A Dream within a Dream
"I was made to rule the darkness."
- Rae Hachton
…
She dreamt only of him, that night…
The ballet conservatory was alive with evening color, born of every round, moon-like lamp that was stationed in sectors above each mirror. The room seemed unusually massive without its routine fulfillment of ballerinas, giggling to one another while stretching, lacing their pointe shoes to muscled calves with thick satin ribbons. Mirrors were everywhere, covering each wall from floor to ceiling; and when she glanced at her reflection, she could see herself across the dark flooring through the opposing mirrored side; millions of Christine's looking forward and backward, unsure of what remained in-between.
She stood alone with hands rested gently upon the barre, her hair pulled taut into a polished, glossy bun. Her reflection was unadorned and nude colored – she blended in with the soft lamplight; she was between each color that made up the keys of the piano: neither black nor white. Perhaps she was a new color that no one had ever seen; something so silken and fragile that it might not shine on its own, had the conservatory suddenly been plunged into sheer darkness.
An echoing thump caused her to turn slightly, and her eyes caught the shape of the grand piano, quietly positioned in the middle of the large expansive room. There was no shadow that loomed near the piano, no evidence to explain the sound she had heard. Christine turned back toward the mirror.
She had transformed; she was not the plain, nude colored woman, anymore. Her skin was powdered carefully, and lines of gold paint ran up and down her arms – traces of a forefinger. Pure feathers, as white as snow sprung up from her shoulders and in between her breasts, fringing like a great train of a wedding dress off the edge of her lower back.
A shining, golden crown was settled magnificently upon her head, and it seemed to be the source of a tiny sun – for it glittered and flowed endlessly, showering her in a brazen, sensuous light.
A conductor's baton slammed upon a surface, echoing louder than the previous muffled noise, and she gripped the barre in terror. She felt a presence in the room, suddenly…and the globes began to brighten, causing her eyes to squeeze shut as she adjusted her body, crouching down to hide from the noise; from the bellow of an angry, dissatisfied creature…
A pale swan concealing herself in plain sight.
"Why do you hide, little dove?"
Her eyes shot open at the sound of his voice, rich and deep, filling her insides with a delightful hum. Christine spun around from where she crouched near the barre, and he was there, crawling toward her on his hands and knees, an ebony baton tucked through the knot at the top of his tie.
"Erik," she whispered, sliding her legs out from beneath her, settling herself onto the floor. He moved closer and closer, his every movement a seductive, stealthy decision.
His mask seemed pressed into his face, causing a redness around the skin of his cheeks and upon the brim of his nose. Erik's eyes glowed like two smoldering coals behind the leather of the mask, pouring forth an intensity so great, she felt as though it might burn her alive…
"You…you came back!" Christine closed the space between them effortlessly, sliding upon her knees, spinning and propelling her body with breathless ease, taking great care in every movement that he might see her perform perfectly, without any of her small mistakes that might give away her own mortality. She wanted him to believe she was the swan who deserved to wear the crown; she wanted him to see her like this, forever. And with every movement toward him, a million swans danced in the mirrors; a horde of white feathers and golden ribbon floating closer and closer to the man in the black mask. His eyes glittered from underneath, and his smile pulled at the corners of his mouth – both sides of his lips were identical, with no sign of crude scarring or dark, bruised sutures.
She was almost to him, almost touching him.
Christine blinked.
He was gone, as if the dream had reset itself. He now stood in the middle of the room, his eyes locked onto hers, with a large hand resting upon the keys of the grand piano – but he did not play.
She was back at the barre, again. "Wait for me," she called out to him, dropping her hand from the barre. She was still the white swan, and she repeated her movements toward him, except she pirouetted instead of sliding upon her knees. Christine reached the opposite side of the piano breathlessly, knowing that he looked upon her with affection; knowing deep in her heart that he cared for the pale swan – she was his secret, his gift, his beauty.
Erik slowly pulled the maroon covering from the rest of the piano, allowing it to fall gracefully from his fingertips, and he edged toward her, yet did not touch her. She rose up en pointe again, gripping the edge of the piano. Erik did not make a sound, save for the screeching of the piano bench as he pulled it out, settling himself upon it. His eyes continued to rest on her face, gleaming with warm understanding, with delicate kindness. She felt herself smiling at him, pulling back her lips to reveal a bit of her teeth; she knew what he would do, now…she could feel it resonating through his body's positioning and tense muscles; from his large hands that now draped themselves upon the dusty keys….yet still, he did not play.
"Will you let me in?" she inquired softly, almost a whisper, and his eyes shimmered in response; his lips parted as he sighed, pressing a single key down that resonated into the open air.
"When you dance, you must think of me," he commented gently, seeming to ignore her request. "You will wear the golden crown which was made for you…to protect you. Yet you yearn to be set free, your hands are still bound…so please," he bent his body toward her, another awkward pressing of his naval to her feathered form, against the piano. His closeness caused her breath to hitch, and she was frozen en pointe, waiting on the edge of his words.
"The crown keeps you locked away…I cannot touch you while you wear it. Take it off, give it to me…do you not see your hands are bound?" Erik murmured, cocking his head slightly. He played another single key, and Christine fell back from the piano, crying out in pain. She looked down at her hands, suddenly horrified. They were bound in front of her, resting against feathered layers of white, with a black twine so thick it could have been a snake come alive; choking the blood from her skin, emptying the life from her eyes…
Christine gasped, shaking her head…utterly speechless.
"Let me cut them, Christine. Let me free you," Erik whispered, turning his body upon the piano bench to face her.
"Erik," she pleaded, her voice a rasp in her throat. She collapsed to the ground in agony, knowing that she had been dying for quite a long while…
No one had ever noticed.
No one had ever wanted to notice.
He was in front of her now, kneeling upon the floor. She offered her wrists up weakly for him to cut, oh they had to be cut soon, or she would surely die…
"Take a breath," he whispered, running a finger along her arm. Raven feathers sprouted up where he touched, replacing the white with an inky, dark coloring. The black feathers seemed to follow the ardent affection of his hand that now grasped her binds. He pulled up against them and they snapped, wriggling like tiny black worms in the palm of his hand. Christine fell backward, shrieking like a banshee from the pain that was spreading from the break, bleeding in through her skin and into her heart, ripping the layers of white away…
She lay on a pile of discarded ivory feathers, staring up at the ceiling…she heard him humming gently; a melody so sorrowful that she sat up, looking around blindly for him…
Needing him.
Erik was still kneeling in front of her as if he had never left. He continued to hum as he dug through the pile of feathers, finally grasping her hands in his. He pulled her up through the storm of white, grabbing her waist to control her, to spin her around.
"Look, little dove."
She turned her head slowly to glance at the mirrored wall, only to find the golden crown had been replaced with a silver diadem, glittering with tiny red rubies. Her hair was wild again, and her pale bodice had been replaced – everything she wore was made of darkness, with stains of blood on her lips, and throngs of raven feathers. She shook her head, over and over – she did not want to be without the crown…She did not want to be made of evil, made of nothing…her heart began to race faster and faster, and her breathing seemed choked up in her powdered, white throat…
Her eyes were blood red, with scarlet tears staining the fabric of her face – she was bleeding, she was wounded, and still, she was dying…
She was afraid of dying, now. She could not die before loving him.
Suddenly she felt his arms around her, lifting her up into the air. Her breathing became even and soft, again…and she laid back into him, groping the sides of his face with her pallid fingertips…
"Do not fight the feeling," he murmured in her ear, flicking his tongue along her earlobe. "Embrace it, feel it…
Feel me."
She felt her head tilt back, almost against her will…and she let out a horrible cry. It was the releasing of everything, of the evil that resided within her spirit…the horrors that had been put there by others…that would not go away, that haunted her at night…
And yet, he held her up as her legs gave way. He would not let her go.
She knew, suddenly, that he would hold her through the pain. That she did not have to be en pointe, that she could relax into his embrace…
That he might wait for her healing.
Feel me, Christine, just me…
Christine sat up in bed, screaming. There was a shrieking sound that blared a couple rooms away – what a terrible noise it was, yet it no longer came from her own mouth…
It reminded her of his embrace, of his lips upon her earlobe…holding her through the pain of the change, of the white feathers falling off, discarding themselves like tiny ugly memories she wished to hide…
His hands had darkened her; his hands had freed her…
Had he come back?
She rubbed her temples, trying desperately to hold onto the feeling of him; the tangles of his curls, his powerful form pressing against her, behind her, holding her close, lifting her up…but it was fading fast, as most dreams did. She let out a moan of frustration. The screeching sound continued, and slowly she began to realize it was the phone, wailing and snarling, sharpening the thunderous ache that pained both sides of her head.
Christine knew she had slept alone, yet the other side of the bed was mussed and pulled at, as if someone had laid there and left, perhaps minutes before…
Had it been Raoul, or had she simply been kicking and thrashing wildly in her sleep?
The phone seemed to scream.
The morning sun streamed brightly through the sheer curtains of the bedroom window. Christine hastily crawled out of bed, dying to pull the phone off the hook – her head was pounding, paired with the awful taste of alcohol still singeing her throat. She stumbled into the great room, charging at the shiny black phone that sat squealing upon a small side table. She ripped it off the hook, slamming it to her ear with growing exasperation. "Hello?" she asked, unintentionally sounding cross at whoever was on the other line.
"Mrs. Lenoir, I have a call from a 'Ms. Rosie', would you like me to connect you?" a female operator spoke flatly, seeming unfazed by Christine's aggravation. Christine blinked as her heart sank slightly, shaking her head at her own outlandish fancy that he might be the one calling. "Yes ma'am, please do," she responded, rubbing her forehead with her free hand. She waited patiently as the line buzzed quietly, tucking a long wave of hair behind her ear.
"Christine?" Rosie's voice clicked in through the silence, resounding with glee and excitement. Christine smiled weakly through the throb of her headache from hell. "I'm here, Rose," she responded, "Although I really don't feel well. I…I drank pretty heavily last night," she groaned, shoving her head into her hands, balancing the phone between her neck and shoulder.
"Well good thing I know what can cure it! Mother drinks all the time, and she tells me how to make this…well, strange concoction for her headaches! Come over, I can make one for you…and…you must tell me what happened last night! I am just dying to know," Rosie went on endlessly, barely stopping to take a breath. "Oh, and Christine…I have something else to tell you…something…something wonderful! You're going to be so happy once you hear it…but I can't tell you until you come over. Please, you must!" Rosie pleaded as Christine clutched her head in both hands. "All right…I suppose if you have something to help it," Christine replied, her stomach flipping at the thought of recounting last night. "I'll be there in half an hour."
Not bothering to bathe, Christine pulled on some black slacks and a silky, pearl buttoned blouse. She ran a brush through her newly relaxed hair and splashed cold water upon her face in the bathroom. She paused at her reflection in the mirror, watching the beads of water dribble down her skin. Although most of the dream was fading, she could somehow not forget the last part; her bone white reflection with the bleeding eyes…she had been dying without the golden crown, had she not?
But then he had seized her from behind, he had lifted her up, almost into the sky…covered in dark feathers, bleeding tears of sadness for her own wretched soul, the one she had not bothered to save, or to mend…it was like an unraveling piece of yarn from a sweater, slowly destroying its entire whole, eating it from the inside out…
Christine shook her head, gripping the sides of the sink as she closed her eyes. He had told her to embrace it, the feeling of…everything. Of her entire reflection in the dream…for he had not touched her when she had wore the golden crown; he had ignored her request to make love…but the darker swan had called to him...
And he had obeyed.
She opened her eyes, stealing one more glance at her reflection. If not for the shaded, puffy circles underneath her eyelids from crying the night before, she would have thought herself pretty.
Beautiful, even.
Christine pulled on her long woolen coat and leather boots, smoothing her hair with her hands at the threshold of the door. Her heart stirred with the notion of the penthouse, above…still silent and seemingly empty, like it had been before he had ever even come.
She slid out of the door, shutting it quietly behind her, turning the key until the lock clicked. Her eyes fell immediately upon the iron staircase that led upward to the landing on the top floor, and she lingered there, for a moment. An idea flitted like a dove in the back of her mind, and at first, she thought herself ridiculous. But ridiculous grew into longing, and before she knew it, she had hastily plunged back into her flat, rummaging through Raoul's desk for a pen and a blank sheet of paper.
Christine was not even sure what to write. She knew he had apologized abruptly, right before fleeing; but the strangest notion to her, was that perhaps he apologized for something more. Was he ashamed of what he had done…at the scene he had caused, or did he only apologize because she had been there to witness it?
She began scrawling upon the sheet of paper, biting her lip to reread line after line. She crumpled up one, then another, then another. Would he even read it? Would he even want to hear from her? Her head throbbed still, but she must leave him something, anything…
Her mind flew back to the end of the dream. How did the mind reset itself, as if it played everything out on a timed movie reel? How could she have been pure and white, inches from he who sat at the grand piano, asking him to make love to her…
Then suddenly, he had freed her from the binds that held her wrists; his touch had made her dark, smooth, and feathered…bleeding from the eyes…and he had been drawn to her, without such as a word uttered from her bloodstained lips?
He had asked to free her.
Even within her perfection, her façade of flawless white feathers; her golden crown that drew light from the sun in the sky…he had seen she was trapped. He had known she was caged, tortured, and broken…
Christine wrote neatly upon the fourth sheet of paper. It was a tissue wrenched from her heart, a poem in a dream, a dream in a sad, sordid little life…
Her own labyrinth of cots, a maze of her own mind...of bleeding eyes and black feathers…
Once finished, she signed her name at the bottom and folded the paper up quickly, stuffing it into a pale envelope. Taking a deep breath, she clutched it in her hand as she left the apartment for the second time, quietly skipping up the staircase to the landing of the penthouse. The double doors stood in utter stillness as the lion-head knocker's gleaming in the mid-morning light.
Christine walked up to the doors softly, ignoring her horrid headache as she pressed an ear against the wood. The silence stretched out uncomfortably, and before she could change her mind, she reached down and slid the envelope under the door. She lingered for a moment longer, hoping bleakly that she might hear footsteps; that she might hear him stir in his sleep, or release a long breath. When she continued to hear roaring silence, she cursed herself under her breath and made her way down the staircase…thinking of the dream, of his arms holding her tightly, of her fingers running through the dark curls of his hair…and the silver diadem that had replaced the golden crown…
Had he slipped it onto her head?
Or had she done it herself?
Erik,
For what else are little doves for?
They perch upon windowsills and they are greeted with kindness,
with adoration, a smile, and perhaps a kiss.
I know a little dove, but she is not me. I see her in the mirror,
But she is lost, you see.
Perhaps it's folly, a wish, or a dream
But that little dove wishes
You'd come back to me.
- Christine
…
A/N: TO MY MAGNIFICENT LURKERS AND READERS: I know I am a bit late posting this chapter. Don't kill me :) I do hope you enjoy what I've written, and I am absolutely loving every single comment that you all give me. You truly don't know how flattered, and how absolutely overjoyed I become at every comment I read. I love you all, and please have a wonderful Thanksgiving (if not celebrated, well just have a damn good weekend :) ) Love, L.