep of his arms, he allowed her to take the lead. Christine wasn't sure if he allowed her to guide because he didn't know the way, or if he was simply being a gentleman, but eventually their pace met and they were walking side by side and exiting the campus.
"I suppose you'd be the best company to walk me home," Christine said abruptly, trying to cover up the silence. "Considering how much you've helped me before, and everything…"
The man didn't respond, yet Christine could feel him watching her. His eyes were intent on her, as if removing her from his vision would put her in danger again. Christine felt comforted, finding herself smiling lightly to herself at the idea of him always being available to protect. He was a sort of guardian, sent to remove all threats of those who were after her.
"May I ask you something?" Christine asked without looking to him.
The silence between them suggested his compliance.
"How did you find out where I live?"
The man never wavered.
"Driver's license," was all he needed to say, and once again, Christine was feeling as if she had preserved him to be a stalker.
"Of course," Christine said, a quiver in her voice of embarrassment.
They continued onward in silence. Christine clung to the extra coat in her arms, burring her nose deep inside of the folds and occasionally glancing sideways to see if the man in the mask was still watching her. He always was. For being the city that never slept, it seemed everybody was away this Sunday night, for even the dinners were vacant. The absence of reality kept Christine's mind focused on the man beside her, asking questions she dared not ask out loud. It was the light ahead of them as they turned a corner and the yell of men in orange vests that slowed Christine's pace.
Her eyes grew wide as the men working on the building just before her apartment were hanging off the scaffolding, drinking out of thermal mugs and laughing amongst each other.
She peered to her side, the side absent of her protector, and saw the alley, dark as ever with the option of passing without the holler of the construction men. Before she knew it, she was completely stopped beside her usher. Christine began to tremble, remembering her decision just a couple nights ago. She'd avoided the cat calls from the men working, yet she had another calling within the only other option to her.
The man beside her was not hiding his watching her. His head was turned fully to her and he was waiting for her to make a movement. It was as if he was waiting to see what courage she did or did not possess, like he knew her decision to go down the alley that night was not out of necessity.
Christine didn't move, but stood and looked back and forth. The alley would be safe now, she had her protector with her… yet the memories alone would haunt her.
"Come," the man said, wrapping his arm around her shoulder.
He seemed to read her fear.
They began to walk, his hand wrapping around her and pulling her in closely to his side. She hardly noticed which direction they took, she was so entranced by his warmth against her side. His rhythmic fingers were curled around her, and she was safe. Then the calls began.
"Keep walking," he urged her, quickening their pace.
Christine could feel his opposite arm gesturing toward them, but she didn't dare to look up to see what he was doing. Instead, she focused on his feet and hers, stepping together at the same pace and carrying them in the same direction.
Before she knew it, the voices had faded and their foot steps were slowing. Christine looked up and they were stopped and standing at the stoop of her apartment. She looked up to the masked man, astounded at how little of the men's torment she had felt. She smiled weakly, feeling fragile as his arm unraveled from around her.
"Thanks," she whispered.
Without a word, the man was beginning to walk away, gesturing for her to get inside before she had any trouble. Christine didn't move as she held onto her coat like it was his arm around her.
"Will you walk me home tomorrow?" she called out.
The man stopped, keeping his back to her.
He turned slowly, his mask glistening against the contrasting shadows.
"If you'd like," he said apprehensively.
"I would," she said.
Silence set between them.
"I'm hoping to be done around—"
"I'll be there," he said.
Christine slowly nodded, smiling as he turned around and began walking away again. She let out a heavy breath, what seemed like the first breath she had let out since she first saw him standing in front of her. Every shudder she wished to release under his grip grabbed hold of her and she blinked off the fear inside of her mind.
This man was giving up his time to protect her… what man would do that? Who was this person, and why did he save her life? How did he save her life? Why her? Who was he?
Christine turned for the man again, needing answers…
"Wait!" she called.
But the man in the mask was gone. Again.
