"Deep in my heart was an ember of longing,
kept warm by the flame of desire.
A dream held in secret, I yearned to hold openly,
fanned by my hope into fire.
It burned with such heat, I could touch it no more.
So I put it away, and I closed up the door,
forever extinguishing all that would keep it alive…
But the dream never died."
- "When the Dream Never Dies," sang by Donna Summer
…
River of Dreams
The longer she stared down at him, the deeper she fell into the maddening coals of his eyes. It was a free-fall through the claustrophobic city air; an insatiable hunger that now devoured her mind and spirit. And it was not the piano that pulled at her heart, anymore…it was the feeling of blackened melancholy that his eyes gave forth, with layers of torture and of treacherous footing, a dark stone well with an endless bottom…
Who was this man who wore a mask; who was he to release his soul out into the night sky? Christine felt no longer attached to the body that clung to the edge of the opening; for now she was free, soaring up like a bird through the stars, feasting her eyes upon every bright light that surrounded her, that rammed her senses like the onslaught of a monstrous shadowed train…
And suddenly, the man turned his head sharply to look away. And everything fell in pieces around her; the stars shattered, the sky was pulled back by the hands of God, turning everything in the world to a shameless sketch of its former self. Christine whipped her head around, immediately paranoid that someone might be standing behind her; that she was caught in a devil's trap on the roof – kneeling on all fours, peering at a man through his vaulted ceiling…
But there was no one to be seen around her. All that existed was the large expanse of the rooftop with its beautifully lipped ledges, and the distant string lights of neighboring complexes.
When she turned her head back to look down into the penthouse, the man had disappeared. All she could see was the vacant ebony piano bench, and a mess of scrawled papers upon the piano's intricately crafted stand.
He was gone.
Christine's senses began to come back to her in waves; the pain in her knees that had dug through her tights, and the throbbing of her throat from Raoul's calculating and powerful hands. She stayed a moment longer, just to see if the man might show his face to her again. But he did not return to the piano, he did not walk back into the bright streams of light. And suddenly, without reason or logic, Christine began to cry.
It was silent sobbing, something she had forced her body to adapt to in order to avoid less punishment. She pushed herself back from the opening, wrapping her arms around herself as she cried. Perhaps the man was horrified; perhaps he was angry! For she had crawled across the roof and stolen some of his horrific magic; she had seen him vulnerable, she had felt it!
But surely it was improper of her. Surely this man would speak to the front desk about a gangly pale girl spying through the vault in his flat – undoubtedly, he would let her secret spill from his lips, he would allow her husband to find out and…and…
She shook her head violently. Her panic was rising again, out of control like a delicate fall leaf spinning in the wind. She had to get away from here; she had to get back down to her flat where she might be safe, even if only for a little while. But why, why did she feel safe when she looked at him? Why did the terror in his eyes not repel her wonder; why did she feel his music as if it told the loathsome tale of her horribly drawn out life?
With legs trembling, she finally stood up, brushing the dust and dirt from her knees. Christine crossed the expanse of roof as quickly as she could, now horrified at her actions – but stupefied by his eyes that murmured to her without speaking a sound, that captured her spirit with a single prolonged glance.
She bolted down the iron staircase, stopping shortly to glance at the loft where the penthouse doors were. They were double wooden doors with brass handles in the shape of lion heads; and strangely, she had never recalled noticing them before.
And her heart was heavy as she stared at those doors. That was where he lived, the mysterious man who slammed upon his piano like a madman, with tight black stitches that held together the long pink rip on the side of his mouth…
His lips. His lips had been opened slightly, parted as he had stared at her. Christine pushed her body downwards, and as she arrived at the foyer of the fifth floor, relief began to wash over her like a quiet rain. But somehow, even as she pushed the brass key into the lock on her door, she felt pangs of sadness. Had she hoped he might say something? Did she yearn to see beyond what his sweat soaked shirt betrayed; did her mind long for him to form the syllables of her name?
Christine.
As she entered the empty flat, her mind began to stir with impulsive emotion. It was grandiose and uncontrollable, for no one had ever looked at her that way…no one had ever shown such strength within their own vulnerability, no one had ever looked past the ragged curls upon her head…no one had ever taken a dive into the realm of her living spirit…
Not even Raoul, when he had been kind.
Christine crossed the living room slowly, eyeing the shimmering glass table that held Raoul's assorted decanters of liquor. She had drank before, of course…but never by herself, for she was afraid of what fears might come tumbling from the hidden depths inside of her.
But tonight was different, entirely. She felt like an untethered horse, with the ability to canter upon the wings of the wind, safely secluded under the whisper of dusk. She could leave, but where would she go? Who would she be without him - and of course, his wealth that paid for her everyday lessons at the conservatory?
Then a new voice inside of her mind spoke; drink, it commanded. Drink as he drinks. For now, you have something to dwell upon, something wonderful, even if it only lasted for half a minute…
His eyes. His mouth. And his large hands that had curled at his sides, clenching and releasing in a cyclical manner, emancipating his own forces and power upwards, through the opening and into the sky, where she had sat, waiting…
Christine chose the darkest liquid, and gently poured it into a crystal glass. Raoul insisted on filling the luxurious flat with the finest of things; chandeliers, velvet furniture, and thickly woven carpets that covered the smooth wooden floors. She drank from the glass, choking down the bitter drink that stung her insides. Christine made her way to the blue loveseat, tucking back stray curls once she set down the glass. She drank again, leaning her head back to stare at the ceiling. A sensuous excitement curled inside of her, pushing the thoughts aside that tried to stop them. Perhaps she did not wish to stop them. Maybe she wanted to revel in that single moment forever, where a masked man had felt her presence behind him and turned. But then, he had broke away. Where had he gone? And why did he stare for so long, silently, as if begging her without words to come down through the ceiling, to kneel at the foot of his piano and listen for hours…to get utterly lost in the madness that unfurled from the strength of his fingers…
Shadows of memories began to rise up in her mind; and the more she drank, the clearer they became. Christine remembered her mother's face; jaundiced and cracked like an old scroll of parchment. But there was a song she would sing, years and years ago that had been long forgotten…a song that now teetered upon the edge of Christine's tongue.
"Dreams, hidden in darkness,
hiding amongst thorns, they begin to rise,
across the darkened skies,
across your empty eyes…
Go, my love, and breathe in deeply!
Feel your own power,
Shatter your own imminent
Demise…for dreams, my love!
Turn into courage,
Change into freedom…
But you must try, and try…
For dreams, hidden in darkness,
Hidden in valleys…hidden on high…
But see, my love, mend your own darkness,
touch your own path, my love…
Deepen your skies, oh my love…
And please, always remember,
Feel your own power,
hiding amongst thorns…
For they shall rise,
Oh my love, they will rise."
Christine let the last note die softly on her lips, smiling in the swirl of ecstasy that the liquor had spurned. She hadn't sung in years; she had forgotten the power that had been given to her long ago. But it was Raoul who had told her to stop, who had pushed her in the direction of dance. He had caught her singing one night, quietly on the balcony, and had reprimanded her harshly. "You've been given the gift of grace, my love," he had sneered, "do not waste your life on the folly of music. For dance changes the body in intricate ways, keeps the mind healthy…music is not something that you have the talent to pursue. So please, keep quiet, or I shall make you," he had laughed. His laughter sounded in her ears, and she shook her head violently to clear its sickening nature from her mind.
Abruptly, an idea sparked itself into her imagination, sending ripples through the course of her spine. Christine shivered with delight – oh, how the alcohol could numb everything! It did not make her weep; in fact, it pulled in memories that had faded into a distant dream. And now, she stood up, pulling down her long satiny skirt to reveal her tights. She pulled off her coat and her lacey yellow shirt, tossing them to the floor without care. Is this how Raoul felt, all the time, drinking the way that he did? For it gave her power, it thrust her dreams into reality – turning the deaf into hearing, and the blind into seeing.
She grabbed the empty glass from the side table and stood up, stepping daintily over the pile of clothes she had discarded. Once Christine had filled her glass again, she padded over to the open doors of the balcony, taking another deep swig out of the venomous river of dreams.
Her very own river of dreams. How it coursed through her, now! It was controlled, yet so very out of control…but she embraced its feel like sea-spray upon her skin. The curtains from the balcony billowed around her as she stepped through its threshold, the bare skin of her back shivering delightfully against the night wind. Christine stepped up to the ledge, pressing her naval against its cold and unfeeling rungs. So much pain had laid itself bare, upon the balcony…but those memories would stay hidden, if only for this moment, for the exhilaration that now coursed through her blood.
And that night, for the first time in years, she threw herself open in abandon, recklessly; singing loud enough for the moon to bend his caked ears and listen. She sang her mother's song, not softly, but as loud as she could; lacing it with the emotions of loss, of sadness and insanity and frustration that she formed with every breath. It was her swan song, her call to the city that bustled and hurried down below. It was a love song; something that spoke of freedom, of intricate and unadulterated laughter. It was the song of her childhood that had been wiped out and erased by a demonic force, yet within her, still, it lived! Perhaps it had never truly faded…perhaps it had lay dormant within her, waiting for the perfect brass key to slide in and open its doors…
And Christine, in nothing but her dark tights and leotard, did not know that another sat listening intently, clenching and unfurling tight fists in a whirl of blinding depression…
Another, through the open vault in his roof sat silently, waiting for more of her voice to surround him, to carry him, to soothe him…
Another, hidden away in his penthouse, quietly cried with his head in his hands; for the song from her distant lips broke his very spirit, cutting him close to the core…
And he cried all night, long after her song had dissipated into the wind, still pulled relentlessly by the current of her river…
The gentle tide of a mother's song, of a voice so ethereal it could have shattered the remains left inside of him…
The woman with the pale face, with the wondrous and curious eyes, haunting his vision…the elusive angel that had showed herself to him, with a circlet of stars and night around her head…
This woman who commanded the waves and earthen skies with just a voice, this girl who bled freely as he played, as he fought through thorns of emotion and thoughts that threatened his detestable existence…
She was a river. A river that flowed endlessly, pushing and pulling him, redeeming him, cradling him...
Breaking him. Into a thousand pieces, into every star that lined the blackened Manhattan sky.
…
A/N: Thank you to all readers and lurkers out there enjoying this piece. Comments and/or feedback are always deeply appreciated.