The Devil Never Sleeps
She wasn't even aware that she had stood, unmoving, in front of the closed door for some time after Nadir had left. But somehow, she could not force her feet to move, nor could she bear to shift her gaze from the doorknob as her mind tried to sift through its jumbled thoughts. Why, if she wanted to, she could run out right now and chase after Nadir, begging him to help her. She could find Raoul at this very moment and beg him to take her away from this house. And if she knew anything, she knew that Raoul would, indeed, sweep her away if given the chance. She could run away and never look back, and in time, she could bury any memory of what she heard.
But she didn't move an inch, no matter how her mind yelled reminders of what she had just heard. Motionless, she stood there until her mind finally ran blank as she listened to the even sound of her own breathing. And as she collected herself, she didn't hear him come up behind her, nor did she turn when she heard him say her name. As per usual, she could not read his tone and it killed her not to know what was on his mind.
"I will not stop you if you would like to leave," was all he said when she didn't respond, and her eyes focused in once again on the doorknob. She still did not turn, unable to bear seeing his expression or lack thereof.
"Are you and Nadir truly friends?" The question came out of the depths of her mind, and she felt her eyebrows furrow, confused as to why such words would come out of her mouth. Erik's hesitation indicated to same bewilderment, though he finally did respond, his tone sullen.
"Yes, we are." The reply had not been the one she'd expected, and she was silent once more as she contemplated the words. "Why do you ask that?" Of course, there were so many other questions to be asked—had he really killed people, under what circumstances, what sordid past was haunting him, was he still a murderer, was it even murder? But these questions didn't seem pertinent at that precise moment, no matter how much they weighed on her mind.
It became clear as she stood there staring at the door, and she finally turned around with more strength than she had anticipated. "I merely want to know what is true and what is not."
His expression did not change in the slightest, and she clenched her jaw in hopes of appearing bold. "What he accused me of… What I admitted to… That is true." She forced her emotions to remain under control, trying to reveal just as little as he did, but she could feel herself slipping.
"Do you want me to leave?" she asked instead, not prepared to face his words directly.
He blinked, not expecting her response, and after a moment he responded. "No, I do not." The words seemed to be torn from him, as if it pained him to have to say such a thing aloud.
"Yet you wanted Nadir to leave," she stated, though she was truly looking for a sense of understanding as she took a few steps closer to him and tried to discern his expression. This time, a flicker of anger appeared in his eyes and he looked away immediately as he clenched his jaw.
"Yes, I did," he said through gritted teeth, but somehow Christine still felt perfectly calm as she watched him. "But that is an entirely different issue," he muttered, and she cocked her head to the side slightly.
"Why is that?" she asked him simply, and he looked up, agitated by her forthright words.
"Because he is trying to take you away from me," he argued, his almost child-like demeanor back as his face contorted into a mix of concern and the fury that accompanies a tantrum. Still, he tried to retain his composure, though she could finally see through that usually expressionless face.
"And why do you care?" she asked, though immediately felt guilty for the question, for she felt as if she was baiting him. But he didn't seem perturbed by it, and all at once he shouted out what she had never thought she could hear.
"Because I—I am very fond of you." The words were slow and calculated, almost painfully so, for they both knew the words that he had not uttered—the words that he had edited out and replaced with something gentler.
But her breath stopped dead in her throat as her mouth parted, all courage and all strength having fled in a mere moment. "Erik," she murmured, but he was already speaking once again.
"But I fear that if you stay, you'll despise me," he continued on as he looked away from her, collecting himself quickly, unwilling to show such emotion any longer. "And I could not bear that."
In those moments as they stood in silence, she nearly forgot what had all occurred that morning as her mind filled up with the words he had just spoken. But as each second ticked by, she gradually recalled his admissions and it made her stomach drop in pain, reminding her that she could not forget. "You must tell me what you've done," she finally said, her voice staggering under her words.
"No, you would—…" he began, but she interrupted him easily, doing her best to regain her footing.
"It is not for me, Erik," she said, and he closed his mouth as he waited for her to explain. "It is so that you needn't feel weighed down by secrets."
He slowly shook his head, unable to respond for several moments. "Would it not be easier to simply run off to your boy?" he asked with sudden cynicism, though she did not blame him for the biting remark.
"Yes, I suppose that would be easier." Once again, this snuffed any outward emotion and he merely stared back at her blankly. "Shall I make us some tea?" she said when he wouldn't respond, and he nodded once in agreement.
She walked past him without waiting for a verbal reply and made her way to the kitchen. It wasn't until she was putting on the kettle that she noticed just how much her hands were shaking. In fact, her entire body was trembling uncontrollably as all her feigned courage slipped away, leaving her with the terror that she had been ignoring.
Over and over, she told herself that she had to give Erik a chance to explain. Deaths could be accidental, of course, and who could be blamed for that? But the weight of his statement could not be denied, and somehow she knew that when he said that he had killed people, it was murder, not unintentional. And perhaps, even worse, he was not regretful of his actions. A new shiver ran down her spine as she contemplated this, and she had to be frank with herself—no matter how insistent she was that this discussion was not for her sake, she knew at her core that she had to reconcile with his past. And if she could not do so, then she had to leave this house behind.
But such words were not appropriate at the time, and she would do all she could to regain her composure as she went out and listened with open ears. But as she made her way to the dining room with a tray in hand, she could barely calm her incessant shaking. Somehow, though, when she came in and saw Erik there, sitting just as he did every morning, she felt herself let out a breath of serenity.
He did not so much as look at her as she made her way over to him and set the tray down, pouring him a cup of a tea before pouring one for herself. He took it and held it in his hands, and she could see that he did not know how to begin, how to broach such a topic.
"Where were you born?" she finally asked, and he chuckled darkly at this, shaking his head.
"No, we needn't go back so far. That is a tale for another day," he told her, finally looking up to meet her gaze. At this, she felt herself shrink back into her chair, all feeling of having the upper hand slipping away under his eyes. "No, I believe we would begin in Persia."
It seemed unreal, knowing that he had been to the far reaches of the east, but it certainly made sense—Nadir was clearly of a man of that origin, and one rarely saw people like him wandering around France. But somehow she could not picture Erik in such a place, for in her mind he was inextricably attached to this house, as if he could not exist in any other realm.
"It is difficult to say how I became acquainted with the Shah of Persia, but word travels quickly in such places, and some of my…talents, if you will, were rather desired at the time." She didn't understand what he was saying, but she did not press him, for she knew it would become clear as he went on. He seemed to see her lack of understanding, though, and he looked away with a deep breath, unable to meet her eyes.
"I killed people for his pleasure," he said bluntly, though he corrected himself almost immediately. "For his mother's pleasure, actually. Their fascination with death exceeds my own, which is an achievement in and of itself." His cynic tone came back and it made her skin run cold as he smiled icily to himself.
"H-How?" she forced herself to ask, though she had no desire to know these details. He looked at her for a moment, waiting for her to retract her question, though when she didn't, he went on.
"I built them torture chambers where they could dispose of unwanted people," he recalled, and she instinctively gulped back her disgust and fear. "I installed windows so that they could revel in their elaborate deaths and enjoy the show I created. Of course, they never believed that such simple things as mirrors and heat and trees could make a person kill themselves, but it never failed." He did not smile this time, and Christine's eyebrows knitted together.
"So you never killed anybody by your own hand?" she ventured, and this time he laughed cruelly, shaking his head as he looked back at her with a bold expression.
"Do not delude yourself, my dear. I couldn't count those deaths if I tried." He paused for a moment as he took in her expression, perhaps waiting for her to burst out in tears. "Does that frighten you?"
She put on a stony expression as she looked at him, not wanting to appear weak at despite her horror. "I'm not in the least frightened of you anymore," she told him, though her voice quivered slightly as she spoke, giving her away.
"Oh, Christine, we both know that is a lie," he told her with a tinge of regret. "Perhaps this morning you did not, but now you are petrified. And you do try so hard to hide it, but you needn't. I can see beneath a façade quite easily." The ease of his words only distressed her more and her frown deepened.
"Why didn't you simply make a living through your music?" she asked, and his eyes narrowed behind his mask almost accusingly, causing her breath to hitch in her throat. "You are the most incredible musician I have ever heard. I don't understand," she continued, hoping that this would ease him, but he stood up abruptly and paced to the opposite side of the room.
"Must you ask that question?" he demanded, and she stood up slowly as her eyes followed his form. "Do you not think I ask myself that every day? But the answer is always the same," he lamented, stopping in his tracks as he turned to her. "My face! I am a corpse, and in Persia it was an oddity to be treasured. I was put on a pedestal. But here it is freakish and disgusting, and I can scarcely leave my house!"
"Then why did you leave Persia?" she asked him slowly, and his anger slowly melted away with her question. He let out an almost irritated sigh, though she could not tell if the annoyance was directed at her or not.
"When one becomes too powerful in a world like that, you are exterminated. I chose to flee rather than fall prey to my own torture devices." He shook his head and shifted his gaze away from her thoughtfully. "No, the deformed have a curiously strong survival instinct." She could see the cog's in his mind turning and she remained silent, waiting for him to continue. The irritation faded away as well, morphing into something that she could not discern. "I have done such abominable things, Christine."
"And that is why you and Nadir quarrel?" she asked, suddenly wondering how their guest played into all of this.
He looked up at this and cocked his head to the side, perhaps not expecting this question. "No, that is not it at all," he replied as he moved to sit back down, Christine following suit shortly after. "No, he knows how I feel about you, and he knows what despicable acts I've committed," he reasoned, his eyes drifting towards the tea, avoiding her gaze. "I suppose that he is trying to keep you safe."
"He thinks you would hurt me?" she pressed, though the words made her skin turn cold as she said them.
"I already have hurt you," he replied quickly, turning his gaze down to the pale yellow marks on her wrists. They no longer hurt, but somehow her wrists throbbed under his gaze, as if a shadow of the previous pain was mounting once again.
"Not intentionally," she comforted, though he spoke almost immediately after she had finished.
"And how do you know that?" he challenged, and she looked away hesitantly, not knowing how to respond. "And so if it was an accident—does that make it acceptable?" he continued on fiercely. "Such excuses are for children."
"Please do not call me a child," she replied softly, not willing to look him in the eye. Still, she saw him physically draw back out of the corners of her eyes as he let out a sigh.
"Forgive me." They were silent then, and after several moments they picked up their tea at their own pace, neither knowing what they could possibly say. But finally Christine gained the courage to speak once again, finding strength where she always had. Of course, she doubted Erik's devoutness, but it did not change her beliefs in the slightest, nor did it make her shy away as she spoke.
"Erik, I believe that God gives us the opportunity to start anew every day, and I believe that he is offering you a chance to live a new life," she began, though his expression immediately made her feel foolish.
"Ah, yes. God," he scoffed, setting down his tea with a hard clink as he shook his head. "He's done so well with me thusfar."
"I'm trying to understand and help," Christine implored, though she could not hide her wounded pride as he laughed maliciously. He certainly wasn't making things easy on her, but she reminded herself over and over of her vow to remain receptive and sympathetic despite every jab and blow.
"And I do not need your help or God's, thank you very much." Naturally, his defenses had risen and all remnants of the repentant man she saw had fled.
"If you want me to go, all you need to do is say so," she said suddenly, her tone revealing more emotion than she had intended. After all, if he planned to laugh at her and behave cruelly, then she certainly had no desire to stay.
He became very quiet at this before he reached out and took her hands lightly in his, his skin ice cold to the touch. "No, that is not what I want," he said with sudden calmness, his turn in emotion putting her on edge once again.
"I'm sure you could find another housekeeper," she reasoned slowly, and he laughed once again, this time without any sense of viciousness.
"Ah, Christine, you know that you needn't care for the house—you're hardly here for that anymore." The words came out of his mouth, but as soon as he finished he looked away and let go of her hands, perhaps wishing to retract what he had said.
"Then what am I here for?" The question was a genuine one, and he had no response for several moments. Finally, he tightened his jaw and looked at her, composed once again and revealing nothing.
"I do not think I should answer that," he said, cryptic as always, and she nodded once in response.
"Perhaps you're right."
And with that, they fell into a deep silence, the ticking clock the only thing to accompany their tea. And when they had finally finished the pot, neither having said a word, Christine stood up and took the tray before making her way towards the door.
Just as she was about to leave, though, she turned around and looked at him inquisitively. "May we have a lesson tomorrow?" she asked, and he looked at her with equal interest before the ghost of a smile appeared on his lips.
"If it would please you."
Oh, bipolar!Erik. That was a tough one for me—some big things are coming, and laying out the stones for it in the last few chapters have been a bit sticky, but I'm hoping it all works out! Hope you all liked it, and thank you so very much for all of the reviews. I hope to hear from you all!
Until next time,
Christine