The Siren Song

His eyes were cold and clear like ice; shining sheer and blank, almost as if he existed as a world not yet created; an artist that had not yet set a stroke of paint upon a clean white canvas. He smiled at her, standing up from where he leaned upon a plush burgundy armchair. "Christine, you're ten minutes late."

Christine tried to steady herself; she had done nothing wrong, had she not? She had taken the same route as usual, leaving immediately when class had been dismissed at the conservatory. But perhaps she had slowed down her quick walking, simply to have a longer breath of freedom until she was forced back underground again – Aphrodite, forced deep into the underworld of the earth…

Raoul stepped forward, setting his empty glass down on the small wooden table beside the armchair. His smile stayed plastered and alive; it grew wider with the distance that he closed between them – with the fear he could smell in the perfumed air…

He reached out, brushing a stray curl away from her face. Her bun had never been able to be perfected, as her hair was too curly to tame, too wild to tie into an ornate twist upon the back of her head. "You really need to get your hair relaxed," he finally said after a period of silence stretched out between them. "It's gaudy and unruly, Christine. No one's going to want a prima ballerina with, well…a mess upon her head!" he laughed, flashing a toothy smile at her again. Raoul tugged at the curl, pulling her head forward toward his face. "Is that what you want to look like? A gangly little thing with knots on her head? My, what the headlines might say! The Prima Ballerina with the grand mop!" he gestured grandly, smiling all the while. Christine averted her eyes from his, staring down at the floor.

"I…I didn't have time to get it relaxed, today. Practice went until half past eight, Raoul…I…I'm sorry…"

Raoul turned and spun on his heels, giving the stray curl one last yank. Christine held back a whimper – he hated when she let out tiny emotions, and even more – he abhorred it when she cried. And crying only lead to more punishment…

"It is all right," he said brightly, shoving the smooth white cigarette into the side of his mouth. He was already refilling his glass, and smoke unfurled around him, making him look like a horrific smear of a character – one drawn on the back of a newspaper; a caricature of his actual self.

Raoul made himself comfortable on the cobalt colored loveseat, stretching out his legs to rest them on a matching ottoman. "Sit, my darling," he gestured next to him, "I want to hear all about your day. And, your excuse as to why you are late…you know I dislike it when you're late. It makes me worry about you, Christine! And you know I hate worrying…" he leaned his head back, blowing circles of grey smoke into the air.

Christine set her bag down by the door, biting the inside of her lip. She made her way around the burgundy armchair, sitting nervously on the edge of the loveseat beside him.

"It…it was Rosie," she blurted, shoving the stray curl back into the mass of her bun. "Rosie…she…she wanted to stop for a moment on our walk home. I tried to tell her no, but she…she…" her voice faded off as his eyes narrowed. She immediately dropped her eyes from his. Would he know she was lying? Nowadays it seemed like even the truth, to him, was a lie if he chose for it to be so. She bit her lip harder, her insides a whirl of panic. Her fingers gripped the edge of the loveseat, and sweat beads began to drip down between her shoulder blades. He would smell her fear. He always could.

Raoul lifted her chin up with a cold finger. "Look at me," he whispered, and his eyes were a black storm. She could feel them boring into her, exposing her, ripping her clothes off and tossing her naked into the gutters. "Look at me!" Now it was a growl, and her panic began to show itself. Christine begged her body not to listen, to bend lies into the truth of it all…but her arms began to shake, and her lips began to quiver. She slowly moved her eyes to his, and suddenly it felt as though she were falling into a bottomless sea, thrashing about, drowning fast…and there was no air. There was no air in the room, anymore…

He sent a stinging slap across her face, his palm smashing into the delicate bone of her nose. She winced, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, and the warm wet taste of iron began to fill her mouth. "You're lying," he whispered, pulling her face closer to his. "Where were you for those ten minutes, hmm? Were you flashing your tiny mosquito bites at any man who might grab at them? Hmm? You're so quiet Christine! Tell me…tell me what I want to hear, my love! Don't you want to be honest with me? Don't you?" His other hand reached down and pinched one of her nipples, slowly twisting it with a simpering snigger. He pinched it so hard that Christine let out a small yelp, squeezing her eyes shut to try and wash out the pain that still rang in her ears.

Raoul let go of her nipple, seizing her by the throat with one hand. He stood up slowly, towering over her, crushing his hand gradually against her windpipe. She kept her eyes shut, but clawed desperately at his hands, against the blackened force that willed her not to breathe, that willed her to die in this very flat, on this velvet blue loveseat…

"You will learn not to be late," he snarled, tossing her body to the ground as if grinding out a cigarette butt. Christine lay on the open expanse of rug, gasping for air and holding her hands protectively against her throat. Tears began to well up into her eyes. No, she pleaded with herself. Please don't cry. He'll do worse things, he will choke you until you black out…please…don't…cry…

Raoul stood over her thin body sprawled out onto the rug, staring down at her with disgust. "Be thankful I'm going out tonight," he sneered, tossing his cigarette into the diamond crested ashtray. "Otherwise you'd be too sore to dance tomorrow…oh yes, I would make you. Even if you didn't want to, Christine. Because something you don't understand is that, well…I always get what I want. And if I want that tight little cunt…I'll get it."

She lay motionless, hiding her face against the carpet. Tears were pouring out now, silently…but she dare not make another noise. Christine heard his sharp footsteps cross the rug and onto the wooden floor, near the doorway…relief began to wash over her. He was leaving to go downtown, he was going to leave her alone, he was going to give her that tiny portion of time to break her head through the ice that she screamed at, quietly…begging to be able to think straight, aching to be able to breathe…

And with the deafening slam of the door, she sat up and sobbed. She ripped the tie from her bun, letting the painfully tight twist of her locks loose. Her throat throbbed with the bruises that were already forming, and her face still stung from the powerful sweep of his hand. Her mind plunged into darkness – for even though he was gone, she felt as if he were still there, always there, watching her…

Suddenly, a strange muffled sound filtered through her cries, and her curiosity caused her to quiet her weeping. Her breathing slowed as she strained to listen again, thinking perhaps it was just racket from the streets below.

Now, the sound was louder than before. It was an atrocious thundering of a piano, distant, yet still quite audible. It sounded as though it were being pounded on, for the keys screeched and screamed like an abysmal siren song. Christine looked across the flat, noticing the balcony doors were left wide open. Perhaps that was why the sound was so loud. Or…was it coming from the roof?

Images of the grand piano with flowing gold inscriptions began to fill her mind. For a moment, the dark hole she found herself in faded just a bit, and steadily, she rose to her feet, entranced at the maddening force that pulverized the piano, that remarkable angelic piano…who might treat it with such rage and recklessness?

As she stood swaying in the middle of the flat, the noise seemed to grow louder by the instant, yet now it was accompanied by thumping and slamming. She looked up onto the high ceiling and saw the small crystal chandeliers swaying, undoubtedly from the roaring noises from the flat above.

The Penthouse.

Christine knew the outside balcony led to nowhere; in fact, she despised its existence for the torture she had endured upon its carefully carved ledges. But there was another way, of course…for every floor had an iron staircase that led straight to the roof.

Snatching the brass house key from the floor, she pulled open the door quietly, listening advertently to the hallway to ensure Raoul was not waiting with a sinister smile. But the corridor was empty, dimly lit with lamps that lined it's shining interior. She slipped through a crack in the door, and made her way across the small lofted area to the black iron staircase. With every footstep forward, the noises grew louder and louder; they were frenzied and angry, like a whirlwind of dominance that beseeched her with its anonymity.

Christine had been to the roof only once; when Raoul and her had first moved in, he had brought her up there to showcase the view. He had been so kind, so gentle with her that night. She remembered her heart being so full that it very well might burst, feeling his ardent kisses upon the side of her neck…

I love you.

But now, the memory seemed like a bizarre charade; for Raoul wore a mask then, covering up the darkness that lived inside of him. Yet she now lived within the confines of her own mask; lying to him, to herself, to Rosie, to the world…she could never know her true self. She would never reach her fullest potential, nor would she ever escape from the marriage that seemed to at one point save her life – yet now, was threatening her very existence.

Christine pulled open the heavy door at the top of the iron stairs; now, the music was deafening. How could a piano from the penthouse be so loud? Her curiosity was now her master, and she was quite obedient to him; Raoul was out, he would be out all night, kissing other women on their cheeks, letting them leave stains of lipstick all over his neck like blood...the kisses he used to give to her…

She was entering this strange, dreamlike state again. For she walked across the vast expanse of rooftop with ease, the wind curling around her long woolen coat like a spirit urging her along. In the middle of the rooftop sat a large vaulted ceiling of glass, divided into sharp cut rectangular frames. And as she moved closer, padding softly in her leather shoes, she noticed that two of the large panes were drawn open.

And from that great opening, bright light was emitting like a dawn upon midnight, accompanying the horrifying smashes of piano keys that threaded straight through into the darkness where she stood, mystified. Christine dropped down on her hands and knees, ignoring the pain that still seared across her throat like a brand. She crawled forward, desperately wanting to see through the gap; it was like a time continuum, a crease in the folds of reality – perhaps it did not exist at all. Perhaps she had finally gained the courage to fling herself from the balcony, and fall five stories down onto the pavement below…

Yet as she neared the opening in the vaulted glass, something within her seemed to melt away; was it fear? Or was she finally losing her senses, her mind, after so long…after entwining both lies and truth – after living a life that did not belong to her, but to someone else entirely…

And with sudden and great courage, she poked her head slightly over the edge of the opening, leaning forward as she was bombarded with the twisted and gruesome sounds – the music spoke of death, no! It spoke of dying, slowly…yes, she could feel it now, thrumming through her veins, giving sense to all that was senseless…

And as she looked further below, into the violent bright light of the penthouse, she saw the piano. And she saw a man.

She could not see his face, but only the back of him as he sat upon the ebony piano bench, pounding and pressing and urging his head into the swells of the music. His hair was pitch black, greased back with gentle waves that shined in the ferocious gleams of light. He wore a white shirt, and she could see wide muscles moving back and forth through the fabric that was almost dripping in sweat. She watched him move passionately, and the song morphed again; this time, it was blackened sadness. A deep pit of hopelessness, of nothingness… Christine's heart lurched with every note that stampeded her senses, her fingers curling around the brass edges of the panes with thousands of melodies humming through them, touching them, teasing them…

And suddenly, the music stopped. The man's head was bent down low, almost touching the keys…Christine widened her eyes, trying to scoot back into darkness, yet she found she could not move an inch…

And he turned around, his eyes looking directly into hers.

He wore a black mask upon his face, covering only the upper half of his pale skin. His eyes glowed almost golden, a blazing hazel fire that immediately seemed to command her without speaking, without movement or breath. And the most bizarre thing about him was not his mask, even…it was his full lips that were partially open, and a long ugly scar that tore the left side of his mouth open, if not for the centipede of black stitches that pulled the skin back together.

And yet, she still found she could not move. Her veins were flowing with the morphine that he gave through the air, that had pulled her up to the roof and led her straight to the opening in his partial glass ceiling. Christine stayed frozen, immovable, on all fours, with her chin rested against the cold brass that lined each pane, lost in the unbelievable sadness that was shaded in the deep of his eyes.