The Dead

There were sounds. White noise, mostly. The creak of a door opening begrudgingly on its hinges, the occasional chirp of a bird, and the ocean.

Wait – the ocean? Christine was slowly pulled out of unconsciousness by the soft flurry of sound travelling through her ears and tickling the nerves in her brain. Wake up, they said. It's morning.

Before she opened her eyes, she saw through the pink curtains of her closed lids, and felt the faint drumming inside her head alerting her that something was amiss. Her hand twitched and she opened her eyes.

Blurred vision coupled with the persistent pounding of a headache and the general grogginess that follows any waking sleeper like fog descending upon a graveyard made for immediate, dazed confusion. It smells good, she thought druggedly, like pine wooden floors and impatiens. She was immediately reminded of sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace as a child and watching her father play the violin as one would stroke an adored lover. It had always smelled like pine, and her father, of light sweat and pungent spice. She didn't know why she had thought of that.

Stretching lazily, she found that her hands would not move. Looking up, she was dismayed and a little angered to find that her wrists were bound to the headrest. Cherry mahogany – this isn't mine. Velvet scarves – Erik. He had wanted to tie me up last night. Erik drugged me, I was on a train. He said he loves me. We ate dinner. He said he would take me to – to Spain?

More alert now as realization dawned, she glanced around the room, quickly scanning the rich tapestry, furniture and open bay window swathed in cream gauzy curtains. Outside was a yard flanked by giant gardenia trees that loomed like shepherds to a flock of shrubs and flowers below. The land seemed to go on forever. Erik had done well for himself. She noted the high, impenetrable fencing that was visible and was reminded that some things never change.

Glancing down at herself, she blushed. She was clothed – if clothed even describe her state of dress – in a short silk negligee that dipped low and rode high. She remembered wearing stockings, but they were missing. She briefly recalled her first night meeting the Phantom; her stockings had gone missing then too. She had thought she may have kicked them off in her sleep. Now she was not so sure.

When Christine had lived at the Opera Populaire, she remembered the exact moments when she had learned about sex. Meg, in particular, had been able to get a hold of erotic novels, postcards and gossip. Christine knew about fetishes and had thought them vile and unchristian. Now she was not so sure.

"Sick bastard," she muttered under her breath, twisting fruitlessly at her bindings, her hips digging into the mattress. "Ties me up, takes my stockings – " And who knows what else, she finished wordlessly. She jerked hard on the scarves, but they did not give. She let out a frustrated groan, both at the futility of her situation and the flimsy little nightgown that was riding up her thighs.

There came a chuckle from somewhere unseen.

Turning her head in the direction of the laughter, she set her eyes on Erik, lying back in an elaborately furnished arm chair. His posture was relaxed but resolute, and his appearance sleek and dark. She noticed his mask last.

"Sick bastard, Christine? You might want to rethink your tongue as long as you are under my roof." He smiled at her then, a Cheshire grin that brought color to her cheeks and words.

"Under your roof? If I do recall our conversation yesterday – or God knows when I was last conscious – you said I was free to go once were arrived in Spain. I am not choosing to be here, Erik. Untie me and your roof will not be any concern of mine."

He laughed again. So Christine had learned bargaining and idle threats in her dull marriage to the Viscomte. How interesting.

"I may be many things, Christine, but a liar I am not." He rose without a sound and approached the bed, each footfall making Christine's heart flutter like a fish out of water. She became even more aware of her lack of clothing and could feel her cheeks grow hot. Dammit, Christine, hold it together. Do not let him affect you, it's just Erik.

Just Erik? No one but Erik draws these feelings out of you, you silly girl. God, just please do not touch me, Erik.

Even as she thought it, she knew it was impossible. He had to touch her to loosen the bonds. She hoped with all her heart his touch would not alight in her a raging fire, all consuming, making her mind blank and her blood rush. Under his skin, she was in his control. When she was a child, she had hosted pretend tea parties with her friend, Marie. Christine always initiated the toasts as well as where every one should sit (everyone being hers and Marcia's teddy bears). One day, Marcia had moved Claire, Christine's favourite bear, and put her own in its place. Christine had become so furious with Marcia that she had thrown her friend's bears in the mud and stomped off in tears. Her father had given her a right spanking and scolded her about not sharing. She never did it again, but neither did Marcia.

She still hated losing control. But God if it didn't feel good.

She closed her eyes as his hands descended on her wrists. He did not linger. The scarves were off in a flash and Christine was surprised to find she was disappointed. Opening her eyes, she found the room empty, with only the whoosh of air as the door closed occupying her senses.

Frustrated with Erik as well as herself (now that she was free, she did not know what to do with herself), Christine sat immobile on the bed. She sat there for many moments before she realized she was not alone.

A woman stood in the doorway dressed in the simple, drab uniform of a servant. Christine gasped in surprise and then felt embarrassed; both for her reaction and her lack of dress. The maid did not say anything, just stared. Christine immediately felt defensive. Why?

"Ahem," she coughed humbly.

The girl seemed to shake loose of her trance. "I am sorry, Madame. I am not used to the master having company."

"Mmmm."

There was another awkward silence. Christine tightened her arms about her chest.

"I am to tell you," the maid began, slowly, as if choosing each word carefully, "That dinner is to be served in a mere moment." Suddenly she was in action, crossing the room to the armoire and snapping it open to reveal many beautiful dresses. Christine was struck with a sense of déjà vu.

"You must be kidding me."

"Pardon?"

"I, uh … Did the 'master' say what I was to wear as well?"

"… No."

"Thank you, miss …?"

"Juanita."

"Juanita. Thank you."

When she was alone in the room, Christine could not help but laugh bitterly under her breath. So he had arranged some whimsical Beauty and the Beast scenario. She would have no part of this. Get dressed, wear something durable and not too flashy. You do not want anyone to notice you more than is necessary. Yes. So I should leave right away before he has time to notice that I have not arrived at dinner. But how? The bay window – does it open onto a balcony? Yes, yes it does. Can I climb down – no, not without a rope or some kind of apparatus. Where am I going to find a goddamned rope? Calm, Christine, get dressed first. Yes. She did not bother to lace herself into a proper corset, but found it was unnecessary anyway. The plain, beige dress she selected was equipped with a tiny, ornate buttons up the back as well as ribbing inside the dress that allowed for support and shape. Erik wanted only the latest fashions for her. She almost laughed.

It took a few minutes of awkward struggling, but she got herself into the dress properly. She put her hair up with the hair pins Erik had kindly – no, stop – not kindly – stocked at the ivory vanity table by the north wall. She fussed at the mirror for a few seconds before deciding she looked decidedly drab. She was dismayed that she did not want to look that way. Not around him.

Now, to the balcony, check one more time. Wait! The lattice – I can climb down the lattice! It will be tricky, you'll have to watch the hem of your dress. But, yes, I can do this. Don't put all your weight on it first, test it with one foot. Ahh, it's pretty steady. Only the best for Erik. Forget about him, now grasp the lattice with both hands. Now, can it handle my weight? Oh, God, I'm scared. Wait – it's steady. Now swing your foot – good. Hold on tight. Oh, please, God, let me make it safe. Let me make --

She screamed out as a hand snaked around her wrist. She lost her footing and almost went plunging toward the earth. Her right hand had a tenuous grip on the lattice, but someone was holding her. Someone with fiery green eyes.

"Erik!"

He did not say anything, just took her wrists in his powerful hands and jerked her upward, careful to watch the swing of her body at the sudden movement. One hand holding her wrist, the other went to her arm pit and dug into her ribs, making Christine wince. He moved quickly to grip the other side and pulled her up gracelessly. She fell into his chest forcefully, her nose bumping into his collarbone. As soon as she was standing, he released her and she stood there dumbly.

"Oh." She backed away from him, rubbing her nose which throbbed painfully from the impact. She was sure it was red. She looked like an idiot. Don't look at him, oh God, don't look in his eyes.

He was on her at once, dragging her by her arm into the bedroom, throwing her on the bed with a force that stole her breath and knocked her heart against her chest painfully. The place where he'd grabbed her arm hurt and she rubbed it, tears stinging her eyes. I am so embarrassed, so foolish. Running away like a child. Oh, but you've hurt him. Look at him. I can't. I can't think. He's burning me. Oh God, he's leaving. Come back, I'm sorry, I'm sorry – "I'm sorry."

He did not stop until the reached the door and then he reached for the knob, but didn't turn it. It took a moment for Christine to register that he had activated the lock. She shrank into the bed, faintly aware of the soft cushions and the luxurious silk sheets. She felt like a woman vulnerable, and did what any female would do: she protected her chest, drew in her head, lowered her eyes and clenched her knees together. He's going to rape me. He's going to hurt me.

When his lips crushed hers she let out a sob. The tears broke and she pulled tighter into herself. His hands were on her shoulders, he was sitting on the bed now, so close to her body. She closed her eyes, willed him to go away but knew she was powerless to fight him. If he wanted her, he would take her.

Soft kiss on her neck. His lips were soft, his chin slightly bristly. The stubble grazed her neck, making her shiver. Another kiss, this one on her ear lobe. She could feel his breath, warm, comforting, on her tender flesh of her ear. He was pulling at her hair now – why? Was he going to hold her down by her hair, like a whore? No, he's pulling out the pins. Christine's hair fell about her shoulders and she opened her eyes. The anger was gone from Erik's face. He wanted her, but not just to have.

He looked at her wonderingly, reached out a tentative hand to her mouth and touched her bottom lip. He traced it with his finger with the reverence of a priest. God, she was beautiful. He drew away. It was her turn to react.

She stared at him now, her eyes dewy and her hair a little wild. She was suddenly conscious of her open mouth and the tingles of pleasure his touch on her lips had elicited. But now he had withdrawn – he stopped. She was shocked to find she didn't want him to.

Her hand at his mask now, the porcelain was cold under her fingers. A stark contrast to the warmth of his finger, of his breath on her earlobe, the warmth between her legs. Slow like honey, heavy with need, she thought. Don't think.

Erik closed his eyes as her lips crashed unto his, the salt of her skin in his mouth, the softness of her probing tongue tasting like vanilla. She tasted like vanilla. He wanted to know all of her, but she was prying at his mask, trying to get it off. He turned away, all thoughts of making love to her crashing away. Why did she have to ruin this? The light was dim, she was sure to see him clearly. She'd see the fissures of broken skin, the swollen flesh that never went down. My right eye – ugly without the mask. Deformed. She can't want me then. Why won't she let me hide behind this mask?

But her hand was on his face and he winced, expecting her to rip it away like so many years ago. When she didn't, he opened his eyes, shamefaced, and saw her. She was looking at him wonderingly, but offering the same comfort of a caregiver. Of someone who cared. Someone who had to be strong for him because now he was weak. I am weak. She wants to be my rock. Let her, let her, let her.

He did not wince or twitch as she peeled the mask away from his face. His eyes bore into hers as he watched for reaction, hating her all the while. His face remained the same, aloof. She kissed the broken blood vessels beneath the lump of twisted flesh on his cheekbone and Erik nearly sobbed.

They were fierce now, arms entangled around one another. Can't get close enough, she thought. Must get closer, he thought. There were too many clothes, too many layers between them. With deft hands, he unbuttoned the top few clasps on Christine's dress before giving up and tearing the garment in half. He gave her a lopsided grin of apology and she kissed it away.

She was naked on the bed now and he stood over her, unravelling his tie with purpose. It hit the ground. His black jacket joined it a moment later. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and Christine became impatient. I want you now. Please. "Please." She moved to right herself, to tear that silly white fabric from his chest, to stop this game that made her wetter than she ever had been her life, but he held out a hand. Stop. Wait. We have all night.

Erik knelt on the floor and drew her legs toward him. He grasped her foot and she had to bite her lip to keep from giggling. With both hands, he began to rub her slowly, kneading the arch of her foot with powerful hands. Hands that had murdered, she thought. Shut up, just lose yourself in this.

His hands worked at her flesh, rubbing the ball of her foot, the arch, the heel, the pad, the individual toes, testing the circumference of her shapely foot for reaction. She began to relax, losing the tension in her body she had when he had initially begun to touch her. A tiny sigh let out her mouth as he worked his hands into her arch. Now he was kissing her ankle, the stubble of his chin grazing her calf and making her shiver. He laved his tongue there for a moment and she almost moaned. Erik moved up her leg to her knee. He dipped his sleek head to the inside of her knee and kissed it slowly. Christine wound her hands into the mattress, unable to keep from arching into his touch. But he was so far away.

Come here, come here, please, up here. Stop, I can't handle anymore. He continued his slow descent, mindless to her internal pleadings. Tonight was for them. He had ruined their first coupling, passionate and sating as it had been. He had not taken the time to know her body, to feel for that hollow that made her giggle or taste the difference between the skin on her hip and the fleshy softness of her inner thigh. He tasted her thigh now and felt her tremble. She was practically thrashing on the bed. Was he going to do this? Oh god, I don't even know the word. It's debauched, it's not lovemaking. It's – oh, god, his lips.

She tasted like nothing he had even felt on his tongue before. It was like honey and – water, but with a heady note he couldn't identify. He laved her a little more roughly, noting that she was that wonderful liquid was lower down her folds. He lathed his tongue from the bottom to the top in a slow torturous sweep that made Christine cry out. I own you now, he thought, I know where you live. She clutched his head in her hands, pulling him upward, not wanting him to stop but wanting him on top of her.

The weight of a man. Oh, only a woman can truly appreciate something so exquisite. The gentle crush of his body on top of hers, the comfort and support it offered. It was just his maleness enveloping her small body, her womanhood obscured by his masculine frame. Knowing that he could crush her at any moment but trusting him enough to know he wouldn't. It was bliss and she held him to her for a long moment, staring into his eyes before her pushed at her entrance.

"You're beautiful." Erik had to register that the words had not fallen from his lips but from hers. He narrowed his eyebrows and Christine was afraid he did not believe her. But then he was moving inside her, moving torturously slow, she, raising her hips gently to meet his inquiring thrust. She said yes, answered with a roll of her lower back that caused Erik's eyes to roll into his head.

This was it. There was no turning back. He had taken her from her husband. Her husband – he had felt this. Felt her from the inside, received her thrusts. It angered him. That fool. I bet he could not even love her right. He fantasized that Raoul was there, watching their coupling, tears of hate in his eyes. The thought made him smirk. But she was all his. The smirk slipped away.

He did not move for a moment, simply relished the feel of her fluttering walls around his cock. He wanted to come, could feel it building within him. Breathe, look into her eyes, please her. Please her. He rolled forward, deeper this time. She was not completely adjusted to him and the feeling caused her to gasp. He began to pull out but she gripped his hips, stopped him. No, I want all of you. More, all of it. I want you, please. "Please." She said the word out loud without knowing. They began to rock together.

Slow, languorous, staring into each other eyes when one's eyes would permit. For the feeling of being inside one another was almost too much to see. It made sense to block out a sense and sight seemed logical. With their eyes open, it was too much. It was too real. So Christine and Erik permitted themselves glances, occasional deep gazes that lasted longer than they could count; a short glimpse while they moaned, the pleasure crinkling their brows.

Kiss me, kiss me. It was not enough. They tongues mingled, their bodies were closer than could be. Erik drove deep into her and she sobbed into his mouth, like she had earlier. But it was different. It was always different.

Erik came, riding out the wave with his eyes closed and his hips bucking wildly. Christine held on with her legs wrapped tight around his waist, riding out her own orgasm as it rolled though her like a tornado, ferocious and whirling. They fell together into the dark, eyes closed, blackness enveloping them as they spun into a space without stars.

…………………………………..

Raoul put down the note with a steady hand. But somehow, it felt detached – like the phantom limb of a war veteran. His father had once remarked that Raoul had the poise of a stoic, but lacked the steadfast coldness of one. Raoul the Stoic. It had been a joke. He was not warm; in fact, he could feel that coldness creeping into his heart. It frightened him. He had to get away.

"Viscomte de Chagny, your dinner is ready."

For a moment, Raoul racked his mind trying to identify that voice. He was jarred from his thoughts at that voice. It took him a moment to realize who was speaking, and what they had said.

His throat felt dry. He was afraid to raise his voice; afraid to hear it crack and strangled, god forbid, feminine. Hold it together, man. You are a de Chagny. Hold it together, please, reveal and conceal. Reveal and conceal. Reveal and conceal.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat. "Right then." He faced her then, his face like plaster, set into a stiff smile. He prayed his face would not shatter. He met her eyes for a brief moment and began to walk. One foot in front of the other, do not show emotion, do not show your anger.

"Sir?" Brigitte's forehead was knit in a caricature of concern. Brigitte always exaggerated. Raoul wanted to laugh, wanted to howl, burst forth with a damming cackle that would consume the room, overtake this simple girl and her cartoon face and his silly life. He didn't know what to do so he held up a hand, ducked his head and glided out, almost stumbling at the threshold.

Brigitte's mother had once called her "curiouser than a damned cat." When Brigitte had first discovered menstruation, she became obsessed with it. No one would speak about it; men blushed and stuttered if she asked and women simply told her she was a naughty child for asking, and go play with the others, you hear. She went through her mother's things until she found a stained pair of panties. She had read about the blood, but she had to be sure. A pair of dry bloody undergarments in hand, Brigitte raced to the living room where her mother and Francis, the neighbour, were having tea and demanded, "Is this where babies come from?" Her mother had been horrified and Brigitte had spent the rest of the day in her room with nary a bread crumb to keep her company. But she had been pleased; she knew what menstruation was.

Now, in the de Chagnys study, she had not shed that curiosity which had entrapped her before. She was in this room everyday. She knew immediately what was different, and that shape, a white folded letter, was different. Right away, she knew it was about Christine and her hands trembled. Nervousness was not something Brigitte was used to but she was nervous now.

She picked up the letter and read.

Dear Raoul,

I have gone away. Do not seek me out. It is better that we part. You and I were childhood sweethearts and still are.

Please forgive me,

Christine

It was short and bittersweet. Not at all Christine's style. The brief explanation, the second sentence that read like a threat, the singular mention of their past as kids – nothing of their marriage. It was simple, devoid of detail. Anyone could have written this.

Immediately, Brigitte was filled with dread. Anyone could, but she had an idea as to whom.