A/N: Don't worry my darling lurkers/readers, I haven't forgotten about you! I just had a nasty case of writers block, but I'm back! I hope you all enjoy this chapter, I've poured my soul into it. Trigger Warning: this chapter does contain disturbing content. Please read at your own discretion.

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Crucifixion

Her lips were supple and her kiss delicate, but it burned him mercilessly; a molded, red-hot iron that shoved its head through tender scarring…causing fearful tremors from inside of him, reeking out from the surface of his flesh. He pulled away hastily when he felt his heart beginning to surrender, and he snapped it shut immediately – an ancient, coveted urn, dripping with the ashes of who he once was.

"I…I shouldn't have," he murmured, his arms falling away from her, his body meandering backwards like a wounded animal. The Germans should have crucified him, thrusting spikes of metal into the skin of his palms, mocking him with a shimmering crown of thorns. That's what they should have written upon his flesh, he decided…

False Redeemer, liar, butcher…

Slave.

Prisoner.

Murderer…

He would have hung there too, until his death that should have happened two years ago…but there would be no resurrection, no boulder rolled away from his tomb.

Erik should have died behind enemy lines. He should have bled out from all the heresy, he should have grown cold from all the carvings made upon his flesh, much like the scattered, lifeless flowers of the torn up wallpaper.

He could not look into her eyes – he was terrified she might see how vulnerable her lips had made him; those sweet, soft lips that he had wet with the tip of his tongue. Christine stood still, wavering like a lonely flower in a field; and the piano recording still tinkled in the background, urging decadent rivers within the atmosphere, ripping open the stitches on the side of his mouth, and the hidden piercings that were still open within his heart.

"Erik, I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you, I just…I just wanted one kiss. Just one," Christine's voice was almost a whisper – so beautiful was her gentleness, her meek yet strong approach to his vehement reaction! He let out a deep sigh, noticing the space he had forced between them. Could silence speak for itself, could it possibly turn into a scream? He stood wrestling with his thoughts, waging a war upon the anger and sadness that threatened to burst from inside.

"I need my mask," he answered absentmindedly, turning away from her, hiding from her gleaming eyes that seemed to uncover all that was hidden. Erik made his way back to the loveseat, sitting carefully upon the edge of the cushions. He placed the black mask back onto his face, securing the thin wiring through the locks of his mussed, dark curls. Now he could look at her – now he could recover from the nakedness, the brute force of her kiss…she had stolen something from him with those lips, she had catapulted him back into the world of the living for a moment…

Dancing with her, alone…feeling her heartbeat through the scars on his hands; iron that held him crucified within his mind, pinned to bloodied, sweat drenched wood…

Holding him still. Examining him. Pulling upon strings of his heart that he had forgotten about – prodding at his violent, misunderstood insides…

Erik still did not look at her. He chose the bottle in front of him instead, drowning himself in its murky, stinging depths. He could still feel her eyes upon him, and although his throat was dry, he wished he could say the right words – he wished she might join him again on the couch, that she might act as though the kiss had never happened…

That she might pretend she did not see the fear that roiled in the pit of his stomach, growing larger with each caress that he gave to her, yearning for her to stroke his damaged skin again, that perhaps she could love all parts of him…evil, and good…

And the piano continued to play, over and over, as if stretched into a time loop where he was tied against a wall, eyes closed…with thoughts of magnolias, of great blooms that traced his mother's face…of the love that she had left within him. If she still lived with a small roof garden, would she sadden at the mask he wore upon his face? Would she be ashamed of him, would she cast him out…

Could love run dry like rivers during summertime?

Christine had made her way back to the couch, walking gracefully in her dark slacks, her pale skin almost seeming to glow. She sat down beside him, leaving a small space between them as if the dance had never happened…but the kiss could not be taken back – it was too powerful, too intimate to erase from the sands of time. He would forever carry another scar upon his soul; the taste of her mouth, of her lips responding to him desperately…of their shared sadness brought together in an earth shattering tilt of the head, an agreement of two spirits that had wandered alone upon barren silt, looking senselessly for one another, bleeding and dying for one another…

Sewing a blackened thread of hope through the side of his mouth.

"Are you…are you upset with me?" Christine pulled her knees to her chest, sitting comfortably while Erik squirmed about the cushions, adjusting himself nervously.

"No," he replied as nonchalantly as he could, taking another long sip from the bottle. He finally forced his body to twist in her direction, his stomach clenching with need the moment he looked upon her. The words danced in his throat as the liquor went down, but still, he could not utter them…terror began to swirl about in his mind, of his own shortcomings, and of hers…of the horrifying abuse that she must always endure.

"Why did you marry him?" Erik blurted, despising himself immediately as the words poured from his lips. He watched her nonetheless, as she seemed taken aback by the question. Had she been expecting something different? He cursed himself, anxiously running a hand through his hair, ensuring his mask was indeed perfectly placed.

Christine looked down at the floor, seeming to have drifted off in thought. How flawless and delicate she was, like a glass swan sitting upon a sun-drenched windowsill. She took the bottle from him as he offered it, and she held it in her hands for a moment, eyeing the liquid as it splashed around.

"So strange," she murmured, drinking from the bottle as deeply as he had. "So strange the way it numbs you. Almost…blissful. Like nothing can hurt me ever again."

Erik nodded slowly, sliding a cigarette from the pack that lay open on the coffee table. He lit it as he watched her intently, and she lifted her eyes tentatively to the wall opposing them, losing herself in the last strips of wallpaper he had left behind.

"I grew up at this orphanage," she began, her voice wavering slightly. "I remember learning about Hell. It was supposed to be some sort of punishment if I didn't listen, or behave in a certain way…well, everyone threatened it so much that I just accepted it. That I was inherently bad, and therefore I belonged in a bad place. The worst place that could possibly exist," she reached out her hand to him, beckoning for his cigarette. Erik obliged quickly, his eyes gleaming through the mask with fascination. Christine took a soft drag on the cigarette, laying back into the cushions comfortably. Her eyes stayed glued to the jagged pieces of flowered wallpaper, intermixed with the barren grey colors underneath.

"And I thought the orphanage was Hell, it all made sense to me. Maybe Hell is places on earth where demons get to run rampant…maybe Hell isn't some punishment after death, but a punishment in life. The interesting part, though, is that I thought I knew pain. I thought I knew what it was like to suffer. I lived for years in that place, and humiliation became my friend. But one day, I would get to leave. One day the suffering would end, and I could be free…live freely," she sighed, puffing upon the cigarette as if she had forgotten it were his. Erik felt his body begin to relax the more she talked – did she mean to rip herself open, just as she had ripped him open?

"Oh, Erik…why couldn't it have been you who found me?" She laughed bitterly, shaking her head, her eyes falling once more to the carpeting. "Instead it was him…a filthy, rich, liar of a man…a monster. Sometimes I dream about the day I met him – it was such a warm day, Erik…the summer had just begun. I was working as a seamstress, barely making ends meet…and he found me…he needed something to be mended." Christine bit her lip, her eyes dancing over to Erik's face. "And I needed mending too," she whimpered, wiping her eyes angrily with her free hand. "I just didn't know what it would become…I didn't know that I was wrong about the orphanage, that I was wrong about Hell…I didn't know that it was him, all along…he was, and is, the definition of what Hell is like…God! I wish it had been you…why couldn't it have been you?"

Erik shook his head fiercely, his lips falling apart as if to bare his teeth. "The more I hear about him, the less reason I have not to strangle the life out of him, or throw him off the fucking roof…Christine…please…"

"Would you?" she pressed her face forward; it was now shimmering with tears, and again, she was the night sky. Erik bit his lip harder, reaching swiftly for the bottle, emptying it's contents down his throat.

"Would I kill him?" he scowled, slamming the empty bottle so hard that it rattled the table. She nodded, staring through his mask with swollen eyes. Erik stood up, preparing to fetch more liquor that was stashed in the kitchen. He swept his trousers with his hands, giving her a crooked, toothy smile. "I'd do anything you asked of me."

Christine began to laugh through her tears, her eyes digging into his back as he left the room. "I'm…I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…to cry," she stammered, although the smile stayed on her face. "Where did you go off to?"

Did she need him? Did she want him to be near to her, even though he had broken the kiss? He snatched a full bottle of whiskey, biting the cap open with the side of his teeth. "Giving myself some more courage," he drawled, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. She looked so small from across the room, yet she lit up the walls with her smile, and she looked eager for him to return to her.

"Courage?" she repeated, smoothing the seat beside her. "Why do you need more courage, Erik?"

"You tease me again," Erik purred, pulling his shoulder away from the doorway. He wandered across the room, his eyes suddenly clouded with thought. He stopped at the edge of the couch, the open liquor bottle spilling a bit over his hand.

"I'd like to go somewhere with you," he muttered, his eyes settling upon hers in a shy, childlike manner.

She brightened, wiping away the last of her tears, tossing the cigarette into the ashtray. "Where? Where would we go?"

Erik sat down, leaning into her space. "Somewhere we can drink and smoke," he answered playfully, reaching out to brush a lock of her hair with his fingers. She fell forward slowly, closing her eyes against the fleeting touch of his hand.

"I haven't been anywhere like that for a long time…I'm not allowed to explore, or to go out…Raoul doesn't like it…"

Erik pressed his thumb against her bottom lip tenderly, and her mouth fell agape at the taste of his skin. She bit his thumb gently with the edge of her teeth as he had done earlier, to her palm…staring at him through large, incredulous eyes.

"Hmm, Raoul wouldn't like it, would he? Though I'm certain that he does what he pleases…and so do I," Erik challenged, letting his hand fall from her chin. She nodded, seeming spellbound by his sultry, powerful tone. "He won't ever lay a hand on you."

"You can't promise that, Erik…it's…it's impossible…"

"I can give you each day – day by day, I can make promises and keep them. You have my word…"

Christine seemed to wilt. "It won't be enough…he will find some way…he always has, he always will…"

"Enough, Christine! Do not condemn yourself to this misery! Do you not see that it harms me? There, now you know! You let yourself be his, you let yourself be hurt, again and again? You hurt me, too…" Erik stood up, shaking his head violently. He began to pace back and forth, his hands knotted behind his back. "You hurt me too!" he shouted, his mouth twisted into a snarl. Christine shook her head, her forehead crinkling as his words lashed against her heart. "I would never hurt you!" she cried indignantly, snatching the full bottle of whiskey and drowning herself in its faithful, silky hands. Erik continued to pace, shaking his head at the sound of her words.

"You may have grown numb to what he does, but I still feel…I still see him throw you down a flight of stairs! If he's comfortable doing such a thing in a crowded lobby, then it breaks me to think of what he does to you in private! And you act like you're a prisoner…just like me! I know what it's like to be held captive…a fucking caged animal to get prodded and fucked with, by men that are monsters, men with no fucking faces! And my dreams are made of them, my heart is forged by them, tainted by them, forever! And you sit there, beautiful and flawless, telling me that you have no way out? You call me your savior, your protector one moment…and another, you plead with me, wishing I were him! Can you not leave, once and for all? Can you not simply set yourself free? Because I couldn't! But you…you can…" Erik's voice fell down to a whisper, and he covered his masked face in both hands. Christine sat in the aftermath of his hysterics, her body shaking from the sheer force of his voice.

"Don't push me like this," she whimpered, her eyes begging him to pull his hands away from his face. Erik hung his head, his curls falling disordered and tangled from behind his ears.

"Push you?" he repeated flatly, pulling the mask from his face. He stared down at it for what seemed like eternity, the tenacity of the silence growing louder and louder. He lifted his head as he cradled the mask in his hands – he handled it so delicately, now…as if it lived and breathed – as if it were the last component left of his humanity. "Push you, Christine? How about protect you, Christine, hmm? How about fucking treasuring you, about…saving you? You wanted a savior, didn't you? You wanted me instead of him, but now it's too much to bear?" Erik let out a bitter laugh, shoving his torso over the arm of the sofa; his butchered white and pink face mere inches from hers. He held the mask up for a moment and then tossed it carelessly to the floor, kicking it with his feet.

"Interesting how fucked up it is, isn't it? My skin! Look, Christine…look, see? Look at what they did! See all of those lines? They laughed while they did it! Oh, I should have laughed too, don't you see? Because even after two years, I'm still living in that cell! There's no way out, no sunlight, no air to breathe! And you," he jabbed a scarred finger in her face, almost touching her nose, "beg me not to push you…" his breath was coming in heaves, and sweat beaded down his skin that was splotchy with blood-red wounds. "You do not live in a cell…you do not have to dream of freedom…you can have it, if you desire to…you can choose…" he fell to his knees, resting outstretched arms upon the ledge of the couch. "You have a choice. Something I never had."

"I'm not afraid of you," Christine murmured, scooting toward where he knelt. "You want me to be afraid of you…just like everybody else. But I won't. I won't ever. You have misery too, Erik…and you're wrong. You're wrong about choice. I think you do have a choice, just like me. But you're too afraid to choose it…just…like…me."

Erik let his head fall forward, hiding his face from her once more. His shoulders shuddered, and he smothered his crying as best he could – but she could see through his barriers, the walls he painted heavily, only to ruin and tear down. But again, he was a mirror, and she closed the space between them once more, settling a hand on top of his head, stroking his raven hair. "Maybe we aren't so different, Erik…maybe you can choose to leave that cell, once and for all…"

He ripped his face from the cover of the sofa, his eyes crinkled with tears and shame. "They wrote their names on me," he sobbed, clutching his side as he hung his head again. "Their names! And I can't get them off, I can't…I can't leave the cell. I belong to them…that's what they made me say, they made me repeat it! Oh, Christine…I wish it had been you, too…I wish it had been your name instead…I…I wish…"

"Come here," Christine said softly, pulling his head into her lap. She stroked pieces of his hair back where they belonged, right behind his ears…and even though his eyes were closed, she stroked every scar that she could see; magnificent, in her eyes, like a thousand strikes of lightning…

And upon the skylight, they heard the rain. First it was gentle, a tapping against the glass panes, a tiny melody…but then it grew, thunderous and savage, pounding in waves, screaming and soaring, washing away dust and dirt…and if her hands could be the rain, then he hung, still crucified; bleeding onto the flowers that bloomed beneath his feet…while the rain traversed his naked body, soothing his scarring and open sores, hiding him from sight, from the on-lookers who tortured and laughed…

She hid him away, in curtains of rain, kissing the beaten and bruised flesh, the holes in his hands…right there in the midst of her storm.

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A/N: Well, my lovelies… *hands out tissues* I am dying to know your thoughts! Your feedback fuels my heart. Will be working on the next chapter :)