"The prisoner, having reached the depth of his depression, gradually reawakens to the life around him. He licks himself and his wounded pride, opens his eyes, and finds that far away on the horizon there is still a ray of sunlight left."

- P.H. Newman

…

"I'm still here"

He despised the stillness of the aftermath; the quiet that formed from the collapsed ecstasy of their desolate fornication. It was a punishment, a sullen and damp mask drawn over his features, blinding his golden eyes to the truth of it all – he could not escape from his own brokenness.

Erik lay motionless, half naked and slouched upon the blood-red loveseat. Gianna was a blurred shape living in the edges of the shadows, in corners of the room that seemed to trail off. She let him live alone in that silence, for she knew nothing could be said or done; she was not his savior. She could only offer a small trinket of remorse and care, which was the dull and smooth black mask that had been placed on the seat beside him.

He dissociated in and out of the room, imagining that instead of laying with his face and chest bare, he was seated upon his piano bench. The keys begged him to touch their faces, to make sense of the haphazard smoke patterns in the air, that he might bend to their surface and dive completely through – shattering the cool surface of a dusk colored pond.

"There is no tree that waits for me," he murmured softly, absentmindedly running a finger over the deformed swastika carved into his left pectoral. He had clawed up its right angles with a blade one night in order to cancel out the horrific pink lines that were hot to the touch; a cattle brand. He hadn't known it then, but now it was quite clear to him…

He still belonged to them.

Yet he was free, was he not?

Gianna had wrapped herself in a dark velvet robe, ignoring the tiny piles of lace that had been strewn across the floor of the room. She seated herself beside him, leaving a bit of space between them as she lit a cigarette. The smoke plumed out from the end, flowing like make-believe waves in the dim lamplight. Erik reached for the mask between them.

"Thank you for this," he commented, his voice almost a whisper. He raked his hands through the now wild curls of his hair, stringy and soaked with sweat and blood. The mask rested flawlessly upon his features, and he let out a small sigh of relief – he was safe, now…the world could not harm him if they could not see him…and the grief that he carried for his old self; the one that was destroyed and strangled, the one that he so desperately wished might return.

But there was no tree to climb, there was no escape high up in the sky. There was only avoidance and denial, the perfect cocktail that sedatives and cocaine could muster inside of him…creating a numbness that was his real mask – his carefully constructed façade that had come tumbling down like a splintered skyscraper…he had let himself be seen, he had let his anger control him. But was there no other way to live, now?

When Gianna handed him her cigarette, he shook his head slowly, pulling his own pack from the inside of his jacket pocket. He drew one from the pack, placing it in the stitched up corner of his mouth, lighting it with a match that sat lonely and dutiful on the mirrored side table. Erik stood up swiftly, tugging his trousers up and donning his crusted and bloodied dress shirt. He slipped his arms into his jacket, tossing the untied silk bow tie on the ground. One drag off of his cigarette gave him a lightheaded rush, and with this rush he smiled grimly, smoothing his filthy hands over the front of the unbuttoned jacket. He strode nonchalantly across the room to the door, glancing back at Gianna once his hand felt the curve of the doorknob. She looked upset, with glittering green eyes that glared at him as she continued to smoke, her legs crossed and her mouth forming a thin line.

"Where will you go, now? To your lover's house?" she quipped bitterly, brushing a curtain of crimson locks behind her shoulder. Erik dipped his head low, gritting his teeth in frustration. He considered leaving and saying nothing – he did not owe her anything except the money that had already been paid. He knew what she was asking, though – she wanted to test him, to see if the words he had blurted the last time he had seen her were true…and they were, to an extent…yet they weren't for her, anymore.

"I have no lover," he replied gruffly, eyeing her through the confines of the mask. "And quite honestly, it is no business of yours, Gianna. I've paid you well. I will call on you if I need your…services again."

"So that's it, then?" she shouted, standing up from the loveseat indignantly. "You didn't have to tell me those things if they were fucking lies, Erik. I know this isn't some sort of fairytale. But you cried when you said them…and…now you want me to disregard them, as if they never were spoken…?"

He let out a raspy breath, losing what little patience he had with every moment that passed. "I said them in the heat of the moment, when I was inside of you," he retorted, rolling his eyes in her general direction. "Besides, my dear, you're a prostitute," he stated through a crooked smile, cocking his head at her. "I'm sure you've heard deeper aches of affection from men." Erik whirled around coldly, pulling the door open and slamming it shut behind him. As his footsteps fell away, Gianna let her face fall into her hands, tears slipping down her pale skin; the smallest star in the midnight sky that always seemed to go unnoticed – the only star that did not belong to any silver plated constellation.

Erik shoved his way through the crowded brothel, elbowing and pushing aside men that stood enamored with the creamy thighs of the dancers onstage. He needed to get out of Tartaros, which meant a heady, intoxicating climb through these filthy darkened streets – all the way up to the golden, sandstone fields of the Upper East Side.

The air was cool upon his skin as he broke free of the double front doors, swearing to himself that he would never return to these depths. Something writhed inside of him – something even more terrible than his own guilt or self loathing – Christine's saddened eyes as he left her in the foyer, and the shock written across her features that was the only probable reaction to the butchered features of his bare face.

He replayed the entire scene in his mind, now full of shame and self consciousness; she must think him a monster, a man that beat his elderly father into unconscious submission over a few nasty and sharp words that had been exchanged. Erik shook his head to himself as he trudged along, ignoring the scantily clad women who reached out to him like trapped, lost souls. He was too terrified and guilty to return to his penthouse – what if he heard her again on her balcony…would she shut and lock those doors forever, would she banish the iron staircase from her mind that led to the roof, undoubtedly leading her to him all over again?

He could not face her after what had transpired. She did not deserve his wickedness, his hands that seized violence, his soul that became drunk on the fumes of revenge. Yet a small part of his heart, the little bud that his mother had left blossoming whispered against these thoughts. It told him that she needed him, that perhaps she might not care about his damage, his spirit that lay in pieces strewn upon a carpeted, bloodstained floor. Damn that little flower, that tiny magnolia who lived inside of his heart. He wanted to smother it, but he could not – it was not he who had put it there.

The cold was beginning to seep in through the sleeves of his jacket, and his teeth started to chatter against his own will – he desperately searched the street signs for the haven that was his brother's building; a thick strong tower lined with perfect grout and shining bricks. Erik could see it glowing in the distance, and he quickened his pace to a light jog, determined to at least attempt to make one of his wrongs right. Besides, he was fearful of his own penthouse – he could not return to the mess he had made…he was not ready to see the path of shattered glass on the floor, and the wallpaper that had been torn from the walls in jagged formations of madness.

The lobby of the apartment building was pleasantly born of granite dreams, lit with a large, strangely shaped glass chandelier that hung from golden wire. He did not bother to stop at the front desk, for he knew his brother resided upon the ninth floor – and the winding, terrible staircase would have to do.

Erik found himself covered in icy sweat, with strands of raven curls hanging over his mask as he twisted his jacket in his hands. The nine flights of stairs had been a ravenous climb into purgatory, where he now stood rooted to the spot, unable to move a single inch as he caught his breath. The emerald double doors of Bruce's penthouse were merely a couple steps away, but he did not have the courage to reach out and touch its surface. Doubts were beginning to seethe inside of his mind, crawling upon his flesh like the centipede of stitches on the side of his mouth. He touched a hand to his throat where there was light bruising, reminding him of Bruce's arms strangling him from behind, desperate to save him again, somehow…just as he always had.

Erik shook his head, forcing grimy curls of his raven black hair behind one ear. He reached out tentatively, rapping his knuckle lightly upon the painted, green surface of the left door. His heart pounded as he listened intently, trying to straighten and tuck his dress shirt in. The door opened carefully, emitting a warm amber light into the hall, and Bruce stood staring, his eyes bloodshot and puffy as if he had been crying. There was a stillness between them that seemed to stretch out into minutes, and Erik finally cleared his throat uncomfortably, shuffling his feet as he took a deep breath.

"May I come in?" he asked, his eyes glued to the floor, to the soft light that peeked out from the half opened door. "I…I wanted to speak with you."

Bruce seemed to freeze, his eyebrows furrowing for a moment. He nodded numbly, his mouth agape as if attempting to find the right words to say. "Yes, yes of course," he responded eventually, pulling the door open fully, allowing Erik to slip inside.

The penthouse was lit with dozens of glass colored lamps that oozed a comforting light, rippling shadows onto the walls that were covered in paintings. It was altogether a cozy, high ceilinged flat, and Erik settled himself in the wide living room, perching on the edge of a turquoise chaise sectional. He set his crumpled jacket next to him as he watched Bruce move across the room, collecting two glasses for a few stinging shots of whiskey.

The two brothers sat upon the sectional, almost opposite one another. Bruce offered Erik a cigarette and he received it gladly, lighting it quickly to fill the silence between them.

"I'm glad you're here," Bruce managed to choke out between drags, moving the second glass of whiskey closer to Erik. The coffee table was made of dark mahogany wood, and it housed piles of leather bound books, along with a delicate, pearl colored ashtray.

Erik grasped the offered drink slowly, dumping its contents down his throat with an unnatural ease. He stared down at his own hands, ashamed that his skin was still stained with the blood of his father…of their father…

"Bruce…I…I was hoping you might…perhaps…forgive me," Erik suggested softly, staring vacantly into the empty bottom of the glass, kneading his fingers together. "I apologize for this evening…I…I lost control, I…I don't know how to do this, anymore," his voice seemed to teeter on the verge of tears, and he pulled the mask from his face, grunting like a frustrated child. Erik wiped his eyes, now bare in the warm, yellow light, determined not to cry. Yet suddenly he could not stop the tears from flowing, and he began to sob, covering his scarred up face in his wide, bloodstained hands. Bruce did not speak a single word, but instead stood up to refill the two empty glasses. His shadow passed over Erik as he crossed the room, and Erik began to cry harder. His breathing was wracked with menacing gasps, and he pulled at the grungy curls of his hair, weeping and murmuring to himself…

Disgusted with himself.

Loathing himself.

"I don't fucking matter…not anymore!" Erik moaned through gritted teeth, pulling harder at his hair. At the sound of the glasses being settled back onto the coffee table, Erik ripped his hands away from his face, gaping at his brother with swollen, red eyes.

"The war is over," he whimpered, seizing the glass of whiskey and downing it once more. "The war is over, Bruce! As if I didn't know, as if it never even fucking happened! How can I live, now? How can I possibly live in this world," he sobbed, "when the war is over…but I'm still here?"

He continued to cry, rubbing his eyes constantly, trying to bite back each onslaught of fuming, panic-stricken tears. "I'm afraid," he whispered in a small voice, his eyes locked onto Bruce, who still sat almost opposite of his brother on the chaise. But his body was bent toward Erik's like a plant might bend to the sun – and his eyes were full of tears; a mirror to Erik's scarred up, crumpled complexion. He let them slip out softly, not bothering to wipe them away…not wanting to hide them from Erik, from the mountain of a man who sat fragmented upon his couch.

"I'm afraid there's no place for me, anymore. That I don't fit into a mold, anymore. Everyone else does! Everyone but me. And they all want to celebrate, they all want to make it seem like some gaudy, majestic victory! But I died there, in Germany! They took my sanity, they took the tiny parts of me that wanted to create, that wanted to fucking live! How can I even bring those parts back, Bruce? How can I find them again?"

Erik dropped his head back down into his hands as he sobbed. Bruce moved over to him quietly, resting a hand upon Erik's quivering back.

"You don't need to apologize, brother," Bruce soothed, rubbing the girth of Erik's back gently. "Father was atrocious to you, this evening…I never would have pushed you to go if I knew what he might say. So no, Erik…I will not forgive you…there is no forgiveness needed."

Erik looked up slowly, brushing the snot from his nose with the back of his hand. "But I…I couldn't control myself…I…I wanted to kill him. Everything came into me in that very moment, and I…I just wanted some kindness, from him…he made me go, he wanted me to be apart of this make-believe, heroic mission! And I did what he asked, that's all I've ever done! I wanted to protect you…I didn't want you to be ruined, too…"

"Shhh, Erik, hush now," Bruce murmured, offering him a handkerchief. "I don't know everything they did to you, nor will I ask you to explain…but you did save me. You always have protected me, and if anything…that just might be the blossom you need to continue on," Bruce explained softly as Erik blew his nose. "I know father expects you to be some inhumane force that doesn't feel, but I know you better than that. And I know the war is over. But…you see, you're here with me. And I need you. I have my brother back. And that's something I've dreamt of for years and years…don't you see? I love you anyways. And maybe it's something so small, maybe it's too hard to even see right now, but…you're still here for a purpose. For something more."

Erik seemed to grow quiet as he listened to the tenderness of Bruce's words. He wiped his hands on the handkerchief, turning its faultless white fabric into brown streaks of dried blood. He looked up, his face reddened and swollen from crying, the scarred up skin seeming to be inflamed from the rubbing and the tears.

"And the woman, Christine? Do you think she can forgive me, for…for what I made her witness, for the ugliness that she saw in me? Fuck, Bruce, if I could take it all back for her, I would…but I'm so afraid to go back there, to my penthouse. She won't want to see me, anymore…" his eyes were full of childlike worry, and he bit down hard on his bottom lip, prodding at his stitches with a forefinger. Bruce dropped his hand from Erik's back, smiling to himself as he sipped from the glass of whiskey.

"She isn't afraid," Bruce admitted, shaking his head. "I talked to her briefly before she departed, and…Erik, she was concerned for you. I think she meant to go after you. But you were long gone."

Erik let out a small and pitiful laugh, cocking his head at his brother incredulously. "You think she…she meant to come after me? After…after everything that happened?"

Bruce nodded. "I do. She was on her way out, and I managed to catch her before she left…if anything, I know she cares for you. I could see it in her eyes."

Erik sat back slowly, allowing himself to relax into the cushions of the couch. His bare skin, although inflamed, felt raw in the warm light of the penthouse, almost goading him to enjoy the feeling of vulnerability. The heaving of his chest began to subside, and his thoughts fell away from their cyclical misery, drifting apart like clouds clearing themselves from the sky. He shook his head again, scoffing slightly at the idea of her possible forgiveness…yet it was a little bloom, a tiny growth in the darkness of his heart that stayed; a feathered, golden lotus…

He wiped away the last of his tears, watching Bruce smile as he rose once more to refill their glasses. Maybe he could go back, after all…perhaps the sadness in her eyes was still his very own mirror, and she saw within him some semblance of hope, some tiny rooted blossom from the hands of his mother. Maybe the wallpaper could be put back…and perhaps the windows of his rooftop drawn open. Perhaps he could sweep up the glass shards and clean the blood from his hands…

Perhaps the stitches might heal.

And he might sit at his piano bench again, humming a melody that floated through fields of gold in his dreams. Maybe the bloom inside of him might still grow, despite the darkness that enclosed itself around it, around him…

And she might peek down at him again with wide, wondering eyes…with melancholy that bled down through her fingertips, dribbling upon his smoldering, aching back as he played…with her hair wild around her, clasped together with a diadem made of starlight.

...

A/N: I apologize to all of my brilliant readers and lurkers for the delay on updating. I hope you loved the ache of this chapter – don't hesitate to leave your thoughts and/or feedback! Love, L.