Disclaimer: Me? Own this loverly tale of Phantomyness? –bursts out in hysterical laughter-
A/N: And we finally get a bit of Erik's perspective. Yey!
"Eight?" he asked quietly. She grinned.
"Eight. And you will have fun. I guarantee it."
That had been Thursday. It was Friday now, and Erik was pacing his diminutive room, trying to figure a way out of what he had agreed to. Back and forth he went, every step growing heavier than the last as it dawned on him that Christine Daaè knew exactly where he lived and would not be letting up on him anytime soon.
He'd seen her last in Madame Giry's class, as usual, and she had shot him a secret little smile, pointing at her wrist and mouthing, "Eight."
Behind his protective shadow, he'd blushed. Why couldn't she be like other girls? Forgetful and ditzy, those were the types he preferred to be around; they usually ignored him, stirred nothing whatsoever in his nervous heart.
Christine stirred something.
He grimaced at his watch. Five-thirty. He couldn't stay here any longer, not without trouble from his father. And trouble was the last thing he needed on a day like this one.
Leaving his refuge, he took the stairs at a brisk pace and found his way out into sunlight. He squinted in the unusual brightness and pulled his coat instinctively around himself. It was hot, but years of dressing in layers had conditioned him for such weather and it barely annoyed him. The sunlight, on the other hand…he was convinced that sunlight would never stop getting on his nerves.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of doubt…,he thought idly, hands in his pockets. An elderly woman shot him a strange look; he didn't bother smiling back. Time and time again he'd tried that approach, only to be stuffed each time.
Dogs yapped at him. Children stared and yelled at their parents: "Look at that boy, Mommy! Why is he dressed like that?"
If they only knew why he wore what he did. If they only knew what he was protecting them from…
But no one knew. No one outside of his immediate family and Madame Giry, anyway, and he was intent on keeping it that way. Why share your feelings with a world that will only desert you in the end?
Would Christine desert him? He assumed so; all one had was oneself in life. Still, the knowledge that she would one day abandon him, after she'd been so kind, made him feel sick inside. As if his heart was in a vice and that vice was squeezing tighter, tighter—
What am I supposed to wear The panicked thought rose above all the others, a shriek amidst a steady drone. Christine had said a party, right? What kind of party? It was a Friday night…so probably a simple bash, thrown by the idiot preps of the school. Erik's lip curled at the memory of the school's football team, raised onto the shoulders of the flock and carried around like Egyptian royalty.
What a waste of time.
This party would most likely turn out to be a waste of time too, but there was no way out. Christine had blocked off every exit he had, save for fleeing the country. Besides, there was no way he was staying home with his father tonight. Not on Friday…not when the booze flew and the friends came to call.
Shaking his head, Erik made his way up his driveway and through the side door of his home. No car in said driveway—good. That meant Dad was out still, probably working. If Erik was lucky, he'd be gone before the man returned and back after he had passed out on the couch.
His bedroom was in the basement. The safest place, as far as he was concerned; no sunlight, no way of anyone entering without him hearing. As much of a sanctuary as one could hope for in a small brick house with no panic room.
Tossing his bag on the bed, he sighed and looked around. He would not change his clothing, not for this party. That would complicate things too much. But he would shower; Christine deserved that much of a courtesy.
How many people was she talking about? he wondered as he went into his bathroom and turned on the hot water. Five? Eight? Twenty? Erik hated crowds almost as much as they hated him. He wished he had thought to ask her the specific number that he'd have to contend with. All. Night. Long.
He shed his heavy clothing and, carefully avoiding the mirror, stepped under the spray. His face, sweaty from being concealed for yet another day, thrilled at the sensation of air and fresh water against the skin. He washed his hair quickly, then got out, toweled off, and re-donned the shirt, hoodie, jeans and jacket. His hair was still damp; annoyed, he kept the hood off and searched for a hair dryer.
The shaggy dark locks fell into his eyes as he plugged the appliance in and kept as far from his reflection as possible. Two minutes and he was free to throw up his hood once more, hiding himself not only from the world but from…himself. He didn't want to see his own face again, not now, not ever.
How do you go about your life when you hate yourself? The thought appeared in mind, mocking him. He banished it as quickly as he could.
Time check: Six-eighteen. He had two hours to do nothing.
"Terrific," he muttered to himself. "Reading time."
Picking up a thin vampire novel, he scanned the cover of Amelia Atwater-Rhodes' Shattered Mirror. A title he could identify with, he mused darkly as he settled back onto his bed and opened the book. This would do nicely to pass the time.
A/N: Okay, another shorty. I'm sorry, I just can't stay away!
Review Replies:
MadameAngel- I'm glad you like it so much. That makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside!
Totschafe- Aww, don't explode! Here, have another chapter!