"Why am I not surprised you managed to survive this far?"
There was a woman in the room, close to him. It was not his Christine. This one had black striaght hair that fell to her waist and bore an ancient aura around couldn't see in the dark, yet somehow her image imprinted in his mind.. And even though the voice came from the foot of the bed, he could feel her on his fingertips.
Orange blossom. The scent he had avoided his whole life now filled the room.
"What do you want?" He rasped, his lips barely able to move.
She laughed softly, sadly. "I don't want anything, Erik."
He tried to move. "Am I dreaming?"
Her shadow came closer, he felt the air around him shift. "Are you?"
His hand reached to her, but an invisible veil was holding it back. "Stop playing with me."
"See, the little monster cries. And I thought you only sang."
He swallowed. "Is this hell?"
The image shifted, as if he could see around the space without moving. His sweet Christine was asleep in her chair by the bed, her prayer book fallen open on her lap.
"It can't be," he concluded, "she wouldn't be here."
The woman looked over to the sleeping angel and scoffed. "You really believed she could love you?"
"No," he admitted. "But I love her."
"Enough to die for her?" She tossed her hair back with the elegance he remembered.
"Enough to sell my soul. Or whatever's left of it." He somehow managed to shrug and wondered why his freedom of movement was limited to only insignificant flinches.
"Poor creature."
His vision swam and the dream before him changed.
The air was cool now, a soft light coming from above illuminated the space and allowed him to see the dust dancing around him. He was standing and with a step forward, the wood of an old stage creaked underneath his bare feet. He lifted his head and found himself on the stage of a small theatre, like those poor ones that perform alternative plays, where the seats are almost level with the actors .
He was wearing a loose black linen shirt, over clean yet worn slacks. No wound pierced his ribs.
Turning around, he realised the scenery behind him consisted of a single pile of soil, or sand, he could not tell.
"Am I dead?" he muttered, his calm voice bouncing around in the void.
"Not yet," the woman returned. "Do you wish to be?"
"I don't know."
He could see her clearly now and she had not aged a day. Still beautiful. Beautiful and cold.
"Erik," she hummed, "play me something."
"What?"he sneered at the ridiculous proposition.
"Not a comedy, of course."
He took a step back, feeling vulnerable against powers he could not identify, which orchestrated this twisted parallel world.
"Well, come on!" She cheered mockingly. "Indulge me."
His mind was numb, yet something told him he had to open his mouth to say something, anything. He closed his eyes to think.
"To die, to sleep- To sleep perchance to dream-"he started.
"Predictable," she stretched like a cat and left her front row seat to climb onto the stage and sit by his feet, patting the spot next to her.
He obeyed without thought. "Why did you hate me?" He stated, as if he were talking about the weather.
Her pale bony hands were folded on her lap. "I didn't." She paused. "My first instinct when I saw you was to kill you. Then you sang."
He raised an eyebrow. "The cry of an infant stopped Medea?"
Her lip curled and they also resembled each other. "You terrified me," he rolled his eyes at the shallow feeling, "not your face. No matter how furious I was at it for ruining my life, I grew used to it. You teriffied me. You were too much."
He leaned back casually, laying on his back against the cool wood. "Did you marry him?"
"No. Not after what'd happened. Every moment with him I felt my guilt choke me," she admitted.
He sighed. "Foolish woman. At least my infantile sacrifice would have meant something."
She turned to look at him, as if in a great hurry. "What's about to come, you can't control."
Despite her slight panic, he continued laying there, with his hands behind his head. "I know. Will she be sad?"
She climbed off the stage and made her way towards the small corridor. "Only for a little while. Why do you care?"
"I want nothing to cause her pain."
"Yours doesn't matter?" She had almost reached the door.
"I'm used to mine."
She pushed it open and turned to look at him, knowin their thirty years apart were nothing compared to those to come. "Goodnight, little one."
He rose to his knees and took one final good look at her. "Goodnight, mother."
