A/N: Thanks again to all readers and reviewers! I'm thrilled that everyone seems to be liking my little story so far. I hope not to disappoint as it continues.
One very important aspect of reviews is, of course, the constructive criticism it affords. My main goal, apart from trying to give you something good to read, is to improve my writing. That said, I'd be delighted to receive any and all comments, criticisms, likes and dislikes about any aspect of the writing itself. Anybody who has any input on such technical details can feel free to say something in a review or email me (at the address listed in my fanfic profile). Thanks again for reading!
Also, sorry to confuse, but I'm changing this back to a PG-13 rating. I was a little worried that I'd be reported and kicked off of fanfic for the drugs and burgeoning sexual suggestiveness, but apparently a story is all but invisible with an R rating.
Chapter 5: From Dreams to Reality
Morning broke, though the world was dark as always when Christine awoke. Her head felt heavy and her body tingled, and she dimly remembered how ill she had been last night and how unusually quickly Erik's medicine had taken effect. Something had been different about that draught-it must have been much stronger than normal-but for good or bad, Christine was undisturbed by his decision. Since the night of the scorpion, that last fateful night that she saw the moon and stars, Erik had filled her with nothing but revulsion. But despite these feelings, she found that she was beginning to trust his judgment and took whatever he gave her without hesitation. In her eyes, his motivations had always been extremely questionable, immoral even. But his reasoning now dictated the path of her life. She had no choice, really, but to put faith in his judgment; there was nobody left to turn to. And so if Erik had thought that a heavy dose of laudanum was necessary, she would accept his decision without question.
There had been something else, though, last night, that lingered in her memory. At first she had thought it a dream and nothing more, but as the drowsiness left her and her normal facilities returned, she began to realize that it had been real.
Erik had gone out, and stayed away for far too long. Normally he would appear in her room around five o'clock in the evening with a supper tray and perhaps something to entertain her-a new book, or a ribbon for her hair. Exactly one hour later, he would reappear with her wine mixture and wait patiently for her to drink the contents entirely before clearing away her dishes and tidying the room. Last night, however, five o'clock came and went, then six, and still Erik had not appeared. By eight, Christine began to feel sick and several hours later she had become so ill that she could no longer see the clock or listen for the footsteps that would bring her relief. When he did finally arrive, she wondered if he wasn't a figment of her overexcited mind and was startled when he touched her.
The draught finally came, and she was so agitated that he had to administer it. As his hands moved near her mouth, she smelled the death upon them, yet for the first time she tolerated it. That ghastly stench that had always disgusted her signified the arrival of the bitter wine and it was less acute by far than her need for relief. But though her physical sickness passed, relief did not come. The world dropped away, and she entered a fog of fleeting images and lucid dreams, but tonight they were threatening and tangled.
She struggled through these apparitions for time out of mind until she witnessed the most vivid and remarkable vision: there in her doorway, in this very house on the lake, stood Raoul, his blond hair shining like cut hay in the summer sun and his pale face radiant with love and desire. Desire! She felt it too. And in this place removed from all human eyes, and in this dilapidated addicted state, she embraced that desire without shame or compunction. She spoke and he came to her, and although he had held her in her dreams countless times before somehow that night it felt as if it were really happening. The arms of a human man were around her and the desperate beating of a heart was in her ear. It seemed so real, and she delighted in these physical sensations after being so long cut off from life. The beautiful smooth features of her lover held her serenely but she longed to see them fill with passion. Wouldn't a kiss draw out his fervor? So she asked knowing he could not refuse her and he looked at her, his countenance placid though his eyes burned, and touched his face. But when he drew back his hand, it was no longer Raoul, but something indistinct and confusing, though the same heart still beat beneath her hand. And time passed but the vision lingered, then disappeared behind closing eyes and was replaced by a hot mouth full of new sensations and life! There was reality rising up to claim her, and it was magnificent, better than any dream could be, and she embraced it with utter joy.
The strange face pulled away suddenly, but the pulse in her skin remained where he had touched her. And she knew the same fire overcame him, for he returned and kissed her with passion and his hands wandered impatiently as she surrendered to the fervid sensations.
She hadn't asked who this man was. In her mind, he had been Raoul, come back from the world above to claim her once more. But now, as she remembered with a clear head, she knew that the man had been real, though it wasn't Raoul. There was only one person who it could have been. Surely it was Erik, and as she thought of it, another memory began to surface: a memory of the smell of death, filling her nose, lingering in her mouth. The monster had touched her! Kissed her! And at her request. Christine shuddered to think of it, and shame and disgust washed over her. His monstrous lips on hers, his decayed flesh grabbing and pinching, his yellow nails digging into her shoulders and hips. The horrific beast had almost consumed her, and she hated him more as she remembered that she had wanted him to touch her, that in her secret heart she wanted even now to feel that simple contact again.
What a terrible thing: to be torn between desire and repulsion! How contradictory and implacable. Could she ever lower herself to claim the only joy offered to her in this macabre existence? Could she ever stomach the sight of him again?
Three short knocks sounded on her bedroom door and before she could prepare herself in any way, it opened and the monster entered. Christine sat up, but gathered the blankets around her and pulled them up over her chest. He carried her lunch tray and set it down on the dressing table as if nothing were out of the ordinary, though he did not look at her as he passed. There was something else in his hands, she noticed, and he paused, looking at it, for a few moments, before approaching her. It was a small parcel, wrapped in bright paper, and as he set it next to her on the bed, his closeness and the terrible smell that it brought filled her with such disgust that she rushed from the room, overwhelmed with nausea, and became sick, frustrated and crying in the little bathroom. She heard his cry of dismay, but did not care. He deserved to see her in this state that he had caused-she wanted to punish him, to make him to suffer as she did now. When he timidly touched her back, she screamed, sobbing:
"Don't touch me, monster!" And she turned to see through bleary eyes, the effect of her words. Fear and panic radiated from him, and she could tell, despite the mask, that his hideous face was contorted and stricken. He stood dumb, unsure of what to do, like a dog that had been beaten by its master. But even his proximity was hateful, and she shouted "Get out, get out, get out," continuing even after he had left.
But then the tears stopped and she stood and moved. The parcel that he had brought was on her bed and she opened it. A card read "For my darling bride, who has filled my lonely life with music, on our three month anniversary." The box contained a glass figurine of a songbird, but vengeful and bitter, she threw it in the fire grate, where it shattered.
For hours she walked, pacing her room and thinking. She remembered the prim teachings of her moral upbringing and felt shame. She remembered all that Erik had stolen from her, and she felt hatred. She remembered the horror and shock that overcame her the first time she saw his face, and felt betrayed. But the memory of human contact and intimacy, and the happiness it produced, would not be pushed aside. And in this miserable tomb, where morals were of no use, and nothing was simple and beautiful, her shame and disgust could not overcome her desire.
Hours later, when she was once more in the opiate grip, the unpleasant feelings faded and the confusion disappeared. In this incapacitated state, she felt no responsibility for her actions and could accept her disturbing cravings without guilt or shame. When Erik appeared in her doorway after the medicine had taken affect, shoulders hunched and red eyed, she willfully forgot what was terrible and remembered only what was pleasurable. He took her outstretched hand; it did not feel cold, nor did it reek of death and his corpse's skin glowed golden, like parchment in candlelight. And as he held her and pressed his face into her hair and sobbed, the delightful reality of the contact overwhelmed her once more, and she forgot the monster that she surrendered to.
