Touch. Such a simple, common thing, completely taken for granted. I never really thought that much into it. Modest kisses upon the hand, a reassuring pat on the shoulder, were all ordinary parts of my every day life. And now, how foreign, how sensual it felt.
Touch. His touch.
The only physical bridge built between us was crossed at my fingertips, moving ever so slightly upon Erik's hand. Yet, that simple, ordinary touch felt extraordinary in the strangest sense. There was almost an energy, a pulsing electric current that ran through us, sending stimulating pricks up and down my spine.
His eyes slowly slid close, and I knew, that He too, had felt it. I took the opportunity to look, to actually observe Erik without the threat of being caught in my uncouthly blatant trance. He seemed different now. The danger, that underlying threatening composition that He acquired was still there, and very presently displayed by the way His teeth were bared and gritted, but there was something unusual about Him. Perhaps it had always been there and I was just too distracted, too diverted to take notice. It's true that He was of tall build with commending musculature, but I had always regarded it as a way to flaunt power and authority. Now, it was attractive, in a way. With all the mixed emotions running through my frenzied head, I wondered to myself if I was actually making any sense.
Every limb, every curve, arc, and bend in His body seemed to ooze sensuality. Seemed to exude passion. A dark, alluring, almost sexual power throbbed from Him, shadowing my doubts and insecurities about His motives. Did I even care anymore?
I was entranced, captive to His spell. I ached, I actually felt pain from the want, no, the need to touch.
My eyes were aflame with such raw emotion, and my feet grew impatient and heavy. I shifted my weight to the balls of my feet, so that I was leaning forward a bit more. This caused Erik to open His eyes, and upon seeing me in my rather unusual state, cast me a curious look. For a second, I thought I saw His own eyes return the feeling, the want, the need. My hopes were soon extinguished.
I had no doubt in my mind that Erik recognized my abrupt desire, and when He carefully brought His free hand up to cover mine, I almost screamed in delight. His hand wrapped around my wrist and removed it from His other. It dropped to my side heavily, and hung limp with disappointment. I opened my mouth to protest, but Erik brought His fingers to my lips, and pressed them closed.
His finger traced the curve of my upper lip with so much tenderness, so much of Himself going into the seemingly simple action. His brow furrowed, and He drew in a shaky breath, whipping His hand away from my mouth.
"Go," He whispered.
"But, Erik I-"
"Go to your room!" His voice rose to a high pitch, and I shook at the sound resonating off the walls in the Great Room.
Instead of turning around, I stepped forward, so confused and intrigued by His behavior, He pulled me forth. His hands flew in front of Him, commanding me to stop, trying to ward me off like some sort of unholy entity.
His voice was frantic now, and I could hear the cracking in His tone, "Go now! Alessandra, leave me!"
He looked on the verge of madness, backing away from me, eyes wide with fear. I felt so helpless, so unwanted, I had no choice but to comply with His demand.
I turned around and dashed to the door, flinging it open and slamming it closed behind me. I pressed my back against it, my palms lie flat on either side of my hips, steadying my shaky frame. Though my breaths were raspy and hurried, I still heard it.
Pressing one ear to the door to confirm, my hand covered my mouth in both surprise and horror.
They say that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. That a fragrant whiff of a treasured aroma can draw out some of your fondest, oldest memories. Can take you back to the innocence of childhood, when mothers would bake sweets for their children, when I would run barefoot into our kitchen in the villa, begging my mother to help her cook. A stroll among gardens, with seasoned flowers clouding your mind in a perfumed haze, stimulating your nose with the pungency.
But with memories, the good must also coincide with the not-so-good. Smells of cheap parfum and breath laden with alcohol also occupy my remembrance. Disconcerting scents of dried perspiration and polluted bed sheets can trigger the most scarring of experiences.
Memories. So, so many of them. Some affectionate, warm, comforting. Some horrific, so unmentionable you pray them erased from your mind completely. But they are there nonetheless, and there they will remain. Forever present, stirring, lurking, stalking.
And yet, as I stand here, smell, sight, taste, touch, seem completely worthless. They cease to exist in my small world inside this modest boudoir, for in this seemingly normal place, something sinister lurks outside it. In this room, all senses, all memories, all feelings are gone. I can only hear.
Sound is the strongest recollection. For as long as I live, as long as I remain breathing on this Earth, I will not forget what I heard on the other side of that door. And I have no doubt that when I die, wherever I am to end up, that noise will haunt me. Pursuing my spirit to the height of the Heavens and seduce it down to the depths of Hell.
Music. The most captivatingly assaulting music that had ever graced my ears surrounded me. I could hear the organ's pipes swell with the melody, the titillating notes slicing through the damp air of the cavern, and coming to rest at the threshold of my door. I could feel it trace a path into my body, I could literally feel it taking over. It felt like being pricked by a thousand needles, never cutting too deep to actually cause harm, but deep enough to scar. Such passion, such fervor emanated from it, the music was tangible. It had to be real. Corporeal enough that I wanted to touch it, wanted to feel it against my own skin. It consumed me, beckoned me to follow it. To know it. To trust it.
I began clawing frantically at the door handle, fumbling to open it. I let out a frustrated scream of agitation upon realization that it was locked, He must have locked it earlier.
Was this another punishment?
To dangle such a beguiling, enthralling thing mere feet from where I stand, but to prevent me from really experiencing it was an entire different kind of torture. I would have gladly served countless sentences in that forest wasteland than spend one more second being tempted and teased with this melody.
My hands clamped around my ears, trying to thwart away the vicious notes that pounded repeatedly into my head. Over and over I cried to stop, but still He played. I sank to the floor, a puddle of flesh sprawled across the chilling concrete, shuddering to the rhythm. I stopped screaming, simply gave up and let the music control. I closed my eyes and took several long, trembling breaths. It was no use.
The music seemed to have reached its crescendo now, and with the final notes, the needle plunged directly, deeply into my heart.
As quickly as the song had started, it had ended, now being replaced by an entire different tune. Emotion in its rawest form seeped from the Great Room, trickling through the cracks in the door. Entering my room, slowly but still strikingly.
I lay there motionless, the calm after the storm. I blinked my eyes quite profusely, urging my body to come out of this spellbinding trance.
The sound was so different now. It was not explicit, not darkly tantalizing. It did not mockingly stir my passionate desires like the previous song. It was sad and mournful. Like a rueful requiem composed from the dimmest depths of one's heart. Each stanza telling part of a story, weaving unspoken words into a tangled web of tragedy. As the music slowly began to fade, the power it had over me slowly began to dissipate also. I sat up, supporting my weight with my arms spread out in front of me. Conscious, rational thought began again, and I feared what my own mind would make of this incident.
The contrast between the two symphonies was alarming, and instead of reflecting on the effects of the sounds, I instantly thought of Erik.
What had I done to spark this, to set Him in such a mood?
I thought of Him hunched over the organ, His elegant hands gliding over the ivory keys as He played. Caressing them as He would a lover, with such tenderness and care. And I was jealous.
Jealous of something I would never have, something I never could have. Something that I was never supposed to have, but something that I now realized I wanted.