Author's Note: I usually do not use trigger warnings, but I believe this to be a special case. There will be depictions of mental, physical, and emotional abuse throughout this story. So, to my readers, please read at your own discretion.

…

"I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity."

- Sylvia Plath

…

Hidden Angels

"Christine, are you afraid of the night?"

This was the repetitive question that her blonde haired, doe-eyed friend asked every night as they walked home upon weary legs from the conservatory.

Christine smiled, shaking her head at the bothersome notion. "Rosie, you ask me this every evening! Really, have you forgotten my stories of the dark? How the dark can…in some ways, protect us?"

Rosie smoothed the edges of her perfectly slicked bun with nimble fingers. "No, I haven't forgotten, I never forget! I just, well, love to hear you tell them!" She grabbed onto Christine's arm, pulling her friend in closer for comfort. "Please, won't you tell me at least one? They always make me feel better."

Christine sighed, leaning into the thin frame of Rosie as they walked through the shadows of buildings that loomed from above. Christine oftentimes felt claustrophobic in the heart of the city; it seemed to roar and move as if it were a living beast that prowled, impatient and unsatisfied. She always found herself squirming uncomfortably in the very heart of this beast, drowning, wishing desperately to break through the surface…

She paused, trying to push the guilt and shame away that clawed at her heart. For her stories of the night made her sound brave, and usually left Rosie with eyes widened in wonder. But Christine did not feel brave, not ever. Not even when she left her complex in the morning, once her heart and body could finally be free of the wretchedness that pulsed inside of her mind…

"There are angels that hide in the shadows," she began hastily, grasping Rosie tightly by the hand. "They watch us, curious about us, but are afraid to show themselves. Sometimes I think they might not even be allowed to show themselves."

Dread was beginning to worm its way into her stomach, and she pushed herself to keep speaking, to keep breathing. She knew with every intersection they crossed and every footstep forward, they drew closer to the building where she lived; not a home, but a prison - an elegant limestone prison made of lies. Its outside was one of the most beautiful complexes on the block, flawless from the touch of an artistic architects' hand. But the builders did not know what might go on atop the immense flat on the fifth floor – they did not see the future of a young girl being thrown against balcony rungs, crying out desperately to the darkness, where she hoped angels might be watching…

It was a corruption of the flesh, a distortion of life. He had been so different, he had been so positively kind…so what had changed him into a living demon? Were the words he spoke to her true? Did she make him angry, did she make him so utterly confused and upset that she should be punished?

The same feeling played itself on repeat like a horribly cracked and broken record – it split open her insides to plaster a smile on her face as Rosie would release her hand, hugging her tightly to exclaim, 'I can't wait to go rest in my bed! And I will see you tomorrow my lovely friend!'

And Rosie's blonde bun would fade away into darkness, leaving Christine alone to pull open the heavy double doors. And just a few floors up from the high vaulted ceiling of the lobby lay the flat she shared with her husband – a place she wished she could burn down and destroy. But her hands might shake with nervousness and fear – and panic would seep its way into her mind. She would never burn it down; she could never burn him down…she could only hold onto tiny bits of dreams that came at night, far past the hours when he laid his head down to sleep.

"Christine! What happens next? Will one ever come out and rescue us? If we are in trouble?" Rosie's indignant voice interrupted her mind that had plunged deep into an underworld made of stone; a world where no flowers grew, where love was scarce, and where she would be pulled down deeper and deeper, all the way down into the pit of Hell.

"Yes, love, I'm listening! I'm sorry…I…I just am a little distracted tonight. That's all."

"Well, you always seem distracted! You're always so quiet whenever we walk home…"

Christine shook her head casually. "I just usually go over the whole day in my head…you know, the small mistakes I made today – "

Rosie threw up her hands in defiance. "Mistakes? Well, if you make mistakes, then perhaps I should quit ballet! You're the best one in the entire class, Christine! You're just being humble about it."

Christine's answer was drown out by a passing automobile that was almost hidden within the night – the rain from earlier dribbled down the sleek black sides like tears…perhaps the angels in the darkness cried for her?

"Is something bothering you? Has Raoul been coming home late again?" Rosie prodded at her as they waited at an intersection, switching her carpet bag to her other hand.

At the mention of his name, Christine shivered. She knew her friend was watching her intently, but she could not hold back the terrible swarm of images that erupted from instinct.

"No, he's fine, really…he still does, sometimes, but truly I don't mind…I…well, enjoy having time to myself, I suppose…"

The worst quality that Rosie had, if any, was her oblivious nature. She believed Christine's excuses about the bruises, even the fingerprints that sometimes grew purple around her neck – every one of his marks could be drawn over with enough powder and makeup, and a carefree attitude towards a concerned friend, fit together with the mask of a wide smile.

Rosie had grinned at her response, pleased that nothing was wrong with the shiver from her curly haired friend. "I guess I just assumed…I don't know. You're so young to be married!"

"Yes, well…I didn't have much of a choice, Rosie. And he is good to me, truly he is…just, a little distracted sometimes."

Rosie giggled, pulling Christine along to cross the intersection, skipping around the puddles of murky rainwater. "You both are distracted, then! Perhaps you should surprise him…? With, oh, I don't know…your flawless turn-out into your splits?"

"Rosie! Dance is not to be used in a sexual way," Christine responded, faking an offended attitude as best she could. "It is a profession, one that I wish to pursue! I will not use my talents to…to…"

"Seduce?" Rosie giggled again. Christine eyed her warily. "Yes, seduce. That's what I meant."

The two young women entered into the Upper East Side – it was a slow progression into the land of residential castles, with every rooftop strung methodically with tiny lights that sprinkled the sky like diamonds, blinking and swaying softly with the wind. Rosie let out a shriek of glee, swinging Christine's arm with excitement. "Oh, I cannot wait to tell Mother what we learned, today. She's going to be so proud! And of course I'm going to brag about you, Christine…your grace is like a swan that soars across the night sky!" She released Christine's arm to raise herself up upon dexterous toes, arching one arm into the air and leaning back slowly into the arc.

Christine sighed, watching as Rosie leapt with agility between puddles on the paved side of the street. How she wished she could say those words, how she longed to go home to a warm and motherly embrace! For although her flat was ornate and luxurious, the man that dwelt inside made her stomach roil with fright. She despised the smell of his tobacco that whispered against her noise when the door would open – for this meant he had settled in for the night, that he was waiting for her…and any wrong move, any word out of line would mean suffering. Her suffering. And his words rang over and over in her head, a terrifying mockingbird that did not stop chirping, that would not leave her alone…

You do this to yourself, Christine. You deserve to be punished, Christine! You deserve…

This.

Christine looked up suddenly, knowing that the moment was near. This was the parting of sweet sorrow, the breaking of Rosie's gentle hold upon her hand. For Rosie lived a block further in a tasteful and refined flat, where her wealthy mother waited eagerly for her return. Again, Christine's heart throbbed so sharply that she grabbed at her chest, scratching away at something beneath the surface. It was her anxiety that reared its foul head again; with invisible fingers that crawled across her ribcage and pulled it in tight against her heart…and her sternum felt the imminent pressure of thousands of pounds, laughing, waiting to crush her! And she could not breathe…it was so hard…

To breathe.

"Christine! Are you all right?" Rosie's crystalline eyes swam into her vision.

Had she fainted? Had she fallen? Would Rosie understand without words, without explanation that she was so very frightened – not of the night, but of the man that was her husband, who waited with a rolled up cigarette and a brandy in his hand…?

"Oh, Rosie I am so sorry to have scared you, truly, I am fine! Just tired from today. I need rest," Christine hurriedly explained, gripping her friends' bony shoulder for support. For a moment she saw worry cross over her friends' face, but it was replaced quickly by an oblivious trust. Rosie smiled, kissing Christine lightly upon the cheek. "Tomorrow, meet me here at 7 o' clock! We can get sweet rolls before practice!"

Christine nodded weakly. "Go, my beautiful swan. And send your mother my love!"

And again, as always, Rosie floated off into the dark, her white blonde bun gleaming against the light on the corner. Christine watched the darkness long after her friend had been gone, wishing desperately she could undo what had already been done.

She pulled open the heavy double doors of the complex, and entered the lobby. To her surprise, it was crowded with people – workmen, clinging to pieces of furniture and boxes like swarms of ants. Some stood mingling by the elevator, thronged around a great and beautiful grand piano. It caught Christine's eye and she stopped to stare for a moment; there were strange golden inscriptions upon the legs and sides. For she truly had never seen a more attractive and striking piano, not even within the conservatory!

Christine moved across the marbled floor, suddenly wanting to get nearer to it, to touch it, to read its inscriptions! It was a secret that her heart wanted to rip open, to feast upon, even if just for a split second in time.

She strode over to the elevator and stood near to the men who surrounded it.

"This is complete bullshit," one of them said, stuffing a hand in his pocket. "If he wanted this much shit moved at fucking 9 o' clock at night, I would have told him to fuck off."

Another worker laughed, shoving a finger in his face. "Not even you, Jack, are stupid enough to turn down a job from a Vanderbilt. Did you hear how much he's paying us?"

Suddenly, the workers turned and looked at Christine, who had floated to the piano in a dreamlike state. She was reaching out to touch a golden inscription when a raspy holler from one of the workers thrust her back to reality.

"Hey! Hands off, girl. Do you know how much this thing is worth?" One of the men stuck his face near to hers. She began to back away quickly, frightened of the animalistic gleam in his brown eyes. "I…I'm sorry…" she stammered, spinning upon her heels and making her way toward the staircase as quickly as possible.

Christine shoved her way through the crowded workers, squeezing through as if she were invisible to those around her. And as she began to scale the staircase, and the lobby disappeared from her sight, her eyes never left the piano. Perhaps it had the touch of an angel…

Yet, there was an excitement about its mystery. And the clippings of conversation she had heard from the workers…someone must be moving in. And as she made her way to the lofted foyer of the fifth floor, she realized there was only one possible opening in the building. The sixth floor, right above hers.

The penthouse.

As Christine took out her key, her thoughts were elsewhere, wondering about the strange and angelic instrument. But all thoughts and dreams disappeared when she turned the key in the lock; her body growing tight against the click that gave way to the entrance.

And when the door swung open slowly, she saw him, waiting. He was so handsome, with clear blue eyes and a defined nose and jaw. His light blonde hair was parted and combed over, with not a single hair out of place. "Shut the door," he commanded softly, taking a drag of his cigarette.

"I need another drink."

…

Author's Note: I hope you have enjoyed the first chapter! More is to come. Feedback, emotions, and comments left are always highly appreciated. Thank you for reading!