In His Darkness…
I sat on my bed, my book lay closed in front of me. I'd got it down from the shelf and begun to read but when I realised I'd been sitting there staring at the same page for about ten minutes, I gave up.
I needed to sort things out in my head. Why had he brought me down here? Why had he trusted me so much in the first place? Why had he spoken to me on that first day? Why did he let me touch him? I had no idea. He didn't seem to be the monster that I had read about. Maybe the stories were just stories. Or maybe I just hadn't seen that side of him yet. I'd seen that he could get angry quickly, but then I'm quite short tempered as well, so that's nothing special. I'd seen that he could be violent when he rescued me from that mugger in the gardens.
None of the reasons I could come up with made sense. If he was lonely, why not go and live with Guillaume and Madeleine-there was plenty of room. I don't know why he trusted me so much. Sometimes you just know if someone is trustworthy, I guess, and he has good instincts. Maybe he had first spoken to me just because he heard me play. Who knows?
I had no idea why he let me touch him. From what I'd read, he behaved like a cat to water when it came to physical contact but I could easily squeeze his hand or arm or rest my head on his shoulder if I was tired. I never tried to touch his face though. I would never do that unless he actually told me. I never hugged him either; I think that would have terrified him.
Of course, I reminded myself, everything I know about him is from works of fiction. How can I possibly make a decent character assessment from books, movies and a musical? At least, I though worriedly, remembering some of the more gruesome parts, I hope they're fictional.
I sat on my bed, hugging my knees, lost in my thoughts for the best part of an hour.
-8 -
After my mind had stopped spinning, I drifted out of my room towards the piano. I'd brought some piano scores with me as I'd been asked to arrange some pieces from them. I sat down on the piano stool and began to play Trouble by Coldplay. It's always been one of my favourite pieces to play as it's quite simple and I can sing the words in my head. I once tried to sing them out loud but someone yelled at me to stop injuring that cat. Like I said, I'm not a singer. When I'd finished, I closed that book and opened another to play Theme from 'American Beauty'. As the last chord finished, I sat there for a few minutes, lost in my thoughts.
"That was very good." Erik's voice made me jump.
"Oh, thanks," I said. "Sorry they weren't happy pieces. Those tend to be harder, especially when you're not in a bouncy mood."
"I see," he said, sounding concerned. "Is there anything you wish to talk about?"
"Yes, there is actually," I said, whirling round on the piano stool. "Why have you brought me here? Why did you speak to me in the first place?"
He froze. "I thought you would be grateful to have somewhere to stay and someone to talk to," he said stiffly. "If you are not happy here you are welcome to leave." He turned to go.
I jumped up and caught hold of his arm. "Don't get me wrong, I am grateful. I just don't understand. I thought you were a solitary person. I didn't think you would want someone hanging around all the time. I thought you'd want to be alone to play or sing, and compose."
"I haven't sung since I was seventeen, not since…" He broke off and turned on me. "What makes you think you know so much about me?" he asked. His voice was cold.
I drew back and glared at him, hands on hips. "I don't appreciate your tone, monsieur. Anyway, I like to think I know enough about you to warrant answers."
"We have known each other for a little over a week, mademoiselle," he said, equalling my dry tone. "I do not think you know me well enough to make judgements about my nature."
"I consider myself a good judge of character," I replied. His detached manner was not helping to keep me calm and my naturally quick temper was starting to flare.
"Indeed," he countered. "Maybe you are not such a good judge of character as you think." He turned his back on me and began to walk out of the room.
I followed him and said angrily, "Maybe so. But I don't need to be a judge of character to understand you."
"Oh? And why would that be?" he said carelessly over his shoulder.
"I read, Erik. I go to the movies. I don't need to spend time with you to understand you," I snapped. At least, I don't think so, I thought.
He whirled on me, his golden eyes sparking. "What are you talking about, you silly child?"
(That really got me going. If there's one thing I hate, it's being called a child, especially since I was twenty back then. If he'd left it at, 'What are you talking about?' I don't think I'd have answered him. It was a shock to find out that he didn't know how famous he was but it didn't register as I was in the middle of what is commonly termed a 'hissy fit'. And now back to your regularly scheduled program).
"You mean the world renowned Phantom of the Opera hasn't got a clue? Oh this is priceless!" I crowed. I can be a sarcastic bitch at times. "Gaston Leroux is rolling in his grave; his precious star completely oblivious. I wonder what Susan Kay would think? Or Andrew Lloyd Webber? Or Joel Schumacher and all those other movie directors? All their wonderful hard work and their muse utterly clueless. I wonder what all your fans would think of you." I moved closer to him and hissed, "You think no-one knows about you? You have no idea how wrong you are."
His face dropped. He had been slowly sagging under my harsh words and now those beautiful golden brown eyes which had been shooting to kill only a few minutes ago were full of anguish and terror. He kept glancing towards the edge of the lake as if expecting to see hoards of crazed people rushing towards him waving pitchforks. Then his face hardened again and he brushed past me, nearly forcing me into the lake in his rush to get to the privacy of his bedroom.
I stood seething for a minute and then, after a deep breath to make sure I was completely calm, I walked back to my room.
-8 -
I hate my temper. I'm a peace-loving person but whenever I lose it, I really lose it. Erik had that nonchalance about him that irritated the hell out of me. I supposed that I would just have to get used to it. If he would forgive me for my outburst. Hell. I'd have to go and apologise. I hate making apologies more than losing my temper.
I sighed and walked to Erik's room. There was no door, but a red drape was pulled across the opening. "Erik?" I said quietly. "Can I talk to you? I want to apologise."
There was no answer.
Louder, I said, "Erik? Are you in there?" There was still no answer so I said firmly, "Right, I'm coming in. I don't care if you're mad at me," pushed the drape aside and went into his room. He was lying on his bed with his back to me and his mask was on the bedside cabinet nearest me. I knew he was awake as he shifted to make sure his head was buried in the pillow. I sighed and walked across to him. "You're mad at me, aren't you," I said as I sat down on the edge of his bed. "I don't blame you. I'd be mad at me." He was silent apart from his steady breathing. I picked up his mask and held it in my hands, running my fingers over the smooth, cool surface. I felt a wet patch on the inside just under the eye hole; he had been crying.
I twisted to face him and rested my hand on his shoulder. "Oh, Erik," I said softly, "I'm so sorry. I should never have said those horrible things. My temper got the better of me. I…I'm really sorry."
There was still no movement or any recognition of my apology. I sighed again and squeezed his shoulder. "I'm going to go make some food. If you want anything…" I trailed off as I realised that talking to someone who didn't want to talk back was pointless. I got up and walked out of his room making sure the drape swung shut behind me. As I left, I heard a stifled sob. Everything in me wanted to go back and hug him to death but I knew he didn't want me there so I went on to the kitchen and made some food. I don't know what it was or how it tasted. The only thing on my mind was Erik.
-8 -