Chapter Fourteen
Meg had a very interesting time explaining to her mother just why she had to return to the city on the night of Christmas. All the while, her mother stood tall and thin, her now grey hair in a smooth tight bun on the back of her head.
"It's for work, Mama."
"Work can wait." Her mother said, an intimidating knife in her hand as she cleaned it, "It's Christmas."
Meg sighed, "News doesn't stop because of one Christian holiday."
"Your news can."
"Mama," Meg threw a bag over her back with dread, "we used to be at competitions on Christmas. This is my competition and I have to go."
Her mother was silent and brooding, knife still in hand.
"Fine." Meg clipped, "If you're not going to take me then I'll call an Uber. Pray, I don't die."
"You stubborn thing." She threw the knife into the sink, "Sometimes I think you're getting fat just in spite of me."
Meg rolled her eyes, "Thanks, Mama."
They had already gone into the discussion that her no longer working out twice a day was leading to her thighs and butt losing their firm tone. Meg had been told by friends that she was finally looking healthy and she agreed with them. Her mother, however, thought very much the opposite about everything. There would always be a grudge there since she had the chance to train at the New York City Ballet and turned the opportunity down for a scholarship to go to Columbia University and be a journalist. Her mother didn't even know she applied until she left.
"You're not taking an Uber. I'll get the Hummer and you'll be safe about this. That's the end of it and I don't want to talk anymore on you skipping out on a holiday."
She sighed, "Thanks, Mama."
Meg was sure she head the words, "Ungrateful child," as her mother walked away.
The drive from Annapolis to Washington was quiet and the roads were surprisingly plowed. It was later into the evening, but she was still hoping to catch the last train into the city from the closest metro stop inNew Carrolton. She checked her watch. Ten-thirty-tree. There was enough time to get there by midnight before the trains stopped. It was surprising enough that they were running at all that day.
It was exciting too. The last time she received an encrypted call about a scoop was in college. It was a story about hazing and she ended up busting an entire fraternity for trying to make their recruits eat their own excrement. Her story busted the group wide open and the ten men in charge of it were expelled. Granted, she was black listed from all Greek parties after that. People called her names and tried to prank her. It only gave her more encouragement to pursue internships and finish school early. She graduated half a year early and was one of the few to get a job straight out of college with a paper well worth its weight. As far as she was concerned, it was worth papers ate up that sort of work. "Brutal and heartless for the sake of justice," they called it. She was fine with that.
When they got to the station and she was dropped off at the Kiss and Ride, Meg pulled out her phone, "Call Christine," she said to Siri. The phone rang many times. Meg wondered if it would go to voicemail, but on the last ring, her friend picked up.
"Meg?" came a hoarse voice.
Meg slid her metro card across the scanner and shuffled her duffle bag to get through the gate. She noticed the metro attendant watching a video from his phone.
"Hey hon, god you sound rough. How are you?"
"I…" there was a long pause as Meg started to make her way up to the elevator with more speed. A train was already on the platform and she didn't want to have to wait another twenty minutes in the cold to catch the next one.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing I just…" she began to whisper, "I fell asleep."
"That's probably a good thing, hon." Meg said, sliding into the train car only seconds before a familiar double ring followed by a robotic woman's voice, "Door Closing", met her ears. She took a look around the train. A man sat on the opposite side of the car. She was in the front car with the engineer. She should be fine even if it was late.
"Yeah…right."
She could tell Christine was distracted as the train began to move. She took up two seats near the front and spread her things out next to her, looping the straps comfortably over her arms as a precaution.
"Is something up?" Meg inquired slowly.
"No, um, I just, I should go to bed. Not sleep…here."
"Are you at someone else's house?"
"Can I call you later, please?"
Meg straightened up in excitement, "Oh my god you scandalous thing!"
"It's not that, no I just, ugh I really can't talk now."
"You safe?" she made sure to ask.
"Yeah yeah, I'll call you later bye."
The phone hung up before she could respond. This was a story she would have to get out of Christine tomorrow. The train continued its way and she eventually transferred over from the Orange Line to the Green Line. As there were very few people moving around the city at that time, the schedules were running much faster than usual and she was at the Anacostia Metro Station sooner than expected.
Crossing the street, she pulled out her mace and clutched it in her fist. It wasn't noticeable to most, but she had to be cautious. This place was not exactly safe and she could only imagine the fit her mother would have if she ever had to call the police out there. Out of sight from the surveillance camera's of the metro, she turned towards the nearby closed shops, taking the first ally to the left that she came across. Before going down it, she took a good look. A man could be seen next to a dumpster. There was a light behind him and she couldn't see his face, only that he wore a long jacket that went past his knees and a baseball cap.
Her grasp on the mace and duffle bag tightened. She would have a clear shot of his face with both items if it came to that. She approached with quiet, but meaningful steps. It was one thing that dance had taught her and such physical movements made her stand out when she wanted them to. When they were three feet away he spoke.
"Once I give you this folder," he spoke with a heavy almost contrived midwestern accent that she immediately tried to place and couldn't. She wondered if he was speaking this way to conceal himself further. Even at close proximity, his face was hard to make out, "You will have until January second to post with a credible paper. Have it published no later. All accredited sources are included. Check them."
"Understood." She replied.
"If you do well, there will be more information for your career."
He held out a manila folder and she stepped forward to take it.
"You may go, now."
She nodded and backed away a few feet before turning on him completely. Making it back to the station, there was no one around to bother her. She felt a man watching her as he turned the corner. He made a move to follow her onto the metro when she made a quick change in position and asked the Metro assistant a question about transfers over the weekend. The man kept walking. She put the mace in her pocket.
The ride back towards U Street couldn't have seemed longer. She held the manila folder close to the inside of her jacket, not willing to look at it in a location where there were cameras present. She hailed a cab from the U Street station and when she eventually reached her apartment in Adams Morgan she dove up the stairs like a mad woman. The sound of the door slamming against the opposite wall shocked her once quiet room. It took her a second to remember that Cloe was at a pet sitting business a few blocks away. She still had another day to be there. It was probably best as this story was sure to take a solid day to collect and write.
Carefully opening the envelope, so as to not ruin anything inside, she then cut her finger pulling the papers out of the documents out from the inside. There was no time to focus on the cut. It would heal on its own. Moving her coffee table to better spread out all of the things equally, she made everything visible before taking a better look. All papers were arranged with what they belonged with. She paid close attention to page numbers and headings as she organized until everything was ready to take in.
Raoul Peters. He was everywhere. His name, his family, his face, his…women. There were so many. All of them were gorgeous and dripping in variously assorted jewellery with designer dresses hanging from their perfect curves. Besides these features, there were no similarities between the women in age, height, or ethnicity. Her interest turned from professional to personal as she started to tear through the photos looking for the one person that she worried would be there.
Photo after photo, woman after woman and no meek, conservative, or sad looking blue eyed blonde came into view. Sitting back on her knees, she took a moment to think to herself, How is that possible? The obvious story before her drifted away as she began to wonder whether Christine and Peters were able to cover their relationship so well, or whether the source was deliberately trying to avoid exposing her friend. Did the source know they were friends? What did that mean?
She took a closer look at the white typed dates on some of the photos. These were from a private investigator. The other photos were from security cameras and police dashboard recorders. It was obvious that whoever had given her this information had the means to be watching Peters for a very long time. The most recent date was from one of the police cars. It showed Peters with a woman poking her head out of the passenger window. The woman wasn't Christine. Meg tightened her jaw and gritted her teeth.
Before diving in further, she thought about what she was about to do. She was ready to sink her teeth into a real story, a story that would recognize her as someone to be reckoned with in the journalism industry. The only thing holding her back was what Christine would think. How she would feel when her former boyfriend would be revealed as even more of a playboy than he was yesterday. Or did she already know?
The fact that such a story would greatly disrespect a now dead man, was lost to her. Meg could feel a kind of heat, anger growing in her stomach. There would only be one time to expose him before his name was no longer a hot topic. Suddenly, she wanted to expose him as revenge. She found herself hating him. Hating that anything had ever happened between him and Christine even as Christine admitted familiarity and brief happiness once things started to pick up for her life. Maybe if she could reveal this story quick, be the one with all of the information on hand, she could avoid her friend being found by anyone of worth.
Meg started to read the papers before her. Some of them were dead bills. One was a banking agreement between Phillip and Raoul over funds for his first election. It was then that the world stopped. That was illegal. There before her was proof that the soon to be Vice President Phillip Tusk had performed illegal activities while in office. Other letters were read quickly; letters between Raoul and his family. Proof of his family shaming him and telling him what his future would be. Most of which all came from Phillip.
Things like this happened all the time. That was no secret. It was that she had specific proof in front of her so long as it could be proven. Big was not an appropriate word before her. History Changing was what came to mind. She would be accusing the American government, the Vice President of the United States of America for fraud.
This story would make her career. This story would make her life.
XIV
The look that Christine received from Dr Underwood was the exact look that she was praying she wouldn't see as soon as she walked through the door to his house for their lesson. Christine knew what she looked like. She knew that Hell and she had been battling over whether her face would ever have any color left to it after having had thrown up all of her lunch.
"It was the chicken," she retorted before he could say anything, "I saw it…again. If it was chicken at all."
"Open your mouth."
"What?"
"And get into the light."
Underwood started to edge her towards the fire and with the close proximity of his body alone, she began to stumble her way into the study. When she was in front of the fire, thinking that was where he wanted her, she saw him pulling out his phone and turning on the flashlight making her wince. He closed in on her again and she stepped back.
"What are you-"
"Let me see your throat." He said plainly and without emotion.
"No. That's-"
"Goddammit, woman!" He boomed, "I told you the Chinese was a mistake!"
"Fine!" She threw her hands up in the air at the absurdity of it all.
After giving a dramatic eye roll, Christine opened her mouth wide. Fortunately, Underwood didn't have to look long to audibly sigh and walk out of the room. After a few moments of his steps echoing down the hall, she poked her head around to catch his shadow was passing into the kitchen. Water was running. Metal clinked against glass. When she saw his shadow move back towards her, she slipped back into the light of the study. He was in front of her all too quickly.
"Go to the bathroom. Take this," he handed her what looked like a half-full cup of what looked like water, "Do the following three times each: There is enough for three exchanges of water here. Swish the water around your mouth, each for a minute each then spit it out. Don't be a fool and swallow it."
Christine swished the clear liquid around, "What is it?"
"Expect the taste of salt."
"Is that what it-"
"Will you stop babbling and go!"
Christine drudgingly followed Underwood's instructions as he told her to do. The taste of salt was present, but there was a strange bitterness that came with the taste as well. As she swished the liquid around her mouth, she took notice of the light grey painted walls and black granite sink and toilet. There was no mirror on the wall and there appeared to be no existence of one from before. She almost wondered if it was hidden somewhere. She didn't mind. She didn't want to look at herself anyway.
When she was done, she found Underwood in the study looking at his painting above the fireplace. His hands were clutched behind his back and he stood straight, his mask shined towards her. The burning feeling in her throat was no longer present and she had only noticed it just then.
"How is your throat?" he asked quietly.
"It…feels a lot better." She replies honestly, "What-"
"No matter. You'll be fine. Stop talking."
That was easy enough to do. She watched him as he stared at the painting. It was as if he could see the entire scene that was frozen before him take life and play out. There was something about his interest in the painting that made her want to see just what he was seeing. The painting looked just as it always had to her and as she was about to turn to sit on the sofa, his voice stopped her.
"As part of your education," he was looking at her now and she fought the impulse to step backwards, "I want to re-expose you to real music. Each week, you will rest your voice and attend a performance of some sort. I will arrange the tickets and have already started to create a schedule of events. They will typically fall on Friday or Sunday nights, but as this case was unexpected, I believe it will be better for this audible education to start tonight."
"With…?"
"Enough talking from you!" He snapped," Now, sit down and stay quiet." He looked at her for a second, then quickly turned to the desk. Sitting on the side of his desk, he tapped on the top with his finger. A small screen lit up against his hand. He appeared to be typing something in with a single long thin hand, scrolling, then typing again. Seeming satisfied, he looked up to her again, "I think the first step for you will be to confront hearing the violin again. Make yourself comfortable. This will not be short."
Christine slowly retreated to the couch. A scowl crossed her face as she sat down. It was like he already took ownership of everything having to do with her voice from her lungs to her ears. She watched as he made his way to the desk again, making contact with the top and sliding one finger forward. A dim light emitted again from the top of the desk and hit his white mask lightly. He appeared to be scrolling through a list of electronic music. The visible side of his mouth twitched a little and he clicked at something with the tip of his finger.
Music began to pour into the room. It wasn't a wave. It wasn't a drip. It felt a flood of feeling bursting from every crack that was invisible to her, but all too apparent was the sound that ran into her, forcing her under beyond ability to breathe. The music seized her, stealing her breath, and forcing death upon her. Her eyes were shut, her body was cramped together on the couch, all in the attempt to try to lessen the impact of the pain that came with the force of the sounds.
That sound. She had taken it from her memory. She had destroyed it, blocked it, and kept it out, but this…her barriers were all in pieces. And there was so much pain. The feeling of her now collapsed lungs hit her and when she gasped for the breath that felt like would be her last, tears fell from her eyes. The violin played on, accompanied by other strings, an orchestra, all building, all hurting her with each stroke of the bow. Her hands clutched her ears, wishing to tear them off, but knowing that it would do no good.
And as soon as it had begun, it was all over. There was silence. No. There was the sound of her breathing. Shaking and breathing.
"That was a piece by James Newton Howard. The Gravel Road. Do you know who that is?"
"I don't care," she spit, her hands still cupped over her ears.
"I believe you are in denial. No matter, for now." He snapped back at her. "Another piece to make you care, then."
Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him search for something else.
"No. No, no, no." She forced out of her throat, "I don't want anymore."
"We'll keep going."
Another piece blared around her, the same process as before. She felt death again.
"No!" she screamed.
"Keep listening," he projected above the music without needing to yell.
Christine looked straight up to him with tired tears streaming down her face. He was still across the room but was keeping eye contact with her movements and reactions as if she were prey. It was torture. Torture she no longer felt a need to endure. She found her feet, shooting what energy she had left out through an accusatory finger pointing his way.
"You can't make me take this! I've been through enough today!"
"What's one day in the course of a life?" He continued to speak loud and clear over the music, "Why put it off another day?"
She shook her head, "I don't want to listen to you. Turn this off now!"
"Why?" He shrugged, but the action seemed forced, "Why choose fight when flight is within such easy accessibility?"
"You're making me stay!"
He motioned casually, "The door, Ms Gallagher. I will not be accused of falsities."
She stood and she almost noticed him flinch, "I don't need to prove anything to you!"
Underwood crosses his arms over his chest, "You're acting as if you do."
"TURN IT OFF!"
With a raised eyebrow, he complied and they were left with tense silence. No cars from the street, no nightlife from outside, not even the sound of the crack of fire had faded out sometime during the song. The feeling was making its way back to her senses and she wrapped her arms around herself as a haunting chill had crept into the room.
"This is how you've been existing, isn't it?" Underwood asked quietly, "Turning everything off that you can't control. Living in the town that's known best for lies and refutation. How does it feel to know you found the very place that suits everybody else who is running from something?"
"It's called survival."
"Indeed it is. Yet, how powerful would you be if this 'survival' became living?"
"What does me being able to listen to music have to do with power? The music industry is listened to and hardly heard."
He laced his hands over his lap once he leaned on the desk. "Think less what the issue is, and more of what could be done once it's gone. How does your throat feel?"
She lifted a hand to her neck in disbelief, "It feels…much better."
"And think how much more awful this situation would be if you could not properly yell to get your point across. A minor issue to fix, but a major addition to your needs for this evening."
Christine looked away from him, towards the fire that was no longer emitting a glow. A shiver crossed her shoulders. His legs came into vision, stopping just before the fireplace. He cleared his throat and her eyes went back to his.
"I'll make you a deal for the rest of the evening. You stay and listen to one last piece and I will let you depart early. I'll even light the fire again to make it more enjoyable for you."
"And if I don't take this deal?"
He seemed somewhat amused and smirked, "Well, why wouldn't you?"
Slowly, with anger in every movement, she retreated to the couch. Without difficulty, he waved his hand near the fireplace and the fire came back. Her gaze stayed with the fire longer then she meant it to. Was that a trick? What? Was he a magician now? Then, instead of going towards the desk, he veered toward to right of it, a corner. She couldn't see exactly how he made a violin case appear from what looked like a row of books, but somehow he did and was placing the case on the desk. Her eyes narrowed as he unlocked the clasped.
"Did you research mention that I have a particular weakness for strings, Ms Gallagher?"
"No," she whispered.
At this point, she was merely intrigued. Why would he play for her? Was he any good? If he was terrible, that would have been better. Somehow, she felt that there was no way such an emotionless, cruel character could have enough love and feeling to properly play anything besides lies and politics. He positioned the violin on his shoulders and she held her breath.
"Wikipedia leaves out plenty of interesting details, doesn't it?"
Before Christine could answer, Underwood pulled the bow across the strings and that one finely tuned noted vexed her into silent submission. His notes were not as harsh as the recording had been, no, they were almost kind, like a lullaby, silent and peaceful. The song was lost to her, she had never heard it before, and she listened as his hands embraced the strings, moving the bow to embrace every piece with an individual relationship. It was beautiful and she did not feel the pain that she had felt from before. When the music had slowly faded away, she found herself missing it.
"Another?" he whispered.
"Yes," she replied without hesitation.
She stayed. She listened. Her thoughts drifted to a time when she was seven and had to get stitches on her knee after tripping and hitting the side of a pool when she was at a friend's party. Tears were unstoppable, her father holding one hand, her mother holding the other, a friendly children's doctor in front of her holding a long needle in his hand.
"Now Christine this is going to sting, but once the sting is gone, you won't feel that nasty hurt anymore."
She screamed and screamed, the needle went straight into the wound and the burn flashed in her brain. Just as she was sure her leg was ready to fall off, all the feeling was gone. In fact, she started to feel happy and air-headed. The world became a little hazy. When she gained feeling back in her leg, she looked down to find the doctor smoothing ointment over the now stitched up knee.
"I bet that feels better now, doesn't it sweetie? Your parents are going to make sure that you get all better. Be sure the receptionist gives you whatever color lollypop you want on the way out. You deserve it!"
The buzz of her phone woke her up. She found herself curled up on the couch, a hand over the very knee she was dreaming out. In her dreariness, she thought how that ointment had helped to reduce the scaring, how without the immediate pain she had endured, the remnants of that day would have left a much greater effect on her skin. Reaching for the phone in her pocket and seeing that it was Meg, she took a quick glance around the room. Underwood was gone.
"Hey hon," she heard Meg say after Christine grunted a cheap 'hello',
"God, you sound rough. How are you?"
"I…" Christine was getting up, preparing to catch Underwood watching her from somewhere.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing I just…" she began to whisper, "I fell asleep."
"That's probably a good thing, hon."
Her eyes darted from corner to corner. Nothing. "Yeah…right."
"Is something up?"
She couldn't shake the feeling that he was watching her even if she couldn't see him.
"No, um, I just, I should go to bed. Not sleep…here." Christine was standing and making her way to the hall.
"Are you at someone else's house?"
Christine signed angrily at how excited her friend was, "Can I call you later, please?"
"Oh my god, you scandalous thing!" Meg said, her voice reaching higher pitches and Christine had to pull the phone away from her ear to try and save it from deafness.
A hand flew to her forehead, "It's not that, no I just, ugh I really can't talk now."
"You're safe?"
"Yeah yeah, I'll call you later, bye." With that, she hung up. Still not seeing her host anywhere, she quietly made her way to leave. Dressing in her coat and outerwear, a quiet shift behind her made her turn. Underwood stood behind her in shadow.
"Um. Hello." She said sheepishly, "I didn't mean to-"
"I am sure you didn't." He offered evenly.
"I'm uh, going to go now."
"Good. It is best that no one sees you emerge once it's daylight." He rose a finger to his chin and cocked his head to the side, "Otherwise the neighbors will get the wrong idea, won't they?"
She narrowed her eyes, "Right. So, bye."
"Till tomorrow evening. Rest your voice so that we may get the real work done."
"Right. Right."
And with that, she left into the glowing winter night. Her mind drifted as her feet hit the snow beneath her with hard crunches. There were other footprints in the snow that were from the day. A smaller pair with two larger pairs beside it caught her eye. For a moment, she stopped and watched the footprints stretch farther until turning a corner and going out of sight. She could almost see the small family and in doing so, saw her own.
It had been so long since she associated herself with having a family. When Meg said otherwise, the words had threatened to break her heart all over again. Meg was who she had left now. Meg was her only family and whatever happened, she wouldn't lose her small family. Come Hell, high water, or whatever, no one else would die on Christmas so long as she had anything to do with it.
What a curse. What an awful, awful curse. First her mother not coming home to take the turkey out in time, then her father apologizing for not being able to buy her the earrings she said she wanted, and finally, Raoul gifting her with unemployment. Her thoughts finally drifted back to Raoul. Poor, poor Raoul who despite all odds and terrible words concerning her, he still gave her a chance. She broke her back for him, not out of love, but out of loyalty and he was always so kind to her. There was a way that he could smile with his eyes when he saw her in the office. He would joke with her about old times and even could make her smile when he brought up her father.
No one else she knew could bring back her father the way he could. He told her how he liked listening to him play and how he would never admit it to anyone else, but he even liked listening to him to read to her at the pool. "I always thought how great it would be to be in a family like yours," he had said, "I never had much of one myself. You're lucky."
Tears welled in her eyes at the thought.
"I don't feel so lucky, Raoul," she said quietly to the wind.
Trudging on, she recalled when he had first asked her to dinner. She truly thought that it was for her to brief him on the next financial bill, even as he told her it was casual. The entire dinner, she kept trying to shift back to work subjects until he finally took her hand and told her the truth that he liked her and wanted to spend more time with her like they used to do. She couldn't believe it. Shock was prevalent and he nearly laughed. Afterwards, Raoul offered to take her to a pool if it meant her opening up to him again. She finally laughed and he kissed her before dropping her off at her house.
He was a different man when he had too much to drink and she had too often researched the effects of alcoholism running within families. The combination of being with his family must have been insufferable. She was sure that he hadn't passed out by the beach on purpose. All his life he had pressed on to do whatever they asked him to do, despite them hardly being there for him. No, he was not honorable or truthful or even good, but Christine saw that he tried and for that, and for the ties to her past, she stayed with him.
Raoul really did care about people. He cared very much about those in the office even if they were terrible at their jobs. Often times he would get behind on his work because he wanted to check in on others to see how their families and friends were. It wasn't to pry, it was because it cared about them. Christine saw a part of him that wasn't cut out for politics and that part was his genuine care for others above himself. It was seen as a weakness in the House and he worked hard to hide it when in session.
How strange life had been to Christine. How oddly things had turned out. Tears would be shed for Raoul again. He was a part of the happiness that was her childhood. However, she wasn't as sad as she could be. As much as she was uncertain of her surroundings, these singing lessons were something to take her mind off of things. Regardless of how much she wanted to say otherwise, her time with Underwood was a rare time where she felt completely present with her life. When he had played for her, she wasn't too far in the future or too lost in the past, she was right there in that moment.
No one else could fix her life, but she had to admit that letting Underwood help her back on her feet may not be the worst thing in the world when she had been through so much already.
XIV
Ms Gallagher has fallen asleep. She had actually fallen asleep. That was…not exactly what he had been expecting. Erik sat at his desk watching as snow blew off the tops of neighboring trees and houses from the window across the room. He had watched her scamper out into the cold night from that very seat and his eyes never managed to leave it. The thought crossed his mind on whether she would make it back to her house safely or not. The second thought he had was, Why do I care?
Rather than being the casual sarcastic question, asking himself why he cared to help the poor girl was something very honest and he had to remind himself to be aware of the thought. She was young, close-minded, and naive to her talent. He had never been one to take such interest or worse, pity, on someone who could virtually offer him nothing. There was the possibility he could make a profit off of her talent in time, but that would take a lot of time and babysitting. He was at the point of snatching good talent that was already there, but to take so much effort on a broken girl like Christine? Never... Never before.
Such questions had been knocking his brain and somehow it was only after seeing her sleep did he allow them to come forth. When he finally looked up from his violin, he found her leaning against the arm of the couch, her knees up to her chin like a child's, one arm on the back of her seat, the other wrapped tightly to her feet. Her eyes were shut, her mouth barely parted, and her low ponytail lay over her shoulder. His playing ended mid-song when he saw this. This couldn't be happening. That couch was not comfortable enough and his house wasn't a hotel.
Setting the violin down, he tried to make judgement calls on how best it would be to wake her. It was not common for him to have to do such a thing. If Doug were here, Erik would make him do it. For a moment, the thought of calling his aid to wake her up for him. Never mind, too much to explain all over again. And so the problem continued as Erik watched the young Ms Gallagher sleep.
She hadn't worn any makeup that night. Her blonde eyelashes shown their natural color for once and did not hide the redness around her eyes. All those tears and mess for a man worth nothing but the money of this parents. Everyone knew that old money had been draining the family stepped from investing the closer they came to drinks and parties. Phillip was the only one left of worth between them. It would be a pity to exploit him. In the game of politics, it was nothing personal, just playing the diversion for the public.
How did a young woman like Christine Gallagher get mixed up in this? She must have known how much she didn't belong in this place. She didn't belong in the heartless world of politics. There was a kind of simplicity when she slept, there must have been something of worth to save within a person like this, right? Erik shook his head. This was nonsense. All of it was. There was no point in any of this, but amusement. Was watching a girl sleep amusing? No. It was sick. Did that make him just as sick? There he was doing just that. But he couldn't move. There was nothing further to do.
No, Christine Gallagher did not belong in the world of Washington D.C. There was nothing for someone like her, someone who broke so easily at the sounds of quality music. It would be necessary to keep her away from all of that, to keep her outside of how distrait the place was. He would need to keep her practising longer, need to keep her focusing on something that was good for her, to keep her out of the mess, of the world that could hurt her.
Erik came to the realization of something. She was not in pain before him. She was not suffering from the outside or from death or anything the outside could throw at her. So long as she could stay there with him, she would be safe.
"This is fucking madness." He spoke clearly out loud into the air.
There was loan moan from Christine as she briefly held her eyes tighter. Erik froze. Now he would be responsible for staring at her when she woke up. She would be confused. She would ask too many questions. She… No, she was still asleep. Erik released this much with a quiet sigh. Madness. Madness this was, indeed.
When she finally woke, which didn't take too long, he made himself scarce. She took a phone call and was careful to leave out any details. He imaged it was her journalist friend. Didn't Barnes have somewhere rather specific to be soon? When the conversation ended, he made himself known and showed her out.
He couldn't deny it, Christine Gallagher was turning out to be more than a simple amusement for him.
How do you think their interactions are coming along? Review.
