Stranglehold

They had emptied someone else into his private pit. And although they had bound him tightly behind the head, he could smell the difference within the silence; the rage of boiling blood that was within inches of his own heaving chest.

"He is good, but not as good as the Captain. Unbind him…he fights like the last warrior upon a battlefield. Beautiful, it is. Like finding a…what is the phrase? Needle in a haystack…"

Someone ripped the blindfold from his face. He snarled at the hand that retracted immediately, seizing the man's thumb by his teeth. He bit down hard enough that the man screamed, and laughter peppered throughout the now known but small crowd.

But he was still strung up by cruel ropes without any advantage; helpless, almost naked, and ashamed. Were they here to put a new scar upon him; were they here to give him the death that he dreamt of, those fields of golden green where his mother beckoned and called him from?

Mama…

The man with the bleeding thumb had stormed off, threading his way through the flock of Germans, cursing and spitting as he went. Erik had lifted his head and smiled; he used his great wide smile they had given him, and the effect was like the hand of the devil, sweeping cries of delight and horror throughout the men that stood before him.

"Unbind him, let him fight the other. He will kill him." A man stepped closer, smashing his fingers against the side of Erik's head. The man bent down low, his lips inches from the crusted blood that covered Erik's earlobe. "Won't you…Captain?

"You cry out in your sleep…you sob for her, your mother. Pitiful, yet I understand. But she is long dead. And you…you will be alive. You will live a full lifetime, I will make sure of it." The man laughed, his blue eyes flickering with a calculating and demonic glow.

He would never forget those eyes.

They had forged him, created him, distorted and manipulated him. They loved him yet hated him, they fought for him, lived for him…yet even still, they made him yearn to die.

They were like strikes of lightning, each struck once upon a burning tree.

"Kill him, Captain. I release you from your chains…

Kill him. Now!"

It tore him deep, even still. How could the past so angrily and delicately pull him back into the present moment?

"Captain…Look at me. Such beautiful eyes. So beautiful and yet, so sad…"

Erik stroked his forefinger over the rough black curve of his stitches.

That voice still resounded in his ears. The deep and masculine voice, heavy with accent, with a scarred up torso and lips. The man told him that he was loved, that he was chosen; bound in blood and destined for glory. He had repeated, over and over, that they were one in the same.

"Fuck me. Fuck me now."

Erik stared at himself in the brassy full-length mirror. The Germans faded away around him, but the other prisoner's blood still covered his hands, dripping upon the wooded floor. He wrung them in front of the mirror just to make sure it was only another delusion, that he stood here in his flat and not bound in the Germans' dirt walled pit of hell – and that the man with the blue eyes did not love him, or hate him, or lie to him, or beg to be touched…

Anymore.

Fuck me. Fuck me and I'll let you go.

He could still see his blue eyes closing and opening, his mouth agape to raggedly breathe within the dense and smoke filled air.

Let me feel you…make me feel you and I'll untie you.

You'll be free.

Free to live, or to die…that will be up to you.

Erik did not fear the flashbacks…he could not. They were the only entity keeping him sane, they were what kept his mind from imploding; the delicate balance he lived between reality, chaos, and dreaming.

Dreaming. Why were others so baffled by its nature? Why could they ever think that life was meant to be lived outside of the sleeping mind – why did they think they could laugh without the need to shut down and be alone; were they all that arrogant, or simply ignorant to their own primitive needs?

Erik did not care about the nightmares – they were just old memories, now. He let them come over him, welcoming their presence like the love of a mother. Sometimes they came in moments that were seemingly unconnected, and once they had fulfilled what was needed, they faded back into the recesses of his mind once more. Darkness flowing back into where it belonged; an infinitely larger space of darkness that had buried its home in his heart.

Looking into any mirror gave them an extensive gateway; a luminous path in which to graciously follow.

He turned away from his reflection to down a glass of whiskey. It was warm, but he did not wish to wait for the ice to make itself known. He was so impatient nowadays; he needed everything the moment he felt the urge. And since he had been robbed of his gluttonous taste for lust the night before, he relished the warmth of its spidery hands stretching out over his skin. If anything, he would stay for an hour – just enough time to appease Bruce and his overzealous cocksucking father – and perhaps on the way out, he could snag a voluptuous woman from the throngs of the crowd. Oh, and he would have his way with her…whomever she might be.

He turned to the mirror once more. Everything was in its perfect place; his smooth black mask sat just above the end of his nose, and his stitches gleamed in the dim lamplight. He had combed back the waves of his raven hair, and they shimmered like wild dark fire, matching the deep black cloth of his tuxedo. He had fought with the idea to cover his hands with gloves – he despised the ugly scarring that covered his knuckles, but there was someone who hated them even more; his very own precious father! Erik would show his hands tonight, and with enough anger and liquor, perhaps…he might even show his father his face!

He laughed aloud at the reaction he might get. Bruce would roll his eyes of course, but his father…his father would be forced to publicly face what the ravage of war did to his flawless first-born son!

His eyes gleamed in the mirror behind the mask. As he downed his last bit of whiskey before turning on his heel, he let the glass fall from his hands, smiling widely at the shattering of the glass upon the scraped up wooden floor.

He turned around to face his cluttered and half-destroyed apartment once he reached the door, smiling at the wallpaper that was almost completely torn off.

Tonight, after the folly of his father's elitist black-tie gala, he would finish the rest. And then he could begin to write in the depths of prickling lunacy, he could finally start to scrawl the score that had been bursting within the veins of his heart.

But he would not use paper. Why waste paper when he could write on the walls?

…

"Christine, come out here already! It's just about time for you to go!" Rosie called through the bathroom door, knocking feverishly against the painted wood. Christine flinched, closing her eyes to steady her breathing. She had brought one of Raoul's many decanters into the spacious bathroom, and had sipped straight out of its painted glass mouth to keep her nerves from controlling her completely. Raoul was being kind, of course – tonight was the night he would force her into the spotlight – but how could a wilted plant suddenly be thrust into the sun and still live?

"One moment, Rosie, just adding a bit more blush," she responded, fighting back the urge to chew on her bottom lip. She downed more of the bottle, waiting for the delicious sensation of feigned confidence to seep through her veins. Christine stared into the full-length mirror, adjusting her loose curls to hang over the curves of her breasts. She could not look away, for the mirror betrayed a woman she did not recognize – a woman she had never seen before.

The dress was velvet and dark – almost black, with a light shimmer of what seemed to be starlight sewn into its arduous threads. It was completely backless, revealing slender and softly lined muscles; the product of countless and strenuous hours as a ballerina. Tiny wisps of velvet were the straps that clung to her shoulders, and her hair fell down in gentle curls, relaxed and free, rolling like the whisper of a ponds' tide.

Her lips were painted a deep red, and Rosie had applied a dark powder to her lids in order to match with the midnight dress, along with a smooth and crisp line of black eyeliner underneath.

The woman was flawless in every way. The woman was an angel that walked the earth, permitted a simple twelve hours to be amongst mortals; a deal struck by the hand of God himself.

Christine closed her eyes. She saw him again, twisted around, staring at her with glowing eyes; she felt his presence near to her, suddenly. Was he just above her now, in his bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror? Did he wonder what secrets that the night would give, or perhaps take away?

He would look into her eyes, again. She did not know what she might do, or what she might say to him. She wanted to hear his voice say her name, even if for a short moment of greeting. She longed for his lips to brush the knuckle of her hand, even if as a simple formality. He must. He would…

And then…?

She did not know.

"Christine! Raoul says that the car is waiting. You must go! Come on, open the door!" Rosie continued pounding on the door from the other side.

Christine drank deeply from the bottle one last time, stepping closer to the mirror to touch her nose to the glass. "Let me be wonderful," she whispered, smoothing the velvet that clung to her shivering skin. "Let him see me for me…let him know me…please God…"

Let him see.

Christine opened the door of the bathroom, standing in the doorway for one moment longer. Rosie stood a few feet from her, clasping a hand to her mouth. "Oh, Christine," she breathed, shaking her head. "I believe we have done what we set out to do."

"And what is that? Make me into an angel?" she laughed, although her heart begged for it to be true. If he sees an angel, he cannot deny her…God would not allow it…or would he?

"Yes!" Rosie squealed with delight, embracing her lightly. "I don't want to soil the dress with my sweat," Rosie laughed, grasping Christine by the hand. "Go," she whispered softly, motioning to Raoul who stood by the front door, grinding a cigarette out beneath his heel. "Go and talk to him, charm him…he will see you and fall for you. I know it!"

"Stop saying that!" Christine pinched her lightly, and both laughed together. And for the first time, Christine dropped Rosie's hand without the tangled feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. "I will tell you everything when I return," she whispered, smiling at the tingle that the liquor had finally leaked into her veins.

"Raoul, darling, I am ready," she called out tenderly, walking across the flat as if she glided across a frozen pond. Raoul grinned at her, his eyes glittering with a lustful greed as he took in the entirety of her beauty.

"Our plan will go accordingly, my sweet. For you look divine."

Rosie waved from the other side of the flat, gathering up miscellaneous makeup items and hair products. Christine winked at her, right before Raoul whisked her out the door gently by the crook of her arm.

As they made their way to the staircase, Christine pushed her jaw forward, determined to ooze confidence, even if it was feigned. She brushed a lock of hair behind her shoulder, slowly descending the staircase as if in a dream. A peculiar feeling began to creep over her, unnerving her – but nothing was out of place, everything was just as it always was…

Except one thing.

The man waited at the bottom of the staircase.

His back was turned, but she could immediately tell it was him by his stature; the fullness of his back, and the soft waves of raven hair that were slicked and neatly combed.

Raoul tensed up beside her, squeezing her arm lightly as if to alert her. "Christine, my God, that's him. That is your endgame, my sweet. That is our check-mate."

Her heart began to race, so fast that it hurt, so reckless that it seemed to bleed – it was as if a thousand stallions were let free within her chest. She felt a sharp pain shoot through her sternum, and her vision began to blur. Oh God, I cannot face him…I cannot…

God. Please.

The next few minutes were made of darkness. She was falling down, down, all the way down into hell – her skin was slick with fire! Had God lied to her – was this all a fantasy, some sick dream that would ultimately dissipate and send her flying down to where she perhaps belonged; with Satan's chains forever around her neck?

There were painted and smeared bits of light, and she shook her head to fight against them. God, don't send me there, don't send me back to him…let me live, let me live…

Let me be free.

Slowly, her senses began to return to her. Her skin was still flushed, but she no longer was falling…her body had lurched to a stopping point, as if colliding into a great mountain.

Christine felt strong arms pulling her up, away from the cataclysm of hell that screamed out her name. Her eyes began to flutter as her mind whirred anxiously, stitching images together that made her breathing hitch in her throat.

He held her in his arms, cradling her head with one of his hands. Never had she felt closer to heaven, never had she opened her eyes and been so utterly intoxicated and relieved.

She could see scars that wove out from behind his mask, and his stitches that curved from the edge of one side of his lips, halfway up his cheek. His eyes were fixed upon her, burying themselves in her, kneading themselves into her private thoughts and hopeless dreams.

There, beneath the bright chandelier light of the lobby, he held her. And this time, he did not look away.

Not for a single moment.

…

A/N: Thank you to each and every one of my amazing lurkers and readers. I still managed to be inspired in the middle of my move, between packing up what seems like a million boxes. I thank you for continuing to give feedback, and for taking this wonderful journey with me. I am grateful for every piece of feedback or comments given.