Thanks to MadLizzy for editing.
Enjoy!
He remembered being seven and sitting in a swing, rocking back and forth on the tips of muddy bare toes. The ropes were frayed, and the four-legged metal stand was stained with rust. From the door of a tiny white house that was missing half its shingles, his foster father was screaming at him to "get in the house before I kick your ass."
He ignored the vile bastard, his eyes focused upon a front yard several houses down the street. Two children, a boy and a girl with shiny red hair, were given brand new bicycles. They bounced up and down as their parents wheeled the shiny objects out of the garage. The little girl's had a basket and training wheels, and the boy's featured a horn. As the father lifted his daughter onto the seat, the mother handed her son a helmet. The parents stepped back and smiled while their two children rode up and down the driveway, the girl trying to keep up with her brother.
That's it. I'm gonna come over there and kick the shit out of you, boy.
Up and down went the bicycles. Up and down. It was perhaps his first moment of acceptance. He would not have that. Ever. So it was best to focus on other matters-like destroying the wiring of the television that his foster father loved so much. He enjoyed watching the idiot curse and scream at the screen… pulling his thinning, greasy hair out of his head.
It was best to work with what one had, he'd learned. People who spent their entire lives yearning for what they could never have were fools.
He'd heard her coming before she'd entered the room, fast but soft footsteps against linoleum. For whatever reason, he'd felt a strong drive toward music over the past days—so intense that he was unable to focus on anything else. When he wasn't playing the piano, he was frantically pacing. And so he continued to hover at the performance arts complex, immersing himself in music when he wasn't trying to determine Nadir Khan's intentions…or occasionally spying on Anne.
Annoyed at the girl's approach, he'd abandoned the piano and started to dart for an exit. The rooms were designed so that one connected to the other from the sides, which gave him plenty of quick escapes. He headed for an exit that was half-hidden from view by a rack of wooden shelves containing a library of piano compositions. Softly opening the door, he started to duck into the empty adjoining room.
The girl began to play, and he paused in his steps, leaving the door barely cracked open to observe her. It was amusing to hear her banging the piano as loudly as possible-like watching a raging mouse abusing the poor instrument. Her mouth was drawn into a scowl, and her hair was dropping into her face.
Anne needed new friends.
When the younger girl entered, he became bored and started to leave. Female chatter was often mindless; it took some women nearly an hour to say what could be said in minutes.
But then they sang. Or, more importantly, she sang. And, for one moment, those damned bicycles flashed in his mind. Up and down. Up and down. Horrified, he was forced to lean against the nearest wall. She was slightly turned to the side, and he could see her left flushed cheek and one blue eye. Each note she sang was like an immobilizing zap of electricity coursing through his body. He would know; someone had once used a Taser upon him.
But the bicycles disappeared as he had trained them to do. And he was left simply watching and listening.
Of course, the song ended. They chattered a bit more; the younger girl had sensed his presence. It wasn't the first time; children were often very perceptive. If more fathers had heeded their children's warning that someone was in the house or there's a monster in my closet, the fathers might have survived a little bit longer. Of course, most of those parents had also been drug traffickers and hit men, so perhaps the children were better off now.
Without a second thought as to why, he returned for the next performances, but she never sang. She only played the wretched piano at an amateur level, leaving him entirely unsatisfied. Whenever she left the building, her posture was that of a kicked puppy. How pathetic. Throughout his time spent in the shadows of bars and clubs, he had been forced to watch arrogant women expose their bodies while singing like rabid hyenas. And now this one had pure talent and refused to sing a word. He wanted to strangle her until she held her head up higher and sang something. Damned girl.
Thoughts of her began to consume his mind after every performance. Really, she had been in the back of his consciousness since he had first seen her with Anne. Lying on a bed in a three-star hotel room, he could see it now- this perfect vision. That girl could be entirely…profitable. No one had discovered her yet; the little mouse stayed in her hole. But she was a yellow-haired goldmine. A buried treasure. And he had found her first.
Christine was blonde and slender, still young enough to be marketable in a harsh world. She was vulnerable. But, from Anne, he also knew she was married and therefore not entirely innocent. That combination would play very well. Her voice matched her demeanor, pure yet sprinkled with a degree of misery. He gathered that she had some vocal training but not nearly enough.
But now what? What did he even do from this point? The musical world was not quite the same as the criminal underworld. There had to be some legitimacy and formality. He could not hold a gun to her head and force her to sing. A hoarse chuckle escaped his dry lips at that thought. Well…perhaps if nothing else worked….
Oh, but she had to sing again. He would…hurt someone if she didn't.
Toward the last performances—by the time he had every line in that idiotic play memorized- he panicked and followed her home, perhaps to see if she sang at other places. She disliked risk, waiting for the green light to turn right even when no oncoming cars were visible. She stopped to put gas in her vehicle, nervously checking over her shoulder as she held the pump, and then drove to a home bordering on a mansion. Her posture was stooped as she headed into the house. He saw a blond, muscular man walk outside to his car and wondered if that was her husband. Anne had said he was in an accident, but he appeared in disgustingly good shape. Odd. But who really cared? Anne was prone to exaggeration. And the girl was gone.
What if she never sang again?
The rational part of his mind told him it was time to leave and move onto some other endeavor. What the hell was he still doing here? There were things to do…people to see…bank accounts to hack. Nadir Khan could betray him at any moment. In fact, he should have already formed a plan to dispose of Nadir in the case of treachery. And yet all of that seemed less important. He wanted that voice back.
And that girl could be so lucrative. Possibly more profitable than his previous activities. What if someone else eventually discovered her? He'd kill them! This was his find. If he couldn't have her talent, then no one could. But how would he ever get her to sing again? She'd flee at the sight of him. She was ignorant to her ability-a dying, withering deer.
The last performance arrived. No song. No voice. At the end, the girl abandoned her piano and ran up to… Anne.
"I can't believe it's over!" she exclaimed. Tears sparkled in her eyes. "What am I going to do now?"
"You'll find something," Anne assured her. They embraced. "I'm sure there are lots of places looking for accompanists. Have you checked with the local schools?"
"That's an idea," she replied. "I just…I need the piano. Theresa is driving me insane. She makes me feel terrible all the time."
"Try to ignore her. No one can take your music away from you," said Anne. They walked outside together, shoulders touching as they continued their conversation.
Anne. Quiet, patient Anne. The girl trusted Anne.
That night, he left a note at Anne's front door stating that he wanted to meet with her again, preferably at the same complex. As expected, she came at the correct time with a covered tin foil plate, no doubt disturbed by his brief presence at her home and proximity to her daughter.
He remained composed as she entered. This likely wouldn't go well; still, he didn't want her to know how important this was to him. He also wouldn't mention the financial implications; Anne considered greed to be one of the worst sins.
"Erik," she said, squinting in the dim lighting. "I'd wondered if you'd left. I hadn't seen you in so long." She weakly smiled and handed him the tin dish. "Here's your parmigiana"
"Thank you for my chicken, Anne." He took it, the fresh smell of tomato sauce and breading entering his non-existent nostrils. "I had business to attend to."
"Oh."
"The details of it would likely bore you," he continued with a nonchalant shrug.
"You don't have to tell me," she replied, glancing away. "I don't care to know. How much longer will you be here? I haven't run into your…acquaintance yet."
"Nadir has decided to keep a low profile for now. I still have no doubt he will try to reach you."
"Mm."
"As to how much longer, I do not know. It will depend. I have several questions for you," he carefully began.
She glanced at him, the suspicion already evident on her features. "Yes?"
"That girl…do you visit with that girl often?"
"Who?"
"Christine."
"A few times a week," she replied, adjusting her collar. "Why?"
"How long have you known her?"
"Several weeks. I mean, when she was a little girl, she was in my dance class, but…." Anne shrugged. "Why are you asking?"
"Did you know that she sings?"
"No. I only knew about the piano." Anne squinted. "How do you know?"
"I heard her by chance. In a practice room. She sings rather well."
"Oh." She wrung her hands together. It was all too easy to make poor Anne nervous.
"Her voice is…she could be brilliant, Anne. Did you know that? Do you know what she could be? Did you know you have befriended a diva in the rough?"
As he feared, a wary frown descended on Anne's face. "What are you talking about?"
"I wrote a song over the past few days." He turned her attention to himself. He had a talent for creating confusion; people were generally only capable of following one train of thought. "I have played and played."
"That's wonderful," she replied with a genuine smile. "I'm thrilled you've taken it up again."
"You wanted me to pursue music," he stated.
"I did," she agreed. "I think it suits you."
"Christine sings."
"Yes, well…." Anne tilted her head to the side. "You're starting to lose me, Erik."
"It is simple. All music must have a face. And not a face that causes people to lose the contents of their stomachs."
"What?"
"Tell her she must continue singing. Tell her she is wasting everything. Tell her to get voice lessons. Anything. She will listen to you, you know? She's fond of you. Make her sing. Her silence is the world's greatest tragedy."
"What?" Anne drew back, her fingers curling at her sides. "I don't know what you're playing at, but that girl is going through hell right now. I'm not going to give her even more stress. She needs my support."
"She will be much better if she sings."
"Why do you even care? She has nothing to do with you!" Anne threw her hands up.
"Fine, Anne. Fine. I will forget music and return to my former activities. Do you realize how easy it is to commit identity theft these days? A few clicks of a button, and I could take down some of the nation's largest banks."
Anne pursed her lips. "I am clearly failing to understand what Christine's singing has to do with you taking up a legitimate career in music."
"You go on and on about how you want this and that of me. And now I wish to pursue something you consider wholesome, and you hurl it back in my face!" he spat. "You are a hypocrite, Anne!"
"I am not…." She paused and stared at him, desperately studying him to understand. But she would never understand. "She needs time to get her life fixed," Anne finally murmured. "Christine doesn't need any confusion. She needs me to be there for her."
"Fine," he muttered. "Fine. I see. You do not want a monster near your friends. I see you do not care. You do not care about Erik. You only pretend to when it suits you."
"I do care. I-"
"No. Never mind. Forget the matter. You are right. It is no place for me." He turned his back to her.
"You can have music without involving that poor girl," she said. She tried to touch his shoulder, but he moved away from her. "I'll get practice rooms reserved for you. I'll contact people in the industry. Anything. Why are you acting like this?"
"No," he coldly retorted, grinding the guilt into her. He hoped it would keep her up that night. "Music is not for monsters."
"That is not what I-"
He disappeared before she could finish. Still, he had partially predicted this. Of course Anne would be protective of that sad, quivering little deer. Anne was simply not dependable, and he would have to take a less direct route.
And that was fine. He was entirely used to the back roads.
It was beginning to seem that the only place Christine felt completely secure was her father's house. At the Chagny's, Theresa was always glaring or making comments beneath her breath. When Christine was in public or playing the piano, an unnerving feeling had begun to descend upon her. The latter was hard to explain—just a general sense of unease. That wasn't good for her mental health, was it? Feeling paranoid for no reason? She didn't tell anyone for fear they'd want her to see a therapist.
For Raoul's sake, she tried to ignore Theresa. He had begun some very simple exercises, mostly stretches for his back and upper torso. He did them with a dismayed expression, as though someone were slowly torturing him to death. Christine would murmur words of encouragement while Theresa would order the therapists to be careful with her son.
Once the therapist was gone one afternoon, Christine ran her hands along his knee. "Can you feel anything?"
"Not really," he murmured. "Just the tiniest pressure."
"Well, that's something!"
"Yeah. Something."
She ran her hand through his hair. His face had become paler over the weeks, and he'd lost some weight. The doctors said this was normal, but it still made her feel more out of control, as though her husband were deteriorating before her eyes. Life had once seemed so certain.
They'd been voted cutest couple in high school; they were supposed to be perfect. Everyone thought so. Always in love. No money trouble. Adorable children. Summers at the beach. Winters at ski lodges. Her father, when he was in the hospital, had once said, "At least I know you have someone to take care of you. That's what makes me the happiest. I want to know you'll be okay."
Well…now…we'll just have to take care of each other.
She leaned down to press her lips to his, deepening the kiss after a moment. Raoul briefly returned it before gently pulling away and leaning back, glancing away from her.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, trying not to sound offended.
"No."
"Please tell me."
"I still want you," he replied with a sigh. "That's not numb."
"What?"
"I still want you. It's difficult. Please, Chris."
It took her a moment to understand. "Oh. Love. I'm sorry. I didn't even…but the doctors said there's a good chance that's all still possible. It's not…over."
"Yeah. That's going to be interesting." He was unusually sarcastic. "I can lie here."
"It's just going to take-"
"Time," he interrupted. "I know. I know."
Their last time had been in the early morning hours before the accident-warm, sweet, and gentle in their bedroom. The memory nearly gave her heartache. Still, while she had missed Raoul's strong presence beside her every night, she hadn't obsessed over their current inability to be intimate. There were so many more important matters. But obviously it was upsetting him "Well, we'll-" She was stopped from carrying on the uncomfortable conversation when Henry strode into the room.
"Hi, Dad," said Raoul. There was always tension in his face when he was near his father. Henry could never quite look him in the eye, as though it were difficult for him to see his son in such a vulnerable position.
"Good morning," he said. Henry held out an envelope. "I came to give Christine a letter."
She took it and chuckled when she saw the address. "Oh. I got one of these at my dad's house, too. I guess they have both addresses." She squinted. "I didn't remember giving them both."
"What is it?" asked Raoul.
"An invitation to a meeting with some of the people from the children's theatre and other organizations on Tuesday evening. They might need me as an accompanist." Her smile faded. "The next children's show won't be until spring. So I don't know what they'll want me for but…."
"Are you going?"
"Yeah. I mean, if that's okay with you. It might be an opportunity."
"Yes. Go!" he urged. "Get out of this house for both of us."
"Should be fun," murmured Henry before leaving.
She took her husband's hand. "One of these days, you're going out with me again. We'll go out to dinner. How about that steak restaurant you love so much?"
He weakly smiled. "I thought you hated that place."
"If you go out with me, I'll both go there and get the liver platter!"
"Yeah. I'd go just to see that." The sadness didn't leave his eyes.
After briefly mulling it over, she decided to definitely go to the meeting. Who knew? Maybe someone would be there who would know about other opportunities for her to play the piano. Maybe she'd even get a better job! Christine was becoming addicted to music, and the thought of having to part with it made her ill.
And she needed to get away from her mother-in-law.
"You're going out late," said Theresa, staring her up and down that Tuesday evening. She then made a point of glancing at her watch.
"Just to a little meeting," she replied, gathering her purse and keys. "I'll be back soon."
"Well, Raoul and I are going to watch a movie together. He needs some company at night." Theresa gave her a short expression of disgust and then ascended the stairs.
Clenching her jaw, Christine left the gilded prison and drove to the complex. She frowned as she saw that only a few lights glowed from inside the building. Was she early? No. She was on time. Maybe they were in a room that wasn't facing her.
After straightening her white blouse and grey skirt so that she appeared professional, Christine entered through the glass doors and climbed the nearest flight of stairs. The only other person she saw was a janitor mopping the tiles. Each step made a soft squeaking noise beneath her black heels. An aching sensation settled inside her stomach, the same one that had been bothering her over the past week. The building was so very quiet.
Once she reached the top, she walked down the hall, arms folded against her chest as she searched for the right room. Finally, she found it and opened the door with a soft creak. A light was on inside, and she started to release a sigh of relief.
But the room was empty, and the rest of the lights were off. She turned around and around. Had she gotten the dates wrong? Was she really that stupid? Ugh. She prepared to leave.
"Good evening, Christine. Welcome."
The booming, ethereal voice attacked her from all directions at the same time. Christine jumped a foot into the air and whirled around, before quickly backing up into the nearest wall. Her heart thudded, and she could barely breathe, using the cold plaster to support herself. As her survival instincts began to kick in, she searched for the source of the sound, her eyes unable to adjust to the uneven lighting. Finally, she saw…something. A shape in the corner that was farthest away from her—standing beside a piano…a figure and two faint, yellow dots.
Backing up, she started to turn around and run. One hand fumbled in her purse for her cell phone in case she needed to call 9-11.
"Christine, there is no need to run. None at all. You were invited to a meeting, and now you are here. Yes?"
Christine's hands dropped away from her phone. "Who are you?" she whispered. She shook her head and said to herself, "No, this isn't right."
"There is nothing to fear. I only wished to discuss your music with you."
"My-my music? Are-are you an employee here?" She certainly didn't think she'd seen him before. Then again, she could barely see him at all. Why didn't she just get out of there? Did she secretly have a death wish?
"Your voice. Your singing."
One hand rested on the door knob. "You're mistaking me from someone else, Sir. I only play the piano. I'm sorry. Have a…goodnight."
"You do sing," retorted the man in that very strange voice. "With that little girl."
She looked up in horror. "You've been watching me?"
"I assure you I have better things to do than watch random females. It was solely by chance."
"Are-are you an employee here?"
"Something like that." He took a step forward. She opened the door, preparing to run. "You could be famous, you know. With your voice. Financially secure. Adored by the public. It's so simple. Don't you understand that? Don't you understand what you could be?"
"I don't think…." Her voice tapered off; she was too terrified to argue with him. Heavens, she could barely confront her stupid mother-in-law. Fighting with a shadowy figure standing in a corner who nearly looked like a comic book villain …well…her legs were barely supporting her. "I don't think this is right," she finally murmured.
"Wait a moment, girl. Wait a moment. Listen. Listen." Before she could move, he sat at the piano and began to play. He played perfectly. Scary perfect. So perfect that she was nearly hypnotized. It was a fast song in a minor key, and he had every note committed to memory. It weaved around her, paralyzing her until there was nothing but music in her mind. And when it was over, she was left standing with her head still bobbing up and down to the melody like a yo-yo on a string.
"Do you see?" he asked, standing. "Now don't you believe I have an ear for this? Of course my technique is rusty. It has been some time. But perhaps you would know how to repair that after your numerous lessons, no?"
The fog finally lifted, and she stepped backward. What was this? Was she dreaming? "I don't think you need my help," she whispered. "Please leave me alone."
Christine finally turned around and ran. Out of the room, down the stairs, and into her car. She never looked back, and she didn't remember the drive home. Her first lucid thought was relief when she reached her dad's house and raced inside, slamming and locking the door behind her. He came out of his bedroom, wearing black sweatpants and a white t-shirt as he sleepily rubbed his eyes. She nearly tackled him with a desperate hug.
Stunned, he slowly wrapped his arms around her. "Christine? What in the world is wrong? Is Raoul okay?"
What did she say? I met a…a shadow man who wanted me to sing? He played the piano perfectly, and I couldn't move?
Or maybe there was no one in that room, and I'm completely insane?
God, what if she was crazy? What if none of that had happened? Maybe I have illusions of grandeur, thinking anyone would actually care if I ever sang or played the stupid piano. She nearly laughed sickly at that thought.
Her entire life was becoming one strange, awful mess.
Exhausted and lost, she started to cry, burying her face into her father's shoulder. "Please don't ever leave me," she softly begged between sobs. "Don't ever leave me."
"I won't, sweetheart. I won't."
