Everything has to end sometimes, I suppose. This odd relationship that we had, where she was furious and I was enjoying every minute of it, was probably not good for either of us. We needed purer soil if her love for me would grow as I wanted it to.
I only wish the change hadn't happened so abruptly.
Yes, of course she took my mask off. It was bound to happen eventually, Christine just can't leave well enough alone.
Deep down I knew I couldn't hide my face forever—still, I had pictured it all differently. Maybe someday, years after we married, I could sit her down and have a frank discussion. It would be in a controlled environment and I'd be able to manage her reaction accordingly.
But apparently I have much more patience than she does.
Ah, but aren't I getting ahead of myself? Perhaps I should back up a bit and tell you the story.
We'd just finished a particularly hard lesson. I had become quite intense with her since she came into my home. I just… I didn't want to risk the light fade out of her eyes as she sang. Her voice was so beautiful… I worked hard to keep us from going back to square one.
And so I pushed her… and pushed her… and pushed her. I purposely tried to make her angry, figuring that was the easiest way to force some passion out of her.
Apparently I pushed too hard.
Anyway, she was fuming by the time we were finished. I instructed her to go lie down on the couch and try to calm down. I would play something calming for her, maybe hypnotize her a little… whatever I needed to do to help her breathe normally again.
Yes, I felt bad. Not bad enough to apologize (it wouldn't have made a difference anyway), but regretful enough to want to make it up to her.
She settled down on the couch. "Hmm… now what shall I play?" I asked, trying to be friendly. I didn't really expect a response, but I got one anyway.
"Play something you have written. What about that book of music I saw in your room?"
She was referring to—by the way—my great opera, Don Juan Triumphant. It was my life's work. My only love and greatest obsession before shecame into my life.
And I mean that, too! There were times when I'd lock myself away for days on end, scribbling away through bouts of seemingly endless inspiration.
Then I would shut it away for a time. But I always returned to it and it was always there waiting for me as if I had never left.
I was like the Prodigal Son and Don Juan the forgiving father, patiently awaiting my return.
But I had neglected my opera for nearly six years now. Ever since Christine came into my life, I had not had the inspiration to write it. That is the measure of my affection for her—wicked thoughts flee my mind at the mere thought of her and I could no longer write.
Wicked thoughts were necessary, you see. For all its magnificence, Don Juan was a dark, sinister work. Its harmonies seem to scroll through every emotion of human suffering, often at the same time. It is passionate, but too much so. Don Juan burns.
And my sweet angel wanted to listen to it.
I bristled, though I am not sure why. I suspect she was only trying to please me in her request.
Perhaps it was the implication that she wanted me to leave the room. Or that she was trying to manipulate me by telling me what she thought I wanted to hear.
More than likely, though, it was the reminder of all I had given up for a woman who could only despise me.
Not that I regret it! Make no mistake about that. I would do it again for so much as a minute of Christine's attention.
But… it hurt… you know? I just wanted her to love me so… so badly…
I counted to ten. "Never ask that of me, Christine," I said in as calm a voice as I could manage, "I will play your Mozart… or Beethoven. Anything you wish. Those will do no more than bring tears to your eyes. ButDon Juan… it was never meant for human ears… especially ones as pure as yours."
I felt better once I'd explained. She seemed confused but accepting of my refusal. That was good. Good, Christine.
However, when I told her again to lie down and relax, she quickly became irritated with me. Goodness… I do hope her emotions are not always so volatile. No, dear, I believe incongruous behavior is my department. You'll just have to think of something else.
Mm… but she is lovely when she's in a snit.
"I most certainly will not lie down! I am tired of you ordering me about. Either we keep singing or I go back to my room."
I can refuse her nothing, that magnificent goddess of mine.
And I did read into the subtleties of her ultimatum. She still resented me. She could tolerate me if we were singing… but my company—my attempts at conversation, my loving gestures, my frequent glances—she want nothing to do with that.
But that didn't change the fact that I needed to prove to her who was in charge here. I had no intention of arguing every little point with her for the rest of our lives.
"If that is what you wish. How about the duet from Otello?"
She nodded and took her place beside the piano. Lucky for me (or so I thought), I had only one copy of music and so she had to move to stand closely beside me and look over my shoulder.
As we sang, I shut my eyes and enjoyed her nearness. I smiled. She smelled good.
I still curse myself for my inattention; at the height of the music, my body froze at the sudden flash of cold air across my face. My mask was off.
-------------
What happened next is still hazy. Her screams still echo in my memory, but the actual actions that followed are all but lost to me. Sort of like part of a tape that has been swiped with a magnet… it's there but it's not there at the same time.
When the curtain lifted, I was on my knees, sobbing into one hand and clutching my mask with the other. Christine was no where to be seen.
It was all… so very painful.
But let's not talk about that.
After a time, I composed myself enough to stand up and assess the damage… trying so desperately to make sense of it all.
There was blood everywhere, which just about sent me into a panic since I couldn't remember what happened. If I had hurt Christine…
Ah. But there's no need to dwell on 'what ifs'. As it was, I sustained most of the damage.
Deep, crescent shaped wounds littered my jaw and hairline. Well that explains the blood, I thought, relieved. Head and facial wounds bleed something fierce.
Christine had probably given them to me, though I couldn't realistically see her attacking me in earnest, no matter how angry or frightened. Several strands of hair loosely woven between my fingers confirmed my suspicion.
Definitely my fault, I decided. I am not sure if I truly want to know exactly how I forced her to give me those cuts. I have my suspicions, but I think knowing the truth would just upset me.
Anyway, I unwound the strands of hair and put them in a tiny jar in my closet. If you have to ask why, we might as well end this conversation right now.
Then I went into the washroom to clean up. I took extra care washing and rubbing antibiotic cream into the wounds—these were definitely not scars I wanted to keep—and changed my shirt. I threw the old one in the trash. I suppose I could have been able to wash the blood out if I tried… I just didn't want the reminder.
As I passed through my bedroom, my fingers swiped against the pages of Don Juan Triumphant. I looked down and caressed the cover.
In my agony I realized that it was high time I visited my old friend again.