Chapter 8: A Dangerous Game
In the weeks since our arrival, Erik and I have settled into a peaceful coexistence. We begin each morning having breakfast in companionable silence. Then we take long walks around the grounds of the house exploring the vast countryside. During these walks, Erik tells me many stories. Most are from books, but every so often he will share an anecdote from his own life. No matter the subject, I find myself hanging on his every word as he paints vivid pictures for me with his beautiful voice. In the afternoon, I retire to the sitting room to practice my sewing while Erik goes off by himself to compose. We meet again for dinner and the rest of the evening is spent in the music room. It is my favorite part of the day because nothing else matters except Erik, myself and our music. Sometimes I worry I am becoming too complacent in this new life and I have to remind myself that Erik is still a dangerous man. Regardless, I'm finding it increasingly difficult to ignore this inexplicable pull I feel toward him.
Today, Erik has gone out for supplies and to my surprise I realize I miss his presence. I busy myself by walking through the rooms of the house tidying up, until I notice the door to the room that Erik created for himself has been left ajar. I still do not know what he keeps in there but I know he visits it often when he cannot sleep. My curiosity gets the better of me and I make my way across the hall and slowly enter. It is very dark and I have to feel my way to the window. I draw open the curtains and immediately the room is bathed in sunlight. I survey the area before me and notice several pieces of paper strewn across the floor and a large easel off to the corner. Along the walls are shelves filled with all sorts of odd-looking contraptions. The room is a tour de force of Erik's genius and I take a moment to marvel at his work.
In the midst of my explorations, I pass by the easel, and stop when I notice our penciled reflections staring back at me. He has captured my likeness perfectly. I am leaning up against a tree, my unruly hair cascading down past my shoulders as I smile up at him. He has drawn himself with the same thin, long, angular frame but with one striking difference. He has given himself a strong and handsome face. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as my fingers involuntarily come up to lightly trace over his drawn form. We look like the perfect couple, so much in love and my heart clenches inside my chest because I know this is what he truly wants for us.
Behind this image, I find several others, moments of a life not meant to be but that he yearns for all the same. I stop when one in particular catches my eye. It is of Erik holding a cherub faced little girl, with caramel curls in his arms, while a young boy with bright golden eyes stands at his side. Erik is looking down at the boy with pride and adoration. Some of my tears drip down and form droplets on the drawing as I realize these are his children. These are our children. Poor Erik! All he has ever wanted was to be just like everyone else. A handsome face to compliment his handsome family. A part of me wishes I could make these images real for him, but I cannot forget the things he has done to me, to Raoul and to the hundreds of other people who were unlucky enough to meet their end by his own hand. I do not think I have the strength for that kind of forgiveness. No, I must stay true to my original promise to God. I will be his friend and his companion. I will help him on his journey toward redemption but I cannot give him my heart. I cannot be the living wife he wants me to be.
I begin to reorganize the papers back onto the easel when one of them separates and floats to the ground. I pick it up and immediately my face flushes as I stare at it, unable to look away. He has drawn us together, our half naked bodies pressed tightly against one another. We are a mass of tangled limbs and sheets that it is impossible to tell where one of us ends and the other begins. Unlike the other drawings, Erik's face appears in its usual horror with its twisted pieces of gnarled flesh, sunken cheekbones, and a gaping hole where his nose should be. He cradles my head in his hands, his golden eyes filled with such love and devotion as he gazes upon my face. My eyes are closed, my head drawn back, mouth open wide in a mix of both ecstasy and horror as a lone tear travels down my cheek. I should find this image shameful, repulsive even, but I find it both terribly erotic and painfully tragic. There lies a truth here that the rest of these images lack. After a time, I cannot bare to look at it any longer and I quickly hide it away hoping to forget its existence.
Later that night, after dinner, Erik and I make our way to the music room. He sits down at the piano bench and turns toward me.
"What would you like to sing tonight my dear?"
"Actually, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind playing for me instead."
He looks at me, his eyes wide in surprise. "You do not wish to sing?"
"I'm sorry Erik, I'm feeling a little tired tonight," I lie. The truth is I cannot concentrate enough to sing. I've tried hard to forget the image of our entangled bodies but it is burned into my mind. His presence only seems to have enhanced its effect on me. I keep imagining his cool skin pressed against mine and I wonder what it would feel like to have him move deep inside me.
He narrows his eyes. "I suppose we can skip tonight but let's not make this a habit Christine."
"Of course not," I reassure him as I take a seat on the sofa.
He turns back toward the piano and stretches his long fingers out before gently placing them on the keys and I can think of nothing else but those same fingers tracing along the inside of my thigh.
"What would you like to hear this evening my dear?"
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, my hands twisting in my lap as I continue to stare at his fingers.
"Christine," he calls out and I flinch, my head snapping up from his hands to meet his eyes.
"Yes Erik," I ask innocently as I clear my throat.
He is looking at me curiously now. "I simply wished to know what you wanted me to play but you seemed miles away, Christine."
I pray he cannot see the blush that I know has appeared across my face. "Perhaps you can play one of your own compositions for me," I suggest quickly.
"As you wish," he replies and the next moment the room is filled with a rich melody that makes my body warm and my limbs heavy. I lay back onto the pillowy cushions and rest my chin against the palm of my hand. I want to close my eyes and let Erik's music carry me away but I'm too interested in watching his fingers skip across the keyboard. I find the fluidity and gracefulness of their movements quite sensual. All too soon, the song comes to an end and he looks up from the piano.
"That was beautiful Erik, Thank you."
"You are welcome, my dear."
"You play so effortlessly. I wish I had your talent."
His hand moves through the air waving me off. "It is no matter Christine. Your voice is enough."
I sigh. "I suppose it will have to be."
He looks at me curiously. "Have you ever tried to play before?"
"My father taught me a little, but I'm not sure I remember any of it."
He thinks on this for a moment. "Would you like to learn," he asks and I see a hint of excitement in his eyes.
"You will likely be disappointed," I warn him.
"Nonsense. Come, let me see what you know." And he moves across the bench leaving space for me to join him.
I rise tentatively from the sofa and make my way over to him. The bench is not made for two people and as I slide onto it the sides of our bodies touch and I feel Erik go rigid next to me. I glance over in his direction and see him focusing on a point straight ahead clearly affected by my nearness. This secretly pleases me and I purposely shift, causing our bodies to make contact again. I hear his breath catch in his throat and a slight thrill runs through me. Several moments pass before he acknowledges me again.
"Place your hands on the keys Christine," he commands and immediately I obey.
I'm about to press down upon them when he interrupts me. "My dear you are not holding your hands properly."
I slowly lift my head upward from the piano to lock eyes with him.
"How should I hold them Erik," I ask in a flirtatious whisper, unable to stop myself. I watch transfixed as the skin at the hallow of his throat pulls taunt as he swallows nervously.
"If you might permit me to touch your hand, I can show you."
I nod and unconsciously bite my lower lip. He gently takes hold of my hand in both of his. They are cold, yet strong and I feel an ache deep in my soul as he reverently positions them across the smooth ivory. He touches me as if I'm a sacred and fragile thing and I find I cannot take my eyes off of him. He senses me staring and quickly lets go of my hand.
"Has Erik done something wrong Christine," he asks anxiously.
I'm not even paying attention to his question as I blurt out a hidden secret. "I like your eyes."
Those golden orbs of his widen in surprise. "My eyes," he asks confused.
I nod. "I've never seen anyone with eyes that glow before. They are very beautiful."
Erik shifts uncomfortably in his seat clearly flustered by my words and I find his reaction endearing.
"Christine, are you feeling well?" His voice is laced with concern. "Your face is flushed. Perhaps you have a fever."
The way he worries for me tugs at my heart. "I do not have a fever, Erik. I am perfectly fine."
"Are you sure," he asks suspiciously.
"Yes, I am quite sure." I cock my head to the side assessing him. "You know Erik, when someone gives you a compliment the proper response is to say thank you."
He looks confused at first, then realization dawns on him. "Oh yes of course! Please, forgive Erik, he is not use to compliments, especially about his appearance."
It saddens me to know that he has never experienced even this small kindness in his life. We both remain quiet for several seconds as he turns from me to stare down at his hands. Then I hear him whisper faintly, "Thank you." Instinctively, I place my hand on his arm and give it a slight squeeze. "You're welcome," I say with tenderness.
Erik makes an audible gasp at the contact and I quickly move my hand away.
"I'm sorry Erik, I did not mean to…"
"It is quite alright dear child. Let us continue," he instructs in a clipped tone distancing himself from me once more.
"Yes of course," I say, trying to hide my disappointment at his curt response.
He readjusts his position on the bench leaving a small space between us. I place my fingers back onto the keyboard under Erik's directions, which he gives without touching me. After several minutes, some of what my father taught me returns and I'm playing a basic melody on my own. Erik seems pleased with my quick progress.
"Perhaps we can try a simple duet," he suggests eagerly.
I nod, feeling a sense of pride at his approval and willingness to play alongside me. As his protégé, those feelings have never changed, even as our relationship has grown more complex.
"Let us try a small segment from Mozart's Magic Flute. It is quite simple."
He demonstrates the sequence of notes for me to follow. I stumble a few times early on, but Erik quickly corrects my mistakes. Soon enough, we are playing together, the tension from before melting away as we surrender ourselves to the music. As the end of the song draws to a close, I glance in his direction to find he is staring at me. I meet his gaze as something deep inside of me revels in the delicious intensity of the moment. By the time the final notes are played, our faces are mere inches apart and I wonder if he means to kiss me.
"Chris-tine," he calls softly and I close my eyes savoring that heavenly voice. When I open them again he is still so close, his eyes filled with such longing as his hands clench the material of his pants leg tightly.
"Is there something you want Erik," I ask breathlessly, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Oh Christine, if you only knew what I want, you would think me quite mad."
His proximity, his voice and the lingering effects of our music is clouding my judgment. My body is thrumming with need. I have tried so hard to fight against this desire I have for him and I'm so tired of fighting. He is as dangerous as poison but as intoxicating as wine. My strict Catholic upbringing has taught me that it is sinful for an unmarried woman to be so wanton but my need for his touch is becoming physically painful. Perhaps the image from before has bewitched me or perhaps all these months without any form of physical contact has brought me to a breaking point. Whatever the reason, I want to wrap my body tightly around his and never let go.
"I already think you're mad," I respond with a sly smile. "Now tell me what you want." I am surprised by my own boldness. Never in my life have I spoken to a man in this manner before, not even Raoul. It both thrills and terrifies me.
"I believe you already know the answer, Christine."
"Then why do you hesitate when you know I will not stop you."
His body shudders at my words and his eyes widen in disbelief. "You wish for Erik to touch you," he asks in a nervous whisper that sends a surge of heat through my body. I nod and watch as he licks his thin malformed lips. For a fleeting moment, I fear for myself, but then his trembling fingers come up to caress the side of my cheek and any doubts I may have had disappear as I lean into his touch. He continues to drag his fingertips lightly down my neck to my collarbone and a soft moan escapes my lips. He stares at me hungrily, his eyes wild with unbridled passion but they also hold a sense of wonder, as if he cannot believe this moment is real. He continues his feather light touch across my collarbone to the hollow of my throat and I close my eyes savoring the sensation. Then I feel him lean in closer, his lips inches from mine as he whispers a fervent plea, "Say you love me Christine."
Instantly, whatever spell had previously taken hold of me is broken. My eyes fly open in a panic at his sobering words and I shift backward on the bench pulling away from him. My actions leave him momentarily dazed. He turns from me then, his shoulders hunched over, his body shaking. For a moment I'm concerned that he might be crying, until I hear that awful sound of maniacal laughter spew forth from his mouth followed by a deathly silence. He shifts on the bench to face me once more, his eyes narrowed, his body tense. He reminds me of a viper ready to strike.
"What games are you playing tonight, dear child?"
"I'm sorry Erik," I cry out. I do not know what else to say. I hardly know myself right now.
"SILENCE," he roars and I jump from the bench to stand behind the sofa.
"Why do you not listen to me when I speak Christine?"
I shake my head, my body is trembling. "Erik, I do not understand."
"Do not pretend with me dear girl! Erik sits at your feet like a dog waiting for his master to feed him the scraps from his plate." He is breathing heavily now, his eyes filled with a mix of anger, hurt and want. "But Erik is so tired of waiting!"
He leaps from the bench then and the next thing I know, his tall, thin frame is hovering over mind, and I back up against the wall to put some distance between us. He positions his long arms on either side of my head, as his palms lean against the bookshelf behind me. Even as close as we are, he does not touch me.
"Ask me again what I want."
"Erik please," I beg.
"ASK ME!"
"What do you want Erik," I ask, my voice barely audible.
"Ah Christine, so many things! I've never wanted anything in my life more than you." As he says this, he uses his fingertips to lightly trace the outline of my lips. There is a fiery intensity in his eyes that both excites and terrifies me and I stifle a moan of pleasure that threatens to escape my traitorous mouth. He moves in closer, his hot breath on my face as he parts my lips ever so slightly with his trembling fingers.
"How I wish I could capture your perfect lips with my own. A lesser man would think nothing of taking you right here against this bookcase but it is not enough Christine. I must have your love too! I must have all of you!" He grasps my hand roughly and places it over his heart covering it with his own. "Do you understand me now Christine? Do you understand how Erik burns for you?"
His words make me dizzy and fuel an already burgeoning desire within me to be consumed by him. How is it possible for my heart to oppose what my body so desperately wants? Tears of frustration and fear blur my vision. "Erik, I cannot give you all of me."
"Cannot or will not," he challenges back.
When I do not respond he growls and rips off his mask throwing it to the floor in a fit of rage as I turn my head away from him. "Look at me Christine," he bellows but I keep my eyes trained on the floor. It is not his hideous face that I want to hide from. The truth is I cannot bare to see his pained expression as I refuse his love again. I sense him moving closer and I push back until the edges of the bookshelf dig painfully into my back. For a moment, all that can be heard is the sound of our labored breaths. Finally he speaks, his anger from before replaced with a sadness and self loathing that torments my very soul.
"Tell me Christine, would you love me if I had been born handsome like your precious Vicomte?"
I turn my red, tear stained face back to meet his with a look of pained disbelief. His eyes are also filled with tears and I curse myself for the misery my actions have brought upon us tonight.
"You are crying again," he whispers sadly. Then I feel his cool hand touch the side of my face as he takes one of his fingers and scoops up a lone tear traveling down my cheek. He stares at the shimmering droplet for a moment then brings it up to his lips and licks it away with his tongue. My body betrays me again as a flush appears across my face and I sense a deep throbbing between my legs.
"I would drink up all your tears if I could."
Goosebumps form across my skin and I shudder at his words. Erik is the only person who makes me want to feel things I should not want to feel. He wields a power over me that I do not fully understand.
"Erik, do you truly think me so shallow of a person that I would deny you my love because of your appearance?"
He draws back from me then, refusing to acknowledge my question. Instead, he wordlessly kneels down to retrieve his mask from the floor. He remains there, lost in thought, tracing the edges of the white porcelain. "I had hoped the illusion would be enough to conceal the fact that it is a corpse that loves you Christine."
"Erik, when will you realize this has never been about your face."
He stares up at me then, confusion etched across his distorted features. "If not my face, then what Christine? What more can I give you? I have shared my music, lavished you with the finest of things, and built you this house. I have made you the center of my world, my queen, and still you deny me your love."
"Erik, love is a choice. It is not a commodity to be purchased or some trophy to be won. You cannot will me to love you, no matter how much you want it to be so. You may have lavished me with fine dresses and jewels and wrote beautiful arias for me to sing but you have taken all of my freedoms. I am your prisoner here, nothing more."
He shakes his head in disagreement then rises from the floor and deposits his mask upon the sofa before coming to stand before me once again. His gaze shifts down to my lips and moves slowly over my body to drink in the sight of me. I can tell he is using every ounce of self control he has left to keep himself from acting in an untoward way. He takes in a deep breath, then kneels down on one knee, tears glistening in his eyes.
"I cannot let you go Christine, even though I know you wish to leave me. Erik does not know how to live without you." I should be angered by this confession, by his absolute disregard for the things I want, but I can only feel pity and sorrow for him now. Before I can even formulate a response, he takes hold of my hand and slides a gold band with a brilliant sparkling sapphire onto my finger.
"You are not my prisoner Christine. You are to be my wife and I will love you for all eternity." He brings my hand up to his lips and places a chaste kiss upon it. I stare at him for several moments as he kneels before me, this broken and desperate man that loves me so completely, and for the first time I let myself imagine what it would be like to love him back. It would be so easy to lose myself to him. It would be too much and not enough, painful yet pleasurable, frightening yet comforting. He would take my soul and entwine it with his and Christine Daae would cease to exist. His love is obsessive and toxic and I cannot want it! I must not want it!
"Say something Christine," he begs.
There is nothing to say that has not already been said. I cannot give him my heart and he will not let me go. "What is to become of us Erik," I ask shakily.
He considers me for a time, and I see a flash of pain mixed with regret reflected in his eyes that is quickly replaced by icy resolution. He stands to his full height and issues his response in that commanding tone I know all too well.
"We shall marry in a week's time and then Erik will finally have a living wife."
The finality with which he delivers this declaration pierces my heart but I bow my head in consent, resigned to my fate. He stands then, shifting uncomfortably, as he focuses on a point other than my face. "Christine, our marriage will not change anything between us. Erik does not expect anything more from you. He will be content to carry on just as things are now. There need not be any further misunderstandings between us."
I nod and pretend not to notice the twinge of disappointment that briefly flickers across his face. An uneasy silence descends upon the room. Erik turns away from me to retrieve his mask and places it back on, running a hand over his head adjusting his wig. When he looks to me again he is the picture of composure as if the last several minutes between us never occurred. It unnerves me.
"Shall I play another song for you my dear," he asks nonchalantly.
"Erik if you don't mind, I would like to retire to my room now," I say swallowing my tears.
"Of course. Erik bids you a good evening."
He turns swiftly back to the piano bench and begins playing, seeming to forget I am still there. He pours his heart out onto those keys, the only friend he has ever truly known. I quickly make my exit before his music takes hold of me.
I feel a sense of relief as I step into my bedroom. I perform my nighttime rituals in a slight daze, as various moments from the evening replay in my mind. When I am finally settled in bed, I look down at the ring Erik gifted me earlier. It mocks me as it glistens in the candle light. This ring that fits perfectly yet weighs heavily upon my finger. I should take it off and hide it away but I find that I cannot bring myself to remove it. It feels as if it has always been there and I have this crazy notion that without it I might die. This thought troubles me deeply and I throw myself quite dramatically onto my pillow as loud racking sobs leave my body in waves. My thoughts and emotions concerning Erik are as fickle as his own mercurial nature. How I wish for someone, anyone, other than Erik, to talk with right now. I have no friends, no family, no one I can rely on for advice. He has isolated me so completely from the outside world that I am utterly helpless. I cry until my tears run dry and my body feels blessedly numb.
Soon my eyes begin to feel heavy and once I close them, an image of my father appears before me. It is not the first time I've dreamt of him but this dream is different. He seems so very real, standing there, a serene smile gracing his fine features. I almost envy his contentment. He begins to speak to me and I am overcome with emotion.
"My Little Lotte, all grown up," he says, his voice filled with warmth and gentleness.
"Oh Papa," I cry out. "How I've missed you!"
"I know my darling daughter."
He comes forward then and wraps me in a warm embrace. I lean my head against his chest as I did when I was a child, nestled in a cocoon of safety. The fabric of his shirt smells of cherry wood and cloves, reminiscent of the pipes he would smoke as he sat upon his rocking chair, while Raoul and I read to each other dark stories of the North. I grab a fistful of the fabric in my hand and sob into his chest.
"I'm so lost without you, Papa."
He gently strokes my hair. "My precious little girl with the voice of an angel and a heart of pure gold. You must be strong or the world will swallow you up."
"I don't know how. I don't know anything anymore."
"Oh my sweet girl. Your life will not get better by chance Little Lotte, it will only get better with change."
He pulls me from him then and lifts my chin so our eyes meet, his expression suddenly serious. "Never be afraid of the truth, Christine."
"I don't understand," I say, suddenly feeling a wave of panic encase my body in a vice like grip.
"I will always be with you, Lotte. Never forget that."
He begins to move away from me then, the edges of his form, slowly disappearing. I fall to my knees as I cry out to him, "Please, Papa come back. Do not leave me again," but when I look up from the floor, I realize he is already gone.
A/N: I really enjoyed writing this chapter because who doesn't love angst mixed with a whole lot of sexual tension. I would love to hear your thoughts in the comment section!
Up next, things get even more complicated for poor Christine.