A/N: Thank you everyone, again, for continuing to read and leave comments! They always make my day. Please enjoy the next chapter, and let me know what you think!
BEASTIE
I'm sorry.
His gentle apology was like autumn rain, sliding down the rouged skin of her cheeks, leaving white track marks that stood out boldly; a painted doll weeping.
In the blurred edges of her vision, Raoul knelt on the floor next to James whose face was unrecognizable, save for the sharp edge of a nose that rose up from pools of blood, out of scarlet gouges carved into the wrinkles of his face.
The murmurs of the crowd fell away.
All of a sudden, it was as if she lived outside of herself, watching numbly from the sidelines; she saw a pretty little girl crying with a bloodied and parched bottom lip – all due to a tenacious and anxious biting habit.
The pretty girl stood alone, clothed in the night sky.
Come with me, please…
She had pleaded with him, she had looked through the shards of broken glass, the mirror that had shattered between them…But he had left her all alone. Should she have whispered his name?
I've always been alone.
The pretty little girl sat by herself, sitting again on the edge of a cot. All of them were lined in rows; all of them were starched and white, like a makeshift medic's ward in a warehouse.
You will stay here now, child.
The rows were too perfect, too rectangular: an equation. The ceiling was vaulted above, hung with cobwebs and dust of the past…of all the mothers and fathers who had died, leaving their children to an unknown fate; the unsettling sandstone building on the corner, the one with tiny square windows and scratchy cots that made sleeping soundly quite difficult…
They're dead, Christine.
The little girl had the wildest, untamable curls. It made the Headmistress angry.
I'll feed you to the Germans if I catch you misbehaving again! And keep your hair tied up, or I'll shave your head myself!
The little girl tried to run away; she tried to find her parents.
The headmistress always found her, no matter how far she would run.
The little girl sat in a chair, facing the corner. There were ties on her wrists, and tears in her eyes as they shaved her head. She watched as all of her soft curls fell around her like leaves, landing on the ground limp, cold, and dead.
I'll feed you to the Germans.
They're dead, Christine. No amount of misbehaving will ever bring them back!
The headmistress hated the little girl. She made a mean nickname for the little girl. She wanted her to suffer.
Bald little beastie, always getting into trouble! Naughty, terrible beastie.
Christine blinked.
Her mind replayed Erik's swollen muscles rippling through his sleeves as he knelt over his father, holding the front of his neck with one large hand as he beat him senseless, unconscious, unknowing…
Look what the fucking Germans did…isn't it pretty?
His smile lingered in her mind. He spoke of angels on the rooftop, that lived within the statues on the dome.
She blinked again.
Her eyes slowly found their way to Raoul who was rummaging calmly through a first aid kit. It was a small tin box that was painted white, with a large red cross on the lid.
The cross was a deep crimson, like the saturated flesh of James's face.
Like the blood on Erik's dress shirt.
The hue that painted the skin of his palms, the smell of soiled iron in the air…
Tears began to fall down her face all over again; a senseless repetition that she was damned to live in a loop – over and over, without end or beginning!
A labyrinth made of white cots.
The gaudy murmurs of the massive crowd brought her back to the Opera House's grand hall, still empty handed. There were no calloused fingers holding hers….not anymore; he had disappeared through the crowd, no doubt rushing down the grand staircase outside, merging with the darkness between lampposts…
Dodging each space that lived in-between the light, that balanced with the shadows of night.
Little Dove.
It sickened her, the entirety of it. There had been screaming and pointing and fainting, and the crowd had shied away from him in fear – away from the man that had protected her from a terrible fall down the stairs…a fall initiated by the doctor that cared for the man on the ground.
Cared for him. Staunching the bleeding.
Saving him.
The humming of the crowd became louder, growing in swells like dissonant music, and she was forced wholly back into reality, feeling pangs of twisted irony roiling within her stomach. She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep vomit from spilling out, forcing herself to swallow the thick acidity that threatened to overflow – just as she always, time and time again, pushed back the tears from Raoul's stinging slaps, from his hands that took life, that bruised and bit and shunned…
That made her disappear. She was but a shadow, to him. Nothing more.
Yet he knelt on the marble now, his hands bloodstained; a hero in the midst of the masses…bound to be congratulated by James upon the brink of his startled consciousness – and now, these two men would have more in common than ever before:
They both despised those they claimed to love.
Christine stared wretchedly as Bruce surveyed the caretaking of his father. He seemed nervous, but kept a forced smile plastered on his face for the crowd, even though he still wrung his hands like an anxious animal, caught in the woods by a snare…just by the edge of the foot…
Nothing to see here.
Nothing.
It hadn't been nothing.
Bruce had been the only one in that vast, achingly beautiful hall who seemed to understand – he had attempted to stop Erik, he had tried calming him down. Now, he stood in place of his brother, pacifying the crowd, using the grandeur of his voice to make the young women smile – and slowly, people began laughing again, clutching their golden chokers and taking swigs of nicotine from freshly lit cigarettes. He had spared the crowd all feeling – they didn't have to care, nor did they want to...
Christine wanted to scream.
She suddenly despised every single person that turned away, lifting new and golden glasses of champagne from a nearby waiter. She watched them raise their glasses into the air, as if asking the angels above to bless their drinks – for they believed they could dwell among these angels, those twisted and filthy elites of upper Manhattan.
Christine did not bother to clean up the mascara that ran in smears of darkness around her eyes, nor did she wipe away the tears that had gathered on the edges of her chin. She knew the tiny mark of blood was still there…somehow, she could still feel it. She did not wipe it away – she did not want to wipe him away…his touch, the rough edge of his thumb printed upon her flesh…
A scar.
She observed the crowds dissipate as if there had never been a scene after all; but something was left of the altercation, a small indication that this evening had been real. That he had been real.
The leather mask lay discarded amongst the crowds that were draining away – music began to play in the distance, inside of the theatre. It grew loud, a symphony of the rich, accompanied with tittering laughter and clinking glasses of rose colored wine.
She glided across the floor as if descending into a dream, the faded music guiding her steps across the cold expanse of marble. Christine knelt down slowly, picking up the mask by its hardened, well worn edges. She could almost see his eyes behind it, and she smiled faintly, running a thumb under the empty sockets where gold had shown through. She quickly wrapped it in the train of her dress, covering it safely in dark folds of the night sky.
"Christine, my darling," Raoul's voice came from behind her, and she stood up abruptly, taking care to keep the mask covered in her left hand. She turned around slowly to face him, clenching the mask as if to give herself a draught of courage. "I am sorry, my darling," she shook her head at him, wiping her cheeks with her free hand. "I must look atrocious, right now…"
To her surprise, Raoul gave a small smile, holding out his hands that were stained with blood. "Nonsense," he replied smoothly, closing the space between them. He pulled a white handkerchief out from inside of his jacket, pressing it into her free hand.
"Here, try and wipe your face. But really Christine, it's all right – we can leave as soon as the medics arrive." His eyes were even and calm, and he reached up to brush a hand against her cheek. "Don't worry, it's just blood…it will wash off."
She nodded, forcing herself not to shiver underneath his cold touch. "I…I should much like to wait in the car," she stammered quietly, looking into his eyes for approval. Raoul nodded, staring down at his hands once more. "I often forget that you hate the sight of blood. Very well, the car is waiting out front. You might have to walk a bit, if you wish to go right now…"
"I do. I will be fine," she feigned a small smile, swallowing the bile that threatened to leak through her bitten up lips. Christine turned from him, taking slow steps away from the bloodstained marble, where James still lay unconscious…she would break into a run as soon as she reached the staircase…
"Christine, please wait," someone caught her lightly by the arm, and she whirled around in panic, ripping her arm away from whoever had followed her. She sighed in relief at the sight of Bruce, and they stood together silently for a moment, right beside the gleaming entrances to the Opera House.
"Please, allow me to apologize for my brother…his behavior, I…I truly am sorry."
Christine pushed open one of the doors with her free hand, turning to glance back at Bruce. "I must get some air," she answered quietly. "Could we perhaps talk outside?"
"Of course," Bruce reached around her back, pushing the door open fully with his arm. Christine slipped through the doorway carefully, still clutching the hidden mask in her left hand. Bruce followed her softly until they stood at the threshold of the staircase. The moon and stars were simply a reflection of her dress, out there in the darkness…with spots of bright light morphing their silhouettes into elongated shadows.
"I know we've just met, but I feel obliged to apologize on his behalf," Bruce admitted, staring down the grand staircase with a distant look in his eyes. "Really, that was quite a…a horrid thing for a lady to see…"
Christine's lips curled into a half smile, her eyes drifting toward the great dome of the Opera. She focused on one angel, a female that wore a golden chest plate, holding a long sword that was carved in the fashion of flames – a sword lit on fire.
"I am used to horrid, Mr. Vanderbilt," she replied distantly, brushing a stray curl away from her face. "There is no need to apologize to me." The female angel had her eyes permanently pointed upward, as if she was at the mercy of her God. Christine broke her eyes away from the statue, fixating them onto Bruce's concerned features. "You should go after him. He…he may need you."
Bruce sighed, exasperated, shaking his head. "I wish he needed me," he muttered, kicking a stray pebble on the ground. "He doesn't need anyone, Christine. He won't allow it. Not since…"
"Since he came back?"
Bruce looked worried. "You've heard rumors, haven't you? About him. About what happened to him."
She looked at him calmly and nodded, raising up the folds of her dress that were gathered in her left hand. She pulled the top fold away, revealing the dulled leather of the mask to the cool night air, allowing Bruce to see. His eyebrows shot up as he studied it for a moment, then looked back into Christine's eyes with saddened obscurity.
"I still remember him from before," he whispered, tears gathering in the creases of his eyes. "He was always so big, like a mountain. He would protect me from anyone; bullies at school, animals lurking in the woods…even from father. I wanted to be just like him. But now…he's so different. I don't believe I truly know him, anymore. And I try, Christine, I really do try…he just won't let me. He won't let anyone in. It…it fucking hurts," he managed to sputter, tears now falling freely down his cleanly shaven face. Christine stared at him, wide-eyed, feeling his melancholy as if it were her own. She reached out her free hand and grasped his, giving it a small squeeze. "He loves you," she stated gently, letting go of his hand. "I can tell."
Bruce laughed bitterly through his tears, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "You are very lovely," he said through a smile, shaking his head. "He's just running away, this is what he always does…but mark my words, he will come back."
"Back?" she asked hopefully, cocking her head to one side. "Back to the penthouse?"
Bruce bowed his head, turning away from her steadily, taking a couple steps back toward the Opera House. "Sooner or later, he will be there, Christine. Do not fear. He always comes back."
She smiled as his figure disappeared in-between the grand spots of light and the darkness, holding onto his words – a promise.
He will come back.
…
She was perched like the Queen of Egypt in the middle of the loveseat, lounging in her pink satin delicates, her bare feet resting with ankles crossed upon the ottoman. Raoul paced back in forth in front of her, an uncorked glass decanter sitting in between them with two glasses – both almost filled to the brim. Christine leaned forward to grasp hers, taking a long sip of the bitter amber liquid. It was like greeting an old friend – a pleasant and agreeable numbness that wriggled its way into her bloodstream, carrying all the way down into her toes. She smiled at its warmth, and watched Raoul carefully, feeling a new and delightful sense of power thrumming in her veins.
"I couldn't have planned it better, my love," Raoul commented joyfully, thrusting a finger in her direction. "You were…stunning! Oh, you had him ensnared like a wild animal, you did...the man is enamored with you! God, I could not have done this without you, Christine, you beautiful, cunning little angel!" Raoul laughed viciously, drinking deeply from his glass. Christine feigned a smile, raising her glass up in the air. "I was simply myself," she answered, drinking heavily to escape the hollow feeling in the cavity of her chest. Raoul had treated her like royalty from the moment they had left the Opera House, rambling on about how everything had happened in accordance with his plans…even the gamble of pushing her down a full flight of stairs.
"Now listen closely, because so far, this has been the easy part. The man is a known womanizer; he cannot stop fucking prostitutes or snorting coke on the daily…and now, I have his father in my debt. Oh, hell, how did I get this lucky?" He threw his head back and howled like a demon, gnashing his teeth as he emptied the rest of his drink. Christine kept a pleasant smile plastered on her face. Her thoughts drifted to the spare room, where many of Raoul's old keepsakes and paintings sat rotting. She had placed the mask safely in a drawer, covered in old shawls and banged up pointe shoes. She relished the look of the bitten up satin against the dark of the mask…almost as if she were intertwined with him still, somehow….even though there was no noise from above – no sign of him yet.
She sighed. He would come back. Bruce had said it with confidence, and he wouldn't lie to her, would he?
"Christine, focus!" Raoul's giddy, drunken voice ripped her mind away from the striking image of the mask hidden away, padded by her blood, sweat and tears…those shoes that crammed the ends of her toes, that bruised and wore down the flesh like a disease…
"What…what will you do next?" she asked tentatively, pushing more air through her throat to sound confident. She could be an actress in Raoul's little farce, couldn't she? It was an open door into Erik's world, a skeleton key that fit into any keyhole…
Freedom.
"I have a week's worth of these…certain pills, I've been working on in my lab. But I've been cut off from human testing, not allowed to…well, you needn't know the details, my love. But you, you can wiggle your way into his nest! You can find out if he takes pills, which I already am predicting he does, given his untethered anger," Raoul rubbed his nose, suddenly conscious of the bandages he had put there to lock it in place. "And all I need you to do, my sweet, is to find those pills and switch them with the ones I give to you." Raoul paused, bending over the coffee table to fill his glass once again. "Then, we must arrange a meeting, another gala perhaps…somewhere public, where I can observe his changed behavior. It does help that I gave his bleeding father medical aid…that was just the fucking cherry on top!" He motioned Christine to bring her glass forward, and he topped her off clumsily. "Well?" He stood still, finally done with his incessant pacing, staring at her with his childlike blue eyes. "Is that something you can manage?"
No, you disgusting filth of a man. You sick, vile thing…I would never.
"Yes, Raoul, I can do that," she answered quietly, averting her eyes from his as she sipped again from her glass. Raoul threw back the rest of his drink, pounding his chest with his fist. "Of course you can, my darling! It's clear he would do anything you asked of him. Oh, thank god you got your hair relaxed…I've heard he fucks gutter whores, but the man comes from wealth, so…I'm sure he has some sort of standards," Raoul said thoughtfully, dancing over to Christine, planting a hand lightly upon her head. "Oh, my Christine, my shrewd little beast! I knew one day you would be useful," he smiled down at her, his eyes raking over the delicates barely covering her breasts. But something pulled his eyes away – was it dignity that he gave to her? It had been so long since she had gotten it from him, she received it numbly, as if it were made of glass: see-through, and easily shattered.
But Raoul walked away from her, letting his hand slide down the length of her chestnut waves. He pulled his jacket back on, straightening his bow-tie, and carefully pulled the bandages from his bruised up nose. "I will be celebrating, tonight, beastie," he addressed her fondly, although her nose wrinkled at the sound of the nickname. "Now stay home and rest…you deserve it more than anyone! Ah, my pretty little thing…so smart, so clever!" Raoul bent down to tie the laces on his shiny black dress shoes, wobbling from side to side as he did so. Christine bit back a stifle of laughter.
As soon as the front doors slammed shut, she let her head fall back and rest on the edge of the loveseat. She listened hard for footsteps above her, through the ceiling…but all she could hear was a deafening silence, and the distant havoc of traffic from the open balcony. She sighed, shaking her head at herself. "It's barely been three hours," she murmured, replaying the words that Bruce had said, over and over.
He will come back, Christine.
She slowly stood up from the loveseat, a heavy feeling of sleep falling across her eyelids. She twirled across the floor slowly, making her way to the bedroom to finally lay down and rest – but something stopped her; something tiny that panged within her heart.
Christine opened the door to the spare room, leaping lightly across the bare floorboards to the dresser. She pulled open the second drawer, brushing aside the shawls – and there it was, gleaming in the lamplight from the hallway. She picked it up in her hands, gently, and laid a soft kiss on the ridge of the nose.
"Goodnight, Erik," she whispered, running a forefinger underneath an empty eye, where gold had shown through.