TRIGGER WARNING FOR SEXUAL ASSAULT. I did my best to keep things within the "T" range, however the trigger warning is still needed here.
Three
The apartment is quiet without Meg here.
She said she would be back tonight or tomorrow, but she hasn't told me yet. She texted earlier saying she might need to spend the night with Ms. Giry before she came back, so she didn't have to make the long drive in a night, but with her, I never know.
I glance sideways at the clock on my nightstand, impatiently waiting for it to read the numbers I want it to say: eight-zero-zero.
Twenty five minutes to go.
It shouldn't feel so long, but I've been waiting since I got home from school. Since I woke up this morning — no, when I went to bed last night with that music still drowning me.
I try and focus on the homework in front of me, but nothing is happening in my brain right now. It's due at midnight tonight, which is usually enough motivation to get things done, but nothing is working right now. It's taken me over two hours to get through the first five questions, and I know I could technically get it done in the last twenty five minutes, but…
I steal a glance at the clock again.
Nope.
Focus.
I try to breath in and out slowly, pinch my palms. Anything to bring me back to this present moment and the things that matter.
Like Meg coming home. My phone lights up with the thought — she's not going to be able to make it home tonight. She'll be staying one more night in New York, and then tomorrow at Ms. Giry's…
I miss Meg, but the text is a small relief. After everything that happened last Wednesday, I still don't think I can face the obvious tension. We've both apologized, I helped her pack, listen to her mumbling about this hot date, but still. Tension.
Meg and I have never fought before. Sure, we've disagreed on things, but she has never gone behind my back like that.
Not that she did, but still.
Still…
My breath catches in my throat and I slam the laptop shut, pacing. I pick up the old quilt of my mother's on the bed. Make the rumpled sheets nice and smooth again.
With the menial tasks my mind drifts to the conversation Josef and I had earlier, about marriage. I want to bring it up with Raoul, but at the same time…. I don't know if I am ready to have that conversation. To talk about the possibility. Everything is so shattered, messy, right now, that I don't know if my brain is even in the right space for processing that.
Planning a wedding, honeymoon — all that stuff that goes along with it.
I know his mom would be thrilled, and really — I wouldn't have to plan a thing with Ines de Changy as mother in law to be. But still.
And it's not because I don't love Raoul — I do. I just don't know. I know I should feel with all my heart that he is the one, but there is still a small part of me that wonders—
No.
I won't go there.
I will not let myself doubt, will not let myself question.
I already know where that leads.
Impatiently, I toss the dirty clothes in my hands to the hamper. I've passed only five minutes cleaning like a mad woman, so I can't use that to pass the time. Movies are off the list, I wouldn't be able to concentrate anyway. The dishes need done, but Meg isn't going to be home for a few hours at least. I'll have time for that later.
I tidy up the living room, dust the TV. Do some jumping jacks. Vacuum the hallway and attempt to make sense of Meg's bathroom, but fail. She'd be pissed if I moved anything from her piles anyways, so it's pointless.
I stare at the microwave clock, watch it switch numbers.
Five minutes until eight.
That's damn close enough for me.
A rush of adrenaline goes through me as I head back into my room, slide open the heavy glass door. Plop into my oversized wicker chair that's shaped like an egg. I've quickly found that if I sit right, I can keep my head under the rail without being seen by anyone.
Without being seen by him.
I haven't said anything about him to anyone. I haven't told Meg, haven't told Josef. I haven't even told Raoul.
It feels so… wrong.
There is a small seed of deceit in me, of dishonesty. But I can't tell them. I couldn't put to words what this has become to me in just three days. What it has done to me.
They wouldn't understand.
Whatever this is… it's between us. It's a throbbing, alive connection between myself and this mysterious man across the street that to anyone else, would be insane.
I'm probably making it up, this feeling. A small part of me hopes I'm not.
But it could be worse — this habit that has started to control me. It could be drinking or drugs or screwing strangers to get high. Murder. It could be something horrible, but it is not.
Then why does it feel so… dishonest?
I shiver, standing up quickly to grab the worn blanket on my bed, before sliding the door shut behind me.
As if on cue, the music starts.
Perfect.
That is the only word I have for it—
Perfect.
I close my eyes, and listen.
This is the reason why I've been unable to complete easy homework assignments. Why my brain has been lost in the grocery store. Why I've been unable to focus on the simplest of tasks.
Because every night, at exactly eight o'clock, my mysterious neighbor begins his show.
His show that feels entirely mine, entirely sinful.
He is across the street in the other building, street between us, and yet I hear the music as if he were sitting on my balcony with me. I feel his presence as if he were here, standing by me.
I barely slept the night that I found him, high on some sort of languid, erotic dream. Dreams of that music touching me. Caressing my skin. Ghost fingers skimming my spine, my ribs. Heart. Waist. Tugging, pulling, teasing. Whispers in my ear, hot. Sinful.
And that is why I love his music.
Because it takes me to a place I haven't been before.
A fucked up place, sure, but—
Dark.
Tempting.
It's a place I've never been, a place where I hardly know what is right or wrong or what time it is, but it feels so damn good.
And like any other drug, it didn't taken me long to get addicted.
Since the first time I heard him, three nights ago, his music has been my new life blood. My body has been drawn to it without my thinking—
That second night I didn't even remember getting to the balcony. From couch to chair, I didn't remember sliding open that door or listening.
All I knew was the draw, the pull, the — listen to me. Come. Hear me.
Listen.
And those days since the music — my twisted, fucked up heart has beat differently. Has found a rhythm in the music, has found its guilty pleasure.
Things have felt so much different. Simple, as if my cares are gone, yet utterly complex. Because it's challenged my heart, my body.
Challenged everything I knew.
He plays at the perfect time of day, right between dusk and dark when the sun goes behind the clouds, only leaving pink and orange and dark fire in the sky. Midnight breezes, cool breezes. It accompanies him, the wind — it caresses the back of my neck, my shoulders. Whispers little secrets only I can hear.
I want to breath it in, let it wash over me.
Soaring—
This feeling is a free feeling, a floating feeling.
Falling.
My senses abandon their defenses, helpless to the music. My body reacts, mind slipping away somewhere dangerously unaware.
Softly. Deftly.
Music has made me feel things, but never these things. His music has made me feel things I'm ashamed to admit, things so dark and forbidden I have to keep it a secret from myself, hide it away. Pretend like it never happens.
It makes me feel utterly guilty.
And yet, I can't get enough.
The guilty feeling only feeds me more, feed the need to hear him just one more time.
It is so wrong, yet so right.
Nothing has ever felt so right in my life.
And it's easy to pretend, here. Easy to pretend in this darkness that everything is right. That this is right and he and I are right.
It's easy to close my eyes, and journey into that strange, new world.
I slowly open my eyes, sitting up slightly to peer over the balcony.
Does he know I listen?
A small part of me wants him to know. Wants him to know I am a slave to his song.
He must know — he saw me the first night.
But since then, I've sat low in my chair, keeping my head beneath the railing.
Does he know how ardently I need him now, how dependent I've become on his music in just seventy two hours?
I let myself have one second — one second to look at him.
The setting sun casts a shadow on his balcony, but my mind creatively fills in the gaps.
He is tall, very tall. If he stood next to me, I would be at least a foot shorter. Thin, but not lacking in strength. He's strong, but it doesn't look like he works out. Dark clothes, dark shadows. Shadows that wrap and coil around him like the night air.
What is man and what is phantom?
My eyes follow the strong column of his throat, trace his jaw, his hair. He has dark hair… dark hair the color of midnight and silk sheets.
The depth of my stomach quivers and my cheeks heat.
Falling back into the seat, I coach my breathing to slow.
Slow, slow, slow. Not too fast. No feelings. No attachments.
But I can't help a second glance, a guilty glance at that mysterious, alluring man.
Breathless—
I think he wears a mask.
Yes, now that I look, I think it is a mask. I had thought it was a shadow, but now…
A mask clearly covers a good part of his face.
Perhaps he wears it to blend into the shadows.
But it is not the mask that matters. I slump into my chair. It is the music.
Regardless of the mask, he places the same seductive song, the same haunting melodies.
Dare I say it makes him look more sexy?
Dangerous. Unknown.
His song pauses, and so does my heart. The erratic beating stops, silent.
Dead.
The street below us is quiet and in a second, my heart picks up again. And I'm somehow afraid that he will hear what he is doing to me, all the way from where he sits.
My eyes fly open and I try to take a deep breath, but it only comes in shallow bursts.
I'm not doing anything wrong.
I have to keep telling myself that.
Why do I have to keep telling myself that?
I am doing nothing wrong—
But are you?
I start, head snapping up to him. That voice wasn't mine — but it couldn't be his. We're too far apart. Not even the wind that has still could bring it to me.
Ghost hands skim my lips, arms. Follow the curve of my neck, my breasts. My heart races, watching those deft fingers stroke the strings.
A helpless sound comes out of my mouth, a sound I have no control over—
And his eyes meet mine.
I know, those eyes say.
He smirks.
Why? I skim my finger along the rim of the balcony. Why are you doing this?
The bastard knows what he is doing to me, and he is enjoying it.
He is enjoying making me feel this frantic… this helpless.
His hands still on the guitar, his head tilts.
I know.
You know what?
You feel like you're cheating.
Of course it isn't him — it couldn't be him. It's my subconscious filling in what I really know deep down, what those eyes are saying.
It's true. His eyes flash as he looks at me.
Those eyes seem to glow in the dim light, despite the rest of him slinking back further and further into the shadow with the setting sun. One minute they seem green, then golden.
Phantom. The word echoes in my head. That is what you are.
He is a phantom that hides in the shadows, an otherworldly creature that only I can see and here. Maybe these three days have been entirely my imagination, maybe I've gone mental from the stress of school, dreaming him up.
Phantom — he raises an invisible eyebrow, hands stilling on the strings — Or angel.
But angels aren't so dark…
Angel of death. Phantom. Angel of Music—
No, not Angel of Music. Never again Angel of Music.
His shifting hands catch my attention, and he positions them to play. My heart stills in anticipation, waiting.
Listening.
And he plays
This song is soft, haunting. He plays the guitar, but he doesn't strum. His fingers pluck the strings, stroke the neck of the instrument.
I begin to close my eyes, but I know this.
I bolt upright—
I know this. What is this?
He's never played songs that I've known before this, but for some reason, I know this.
Loopy handwriting, handwritten staffs—
I start, an image of a worn folder and sloppy notes flashing into my head.
What are you hiding—
The back door slides open and my head whips around, startled—
"Woah, no need to look like a deer in the headlights," my boyfriend says, sliding the door shut. "It's freezing out here, what are you doing without a coat?"
Dazed, my throat seems to close for a moment and I can't say anything, staring at him. I try to lift up the blanket, but realize it's slipped away from me.
Go away. Leave me to my music.
"I had… I had a blanket." I look around for it, surprised to find it at my feet. Hauling it up, I wrap myself in it.
The warmth isn't comforting. It's heavy.
What is today, why are you here?
Friday, damn it.
His day to come over… he's back from New York. We discussed this. He is staying the weekend.
"Why do you look so horrified, Chris?" his voice is gentle.
I swallow, but my throat is dry. Everything in me feels like I've been caught in some terrible act.
But it was only the music.
No, not only the music—
It's his voice, the phantom's.
But it's not, it's mine.
His music is still playing as Raoul leans over the back of my chair and kisses me, spider-man style. My lips don't move against his, frozen. When Raoul pulls away, I don't want to look, feeling like I'm being pinned to my chair with a hot glance.
I dare a look, and my phantom's gaze is heavy. Angry.
He looks so displeased I have a sudden urge to go say I'm sorry for kissing my own boyfriend.
"Stand up," Raoul says, and I look away from my phantom, heart thudding.
I stand, all too aware of the man across the street watching. Raoul sits on the chair and pulls me into his lap, forcing me to straddle him. He wraps the blanket around us and comes in for a kiss that I'm not sure I want.
What the hell is wrong with me?
You're interrupting, I want to scream as he kisses me.
Go away go away go away.
I'm horrified by the thoughts rushing through me.
Raoul is my boyfriend, not this ghost who plays heavenly music in the shadows.
Raoul has been my best friend for ten years now, not this man who stares at me like he can see right through my bullshit mask.
Why do I want you more than him?
The guitar stops, and he knows.
His eyes flash as he stands, staring into my soul before he goes into his own place, door sliding behind him.
I try to swallow my guilt.
Raoul kisses my neck, hands on my ass. I try to shift away from him, but my hips bump against his.
He growls, pulling me closer.
"No… not now. Not here."
Surprisingly, he pulls away. "What's wrong, baby?" His eyes are illuminated by the light from inside.
His eyes are blue.
Not green or golden.
I don't want to be looking into blue eyes right now.
My heart stutters. "Nothing… nothing is wrong." I try to smile. Fake it. "How was New York?"
He kisses my cheek. "Same as it always is… boring as hell. My parents are trying to get me to take over the who patron thing, but I have no interest in showing interest in boring meetings. Or boring operas."
"That's not how you felt… when we were younger."
"That's because there are no pretty chorus girls with beautiful curves and alluring eyes." He winks. "It was all fun and games then. I still didn't like the shows, but at least I could see you."
"How could you not like opera?"
"It's boring?" he offers.
I frown. "You've never liked it?" My voice feels small. "You've never felt the rush when the orchestra starts playing, never heard the strength in their voices?"
"I only ever stayed at La Monnaie for you, and you know that."
I look away, unable to meet him in the eye.
I didn't know.
I should have known that.
"You'll never guess what happened today," he changed the subject, kissing my palm.
I feel nothing, no curiosity. Only crushing disappointment, let down that I should have seen coming.
Why did you have to come tonight?
He kisses his way up my arm. "I was at that last dinner, right? That one with my old high school friends and my brother, and as we're walking in, there is Carlotta Gucci, standing up on the stage."
"Carlotta?" I perk up. "But she was here just Wednesday, I saw her…"
"Yeah, well apparently she was doing something for someone. I'm not sure, now that you mention it. She said something about going to France afterwards, but anyways — when she opens her mouth to sing, the most hideous sound I have ever heard comes out of her throat."
"Wait, what?"
He laughs. "That's literally what I said, it sounded like a toad was inside her throat, croaking. And when she realized it she acted like the was a toad in her throat, clawing at it and gagging into the plants."
Despite myself, I laugh. "Was she all right?"
"Sure, I guess. Her pride wasn't. They called EMTs and everything." He runs a hand through my hair, fingers catching in the tangles. "So… how has my Little Lotte been? I feel like I've hardly seen you these three weeks."
I wince. I've canceled his weekend stays twice already, and skipped out on more than one Saturday brunch with his family.
I mess with one of the buttons on his shirt, wanting to say so much, yet not meaning any of it. The button is heavy, the fabric rich. This shirt probably cost him my rent.
"I've been thinking…" it's my turn to have a toad in my throat. "I've been thinking about what happens next."
"What happens next?" He raises an eyebrow.
"Yeah, between us."
"I could start with a kiss." He leans forward, brushing my lips.
"No, not like that." I swallow. Try to meet his eye. "You know… like next."
"I don't get what you're trying to say."
"Josef is going to ask James to marry him soon."
"That's fantastic."
I frown. "We both know you don't mean that."
Raoul has always had something against the couple that I've never understood.
"If they are happy, I'm happy for them."
"Then why can't you be happy for them all the time?" I say rudely.
He frowns. "When two hot guys want to take my girlfriend out for coffee or dinner I'm not happy."
"They're gay Raoul!" Why is this conversation happening again? "They've been together for as long as we have! It couldn't be more clear that they don't like women like that."
"That doesn't mean I have to like it."
"At least they treat me with respect, not like some half assed man who can't keep his dick in his pants." I slide off his lap. "I need to do the dishes before Meg gets home."
"I'll help."
Says the person who has never washed a dish in his life. Says the person who is a total asshole—
"I don't want your help."
"Lotte, don't do this to me—"
Don't do this to me.
I ignore him, stepping into the house. Why am I so awful lately? Why is it that everything everyone says just hits me exactly in that tender spot?
Going into the kitchen, I slip on the Minnie Mouse apron that he got me two years ago for Christmas. I suddenly hate this apron.
As I'm reaching for the soap and sponge, I hear the front door click, and Meg's voice.
"Anyone home?"
I cringe. Be nice be nice be nice.
"Hey Meggy," Raoul calls from behind me.
As he passes by he looks at the apron in approval. I roll my eyes and turn to start the dishes.
Say you're sorry, say you're sorry.
"You have any beer?"
"Sure. Refrigerator."
"You want some, too, Meg?"
She turns the corner, and starts when we meet eyes.
"Oh you're here too, I thought it was just Raoul."
"Yep, I live here!" I pour way too much soap onto the sponge.
She laughs…are they so oblivious to how I'm actually feeling?
"I'll have the cherry one," she says.
I hate that voice. Why do I hate her voice?
He hands her a beer before shuffling around and popping the lids. He turns to me.
"I'll be in the living room while you finish that up, princess." He kisses me on the cheek and heads out of the kitchen.
"You do just that," I mutter under my breath.
There is some chatter, Meg announcing that she's going to put stuff in her room. Raoul asking her if she needs help — wow that's heavy Meg, what did you pack? Coy laughter. Silence.
The sound of the water sloshing around my hands. A dish breaks, into shards in my palm. I look at the blood dripping, one ruby red drop. Dripping into the sink.
What is wrong with me?
I hate you I hate you I hate you.
I want to leave. I want to leave and never come back. I want to go back to Sweden, back to a time when my father and mother were alive, before blond and blue eyed boys and ballet girls with high voices. Before hurt and pain and heartache.
I'm not ready to face them, so I clean the rest of the kitchen. Scrub the counters. Wipe them down again. Clean out the oven, the microwave. Start a load of towels and sheets. Wash, scrub, wipe, dry. Sweep. Mop.
By the time I'm done, it's nearly ten. Only ten. The time when my mysterious neighbor was usually finishing up. I should have got two hours and instead I barely got one.
I should have seen it coming. Anything nice that I've ever had gets torn away from me.
Clicking off the lights, I walk into the living room. Raoul is sitting on the couch, watching some late night hospital drama. His hair is ruffled… did he run his hand through it? He never runs his hands through his hair. It's always perfect. In place.
I hate him for it.
"Where's Meg?" I ask softly.
He starts. "Bedroom. Said she was tired. Clocking out for the night," his voice is slightly rough. He looks back at the TV. The blanket next to him that usually folded is rumpled.
I'm such an idiot, I've hurt him—
"I'm sorry for acting like that."
His eyes find mine. "It's fine. I shouldn't have said that about your friends."
It wasn't only that…
"Can we talk?"
Why do I feel so small?
"Sure."
"Without the TV on, maybe?"
He grabs the remote and turns it off. "Better?"
I sit on the couch next to him. "What happens next? Do we just go on like this — only seeing each other on weekends, always in two different cities?"
His eyes light up. "You want to finally move in with me."
I feel like slapping him. Why is he so dense?
"No… like the other thing."
"I move in here?" He looks around. "Meg would have to move out. I'd need an office."
I blink a couple times, fighting away tears. "You staying the night?"
"Hell yes baby." He reaches for me, but I pull away.
"I'm going to go brush my teeth…get ready for bed. I'm kind of tired tonight."
You're being a jerk. I don't want you in my bed. I want you far, far, away. I want my phantom back. You've ruined everything. Get the hell away.
"You coming to bed?" I ask instead.
His signature good boy smile pops up, dimple in his left cheek. I kiss it, before heading off to my bathroom.
I suddenly hate that dimple.
Pulling one of his old tee shirts over my head, I splash some water on my face. Brush my teeth. Remember the homework that is due in two hours.
I'll take the zero.
He's standing in my room when I get there, Minnie Mouse apron in his hand.
"What are you doing with that?"
He smiles. "I had a thought. Come here." His voice is low.
I take a step towards him, and he takes my waist, kissing me. He gently pulls my tee shirt off, until I'm standing there only in my underwear. He pulls those off too, taking the apron from his hands and putting it over my head. He turns me around and ties it in the back, grabbing my ass.
The starchy fabric is rough against my skin.
With the cool air touching my bare back and ass, I'm suddenly aware of what is going on. Raoul is never like this… I never let him be like this.
I open my mouth to protest, but he spins me around, kissing me roughly.
"Raoul." I try to pull away.
No, no, no.
He pulls me closer, rubbing himself against me, touching. Pulling. Kissing.
"Please stop."
He pulls away, looking at me.
And I don't like it.
"Get down on your knees."
"What?" I barely manage to say, before he yanks me down.
He's unzipping his jeans and I know exactly what's about to happen and I'm usually fine but he's being so rough, so out of control—
"Raoul, not right now." I stand back up. Trying to be firm. Trying not to panic. "Not right now."
His eyes are afire, jeans halfway unzipped. He looks at me for a second before pushing me against the bed. I lose my balance, falling onto the mattress.
"I am going to have you, Christine."
He kisses me roughly, taking his jeans off, then his underwear. He unwraps and slips on a condom before spreading my legs wide and without warning, slams into me.
"What the hell, Raoul? I said no—" He only grunts, thrusting into me. "What part of no do you not fucking understand?"
"I said I wanted you Christine," he groans. "You should want me back."
The apron is rubbing up against my breasts, pelvis, neck. He moves, but it hurts. His grip is too tight, his movements too rough. Everything about him feels wrong, wrong, wrong. I want to shove him away, but he's too strong, too heavy.
Bile rises in my throat as I realize what's happening, what he's just done to me. What little part of me he has just crushed, ruined.
I can't move, can't breath. I can only feel every place where he's touching, every place that I want him gone. Each one of his jerking movements. Every one of his animal noises.
Stop it. Stop it. STOP IT.
I bite back tears, no emotions.
Emotions ruin people.
He sputters, slumping against me.
Everything hurts, inside and out and I don't understand what just happened.
You just… you just…
My mind doesn't want to think that it is possible. Not when he wasn't usually like this, not when he was usually so gentle, so coaxing.
"I said no," I whisper, but he doesn't hear. He's already gone, the shower is already running. "I said no." My voice is hoarse, but I haven't been yelling.
A tear slips out. Then another. And another.
I try to smile to take away the pain, to stop crying, but I can't. I can only stare up at the wall and pretend like nothing ever happened.
Raoul is a good boyfriend.
He has always loved me. We rarely fight. What more could you ask for in a boyfriend?
You hadn't had sex with him for awhile, you really did owe it to him.
But trying to convince myself isn't working. It doesn't stop the tears from streaming down my face.
I don't think I'm actually ready, for marriage that is.
Now, I'm not sure if I'll ever feel ready.
Rolling over and facing the wall, I hear the shower stop. Moments later the bathroom door opens, and he flicks off the lights. He curls against me, and I want to shove him away but I don't want him to think I'm awake and try to talk to me.
So I let him hold me, though he doesn't deserve it. Not after what he's just done.
He did nothing wrong. You just don't usually do stuff like that, that's all. My mind battles with itself. But you didn't like it.
You said no.
But he still did it.
You said no and he forced you, do you know what that is—
No.
I only meant for him to slow down, I could have done what he wanted.
You didn't want it.
No.
No.
You said no.
I glance over at the clock. Midnight. Raoul's breathing has slowed, and he's sleeping. I slip out from his grasp and push him aside.
Wiping my wet cheeks I walk over to the bathroom and wipe myself down. I feel dirty.
Slipping on my robe, I head back into the room—
And freeze.
The curtains. They've been open this entire time. The big glass doors that lead to my balcony have been open. The lights have been on. I was usually so careful but I wasn't planning to—
I feel him before I even look up.
My eyes flutter shut, embarrassment washes through me.
It's fine it's fine it's fine.
It's been nearly an hour. He wasn't standing there the entire time.
When I open my eyes, they snag on his and my heart pounds in my chest. Despite the street between us, I take a step closer to the balcony.
As if he holds my heart on a string and he is tugging it closer, closer.
He stares at me.
You can feel it to, his face seems to say.
Feel what? My hand touches the glass door.
You can feel the connection, you can feel my music.
I know it's all words that my mind is making up by the way his face looks, but I can't stop myself—
He smirks. The apron was a nice touch.
I blush, mortified. I want to scream, I want him to know—
I want him to know that it wasn't my touch.
I want him to know that I said no.
I want him to take me away forever.
I want him to beat Raoul's ass up.
I said no.
Next time close your curtains, darling. You'll get the neighbors too excited. Without moving, the light goes out behind him.
How the hell does he do that?
I stare at the dark door, watching. Waiting for him to come back.
But he doesn't.
Slipping into my bed as far away from Raoul's warm arms, I try not to think about anything that happened today.
If you're still here, I also have a new Christmas one shot up!