Here's my little author's note:
There are some pretty intense themes and subject matter in this story. For those of you who have been following it, this shouldn't come as a real shock.
One of those themes is addiction.
This is a very personal subject for me, most of the character's thoughts and feelings you see in this story are actually my own. I struggled with hard drug and alcohol abuse for over a decade. I'm 5 years clean and sober. I got clean at home, but probably should have done it with professionals, but that was my personal choice. I also sought out the help of a 12 step program and still work that program today.
What I'm trying to say is this: Addiction is a personal battle and how a person gets clean is also personal. Some require treatment, others use 12 step programs, I've known people who have literally kicked opiates cold turkey and never looked back etc. There is no right way to GET clean, but there are certainly ways of STAYING clean that are better than others.
*Also, this entire story is done via Erik's point of view. I made this decision because I wanted to challenge myself and because I really think it adds a different dimension to a Leroux interpretation of Erik. He is very scattered, torn and all around damaged and it is really interesting to try to put myself in his head. If the story seems disjointed and angsty, that's intentional. Homeboy is really struggling with just being himself.
Chapter Ten: Raw
Hours passed, until he glanced at his watch, speckled with a few small droplets of dried blood and knew he needed to return across the hallway to his apartment. Christine would be waking soon, and he should not be absent when she comes stumbling from the bedroom. He needed to wash his bloodstained hands and erase the evidence of his lethal deeds.
She was such a sweet, trusting little thing. Did she sense, subconsciously, the things in which he was capable? Surely a mouse can sense when it is in the presence of a viper. Perhaps not. Perhaps she was purely oblivious to what he was. After all, she had returned to him, time and time again. Was she as drawn to him as she was to her? Foolish man, don't flatter yourself, he scolded himself.
Glancing at the carcass before him, splayed open, organs exposed, yet heart still beating. The man had suffered enough for his crimes. It was time to bring it to an end. At this juncture of the process, Brad had gone delirious and had begun speaking in tongues, nonsense words really. It was a peculiar symptom of shock and blood loss, one that never ceased to intrigue Erik. It was as if the individual was nearing the other side and communicating to Death herself through a primitive, extinct language.
"The end has come.", he said aloud, knowing the likelihood he was understood was slim at best. "Give my regards to the dark mistress." With a sharp, unnatural jerk, he severed the head from the spine, shut off the lights, and exited the room.
He would return later to clean up.
He knew he was callous. Death did not affect him anymore. He had learned to live beyond regret, was unable to feel guilt for the lives he took.
An image of the woman, falling from the height of a fifth-floor balcony, flashed through his mind. He recalled the expression on her face just before she jumped over that railing, it wasn't a thing a person could simply banish from their memory banks. That woman had done nothing, an innocent, no different from Christine. He knew he was at fault for her demise.
Perhaps he was not immune to regret, after all…that new truth cut like a dull knife. When did he begin to feel? It was a troubling new development, these new fickle emotions.
Blinking his weary eyes, he willed the haunting slideshow of the woman's death from his mind and left the chamber to return home.
With the speed of an actor changing between scenes, he quickly rinsed his soiled hands in the deep, stainless steel kitchen sink, scrubbing the gore caught beneath his fingernails, and dressed into the alternative suit he had set aside. Removing his mask, he examined its matte black surface with an exacting eye and took a quick peek at his visage in the the only mirror he kept in the house, a tiny little thing that would not allow him to see his entire face at once.
Satisfied there was no blood to be seen on his person, he replaced the mask and went to work finding something to feed the woman who was now inhabiting his home. It seemed sacrilege to feed her food prepared with the hands of death, but he could not dwell to languidly on such macabre matters.
His pantry was pitiful. When one does not have a decent sense of taste, food becomes less of a luxury and more of a necessity. However, he could make crepes from scratch. What if she dislikes crepes?, he wondered, Perhaps I should step out and find some alternatives…
The inane monologue in his head screeched to a halt at the sound of padding feet on the kitchen's hardwood floor. His hands instinctively flew to his face to ensure the mask was in place before he turned around.
"Morning,", she murmured with a faint smile. "I think I slept like the dead, I don't remember going to bed last night."
"You needed the sleep.", he feigned innocence, gesturing to the black marble bar connected to the kitchen counter.
She sat on the high bar stool, looking terribly out of place in the impersonal, austere environment of his home. He busied himself by preparing her an espresso. The machine was one of the only appliances he regularly used in the kitchen, a kitchen that he had built primarily for the sake of building.
He presented her the tiny cup and saucer without any preamble, placing it before her wordlessly.
The silence was awkward and suffocating, disrupted only by the sound of her sipping the hot espresso. She made a face and he immediately understood he had erred.
"Would you like a different beverage? Tea perhaps?", he quickly asked. He had never entertained a woman before, did not know the protocols regarding beverage preference.
She giggled. Giggled! And the sound reminded him of cherry blossoms falling from the sky like confetti, it was intoxicating. "It makes me feel European.", she replied dismissively. "I haven't had espresso since I visited Italy when I was younger. I remember disliking it, but this is actually quite good. I usually drink lattes with syrup in them, although I'm not sure if that's very cultured…"
He could have this conversation; this was in the realm of his understanding. "You have traveled to Europe?", he asked with interest as he moved to create a batter with flour and eggs. Miraculously, he had brought a handful of perishable items home, on the off chance she would return to him. He recalled scolding his wishful thinking at the time, but now, in hindsight, he was grateful for the small lapse in judgement.
"After my mom died when I was a kid, we got a pretty decent settlement. It was a car accident, the guy behind the wheel was drunk and he didn't see her until it was too late. My father put some of the money away and waited until I was a little older. When I was thirteen, he took me to Europe. France, Italy, Spain…We burned through the settlement money, but for a while we felt like the wealthiest people in the world, because we got to see some of the most beautiful things there.", her fingers were fiddling with the small espresso cup as though she was not sure what to do with them.
He understood her discomfort, for he, himself, was also terribly discomfited. Never before had he invited another into his private space this way, not even Daroga. It felt…intimate, as though he had opened his nervous system for her to touch and play around with at her discretion. Yet he longed to ensure her own comfort despite the intolerability of his own feelings.
"I have visited those places as well.", he mused aloud. Casual conversation was not his strong suit.
The conversation lulled for a moment, as though neither party knew where to take it from there.
"What's your family like?", she asked with genuine interest. It was an innocent question. There was no way she meant any harm from it, for she had no way of knowing how miserable his life truly was.
He began to artfully fold the freshly grilled crepe onto the slate grey plate, garnishing it with fresh squeezed Meyer lemon and powdered sugar before placing it before her.
"I do not have family.", he replied, leaving no room for follow up questions.
"Oh.", she looked down at the steaming, sweet breakfast before her. "I'm sorry.", then realizing her manners gestured to the plate and murmured a humble, "Thank you, this looks really delicious."
He batted away her comments dismissively and began to clean up the kitchen.
"Are you not having one as well?", she asked between bites.
"I do not eat breakfast.", he coolly replied.
She ate the rest of her breakfast in silence. Occasionally he would steal a glance at her only to avert his gaze immediately. Stop leering at the woman like a lascivious old man, he told himself.
Finally, she moved to pick up the plate and carry it to the sink, but he stopped her, taking the plate from her nervous hand. Their fingers brushed and he felt as though he had violated her somehow. Why all these feelings?, he fumed.
He turned to wash her dish in the sink but sensed her presence lingering behind him. Abandoning the plate, he turned toward her. She was fiddling with the hem of her sweatshirt, refusing to make eye contact with him.
"Will you show me your arms again?", she asked softly, still refusing to look up. Her eyes were cast down at the floor, as though she were certain she would be slaughtered for making such a request.
He sighed and removed his suit jacket, placing it carelessly upon the countertop and unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt. When he pushed the sleeves to his elbow, he revealed the wreckage of his former drug use in all its hideous glory. The pocked marks and sunken veins were a testament to how far he had gone to escape the horrors of his own mind. It was an unsuccessful venture, for truly the drugs had only served to make things worse. All he had succeeded in was creating even more chaos and insanity for him to swim through.
Before he knew what was happening her finger had reached out and traced along the length of his worst vein, completely destroyed from all the abuse it has sustained. The touch felt heavenly and an unvoluntary moan exited from the back of his throat. He jerked his arm back.
"I'm sorry, I should have asked.", she quickly recoiled, "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"It didn't hurt," he murmured with awe, his belly tingling with a foreign sensation. "I'm unaccustomed to being touched," he glanced at her as he buttoned his sleeves with skillful speed, "What was this all about?", he asked, suddenly feeling quite exhausted.
She looked into his eyes and he saw a strange resolve settle within her blue gaze.
"I have three pills left.", she said, "I want them to be my last."
The gravity of her statement was not lost on him. She was preparing herself for a battle that was hers alone. He couldn't go to combat for her, but he could do all that was within his power to ensure she had the resources she needed for such a noble fight.
"What was it like for you?", she asked, "When you stopped, I mean."
"It was the hardest thing I have ever done,", he replied. But suddenly he recalled memory of all the mornings he had watched her walk down the street, unsure if he would ever see her again, and he somberly corrected himself, "At least, it was one of the hardest things."
She nodded and brought in a shaking breath. "I've reduced my using a lot, but it's felt almost impossible at times, knowing I have that bottle in my bag, knowing I can take more if I let myself, but holding myself back anyway."
It had been obvious that she had made great changes. When he first saw her, she looked as though she were approaching Death's door, but now she had a flush to her cheeks and a spark in her eye. Her willpower was phenomenal, it was something he found he admired about her. Despite her recent trauma she was standing before him like a tigress warrior who was ready to spar her own demons.
He recalled himself, looking at his own face in a mirror on the last night he had used and screaming at his own reflection, 'Deal with your demons now, or they will deal with you somehow.'
Not all of his demons had fled, that much was certain, but he had managed to keep a needle out of his arm. He had plenty of other vices that he had funneled his rage and lust into, but he found they were far harder to quit.
This woman before him needed his help. He had never been needed like this before.
"Are you comfortable here, Christine?", he needed to know if they were to proceed down this strange path together.
She nervously chewed on her lip and nodded her head, her fingers touched the ugly purple bite mark on her neck. "I feel safer here than I have anywhere else for a long time.", she replied, he could tell by her expression she was being honest.
Was she safer with him? He was'nt certain of that fact, but he could no longer bear the thought of sending her away.
"It will not be pleasant,", he spoke gravely, "If at any time you wish to leave, if you discover you would rather become admitted into a treatment facility, I will ensure it is done."
Even as the words were leaving his lips, he had no idea what he was doing. For over half of a decade, he had grown comfortable living his life with some relative understanding of what to expect from day to day. And though every morning he greeted the day with the desire that it would be his last, he could, at the very least, predict what was coming his way.
He had lived in shades of black and white, but now everything was multicolored, and he was not certain if he was equipped to handle it all. She had shaken up his reality and thrown him into the realm of the unknown. Now, he walked along the portion of the map where explorers fear to tread. Here there be monsters, it would surely read. She was the sea serpent that would gobble his ship lost whole.
There was no way she could possibly know the damage she was capable of.
"You'll be with me though? You will not leave?", she asked with trepidation.
"No,", he replied. "I will not leave."
Her shoulders relaxed and she took a steady breath which sounded more like a contented sigh. "I was worried you may have work, another business trip."
"I am taking an extended vacation.", he dryly remarked. He saw the frustration flash in her eyes, her obvious irritation at the secretive nature of his line of work but, sweet thing that she was, had not yet pushed the subject. "Have you still got that credit card?", he smoothly changed the subject.
"I didn't use it.", she admitted shyly. "It felt like taking too much."
He hummed and moved into the living room to fetch his laptop. Opening the sleek piece of machinery before her, he quickly accessed the browser.
"You need more clothing. Buy what you need. Not one outfit, several.", he plucked a notepad and paper from the counter and jotted down an address. "Have the packages sent here, this is where I have all mail delivered."
Her face scrunched up. "I've seen this place. It's a French restaurant downtown."
"Yes, I own it."
She blinked at him. "Oh!", and then she began to giggle again. That sound! "I feel so silly, I had started to believe you were a career criminal or something." He simply stared back at her attempting to hide the amusement from his eyes. When her eyes met his, she stopped giggling and grew somber, seeing something in his gaze that must have answered some of her unvoiced questions, "Oh…", she quickly looked away. "It's none of my business.", she murmured.
What would she do if she knew the full reality of his life? Or even what he had done that previous night simply for her honor, simply because it pleased him to do so?
She would flee, he told himself, she would begin pounding her little fists against the wall begging for her release.
He quickly exited the room, disappearing into his bedroom and closing the door. When was the last time he had felt so exhausted? Life was agony since she arrived. Every part of his soul was left raw and inflamed, he had never been so vulnerable.
Removing the mask, he threw himself onto the hastily made bed. Smashing his naked face into the plush pillow, he allowed the lingering scent of her hair to fill the ghastly hole he called a nose.
While she was doing lord knows what in the living room, he closed his eyes and found himself tumbling fast into the arms of slumber.
*Thoughtful feedback helps me become a better writer. I appreciate those of you who have taken the time to leave it.