A/N: To my dearest Lurkers and Readers, I do apologize for the long lapse in updating. Had a nasty little bout with depression, but I'm back in full swing! Hope you all enjoy this chapter. Trigger Warning: contains extremely disturbing content. Please read at your own discretion.

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A Dangerous Game

She knew she would die here, pressed up against the pillows of the sofa, clawing mindlessly at the burn marks on her skin. Darkness had come over her, but much like the moon during sunrise; the shadows had begun to wane. Consciousness swirled back into her like a whirlwind of leaves, and she cursed her own body and mind – had she become so accustomed to his torture that her body would no longer shut down, but instead be invigorated, to be kept alive in a miserable, loathsome realm of existence?

"He can't save you," Raoul snickered, stroking a long finger down the raw skin of her sternum; the place of the second burn. "He won't save you, Christine…" he cackled vivaciously, tossing the cigarette behind his shoulder onto the coffee table.

"Did you really think he could even care about you? A gangly, gutter-slut that thrives upon desperation? You're nothing, sweet beastie…you've always…been…nothing."

She watched the abandoned cigarette from a distance, still burning, its crimson end twisting into a face of mirth and deviance – a mimic of its master.

"Do you honestly think any man could ever love you?"

But he, the devil, although allowed to roam upon earth, tempting and causing gentle folk to sin: had one delicious flaw. He played and manipulated all other lives as if they were mere games of chess, and he laughed constantly because he was forever the victor – there was no mortal alive that could outthink his outlandish and egocentric behavior. But this unbeatable notion would be his daunting downfall, a chink in his breastplate of steel, the small bit of skin upon Achilles' heel grazed only by a mother's fingertips…

A ear-splitting smash interrupted Raoul's barbaric laughter, and his body froze upon her, seemingly surprised at the harsh sound that disturbed his gleeful, sickened mind. A second crashing sound followed it, and Christine's heart leapt into her throat, for the thunderous noises could be heard above the rain, and they were coming from the door.

The third sound betrayed itself, for the door flew open, kicked clean off of it's brassy hinges. She prayed to God that it wasn't a delirium, even though she had hated God earlier that evening. It was strange to her, for in that moment she felt him listening now, perhaps closer to her than ever before. Had he sent a guardian angel, much like the Archangels that lived atop the Opera House, brandishing swords of fire and smoke? For grey waves made the air foggy, but she could see Erik striding through the cigarette filled clouds, stilling the room with total domination, his demanding figure closing the distance from the doorway to the couch in the blink of an eye.

Christine felt Raoul's body ripped away from hers, and she let out a small wail of relief – the weight of his body had been suffocating. Her neck still burned like deadly wildfire in two places, but she dare not move, in fear that the pain would grow worse; terrified that she would never be able to stop crying.

Erik was gripping Raoul by the front of his dress shirt, immobilized with a blind rage that was fearful to behold. Christine pulled her legs to her chest, watching the two men in front of her – one with a raw pink face filled with scars – and the other, a demon, a monster…or perhaps even Satan himself. But the devil, now caught in the midst of his own game should have known when to give himself up, to submit to the check-mate of the opposing side…but Raoul continued his laughter, his hands gripping Erik's wrists as he squirmed about. It was that moment when Christine realized that Raoul lived in a world that did not exist – he had made it seem so real, so impressively real…but now, the two burns and the discarded cigarette had torn away the blindfold. Here, Erik stood before her while the door was crumpled and smashed upon the floor – here was the threshold of heaven, where she had called his name out hopelessly, and he had flown to her distant voice with a blind and empathetic trust.

Erik slowly released Raoul's shirt, pushing him by the shoulders lightly to create a small space between them. He closed his eyes, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as if deciding Raoul's fate; he was Caesar sitting high up in the stands, weighing the destiny of his gladiators with a simple hand gesture; to live, or to die.

Erik bent down, gripping the edge of the coffee table with scarred up hands. He pushed it away from the couch, leaving a large expanse of plush carpeting in front of the sofa, where Christine still sat quivering. Raoul made a move toward the couch, his long fingers outstretched for Christine, but Erik snatched one of his free hands, twisting it painfully with ease and grace. Raoul let out a short cry, then began to laugh again, pulling his hand away from the venomous, golden eyed snake that towered above him.

"Oh, fuck-face, you're so terribly predictable. Coming to save your sweet little slut so you can have more of her dried out pussy…I hope you know how much I've ravaged her, even her tender little ass…oh yes, I've done it all. And she let me, fuck-face…she let me! Oh you should have heard her squealing…she loved it, she even called out my name!" Raoul howled with presumptuous laughter, holding his twisted and shattered wrist to his chest. Erik took a step forward, his eyes a deep and terrible chasm. He glanced over at Christine, and she knew he could see the burns; those circular, ugly little kisses that Raoul had given her. He sighed noisily, rolling up the sleeves of his white button down shirt.

"Hit me," he said softly, lifting his chin toward Raoul. He left his arms slack at his sides, a mischievous little smile playing at the stitched corner of his mouth. He took another step in the large open space, seeming to fill it with his unmasked scowl, the sweat that she could see beading upon his temples, the veins that were now bursting out from the sides of his neck. "Hit me." It was a command now, and Erik's lips pulled back to show his teeth that were gritted, but he formed them into a slow smile. A dangerous game was now being played – not chess, but a darkened dance between heaven and hell.

Raoul stepped forward arrogantly, throwing a jab with his uninjured hand up into Erik's jawline. He seemed indifferent, impassive to the strike, and he shook his head, eyeing Raoul with a deafening hatred. "Hit me," he repeated, his voice low, and Raoul threw another blow, this time making contact with the stitched side of Erik's mouth. Erik winced slightly, twisting his lips to one side.

"You look for the weak points in your opponent…yet you'll see that I have none," Erik murmured, tipping his chin upward, a defiance coursing like blood through the current of the room. An electricity could almost be seen between the two men; one born of uncontrolled anger, and the other a sadistic, gleaming demon with blue eyes.

Erik lunged forward, his large hands smashing themselves into Raoul's neck, his calloused and scarred up fingers closing in around Raoul's throat. Slowly, he began to squeeze, pulling Raoul's face closer to his own.

"I'm going to watch you die, little boy," Erik growled, a titter of laughter rolling from the base of his throat. "And I'm going to enjoy every…fucking…minute…of it."

Raoul's face was turning scarlet, and he clawed frantically at the vice-like grip upon his neck, while Erik's hands gradually crushed into his windpipe.

"Oh, you have me so very mistaken," Erik said solemnly, shaking his head as Raoul continued to dig his fingernails into the pink scarring of his knuckles.

"You think I won't do it in front of her, is that it? You think she doesn't want to watch you wither until you're nothing? Shall I prove it to you? Shall I show you how deep her hatred runs?"

Erik suddenly released his ironclad hold, and Raoul fell to the ground, sputtering and choking, his hands flying to protect his bruised neck. He managed to wheeze out a small bit of sinister laughter, staring up at Erik with glittering, devilish eyes.

"She's mine by law," he coughed, his eyes bulging from their pale sockets. "You'll never have her. Never. She…is…mine…"

Erik knelt down carefully, cocking his head to one side at Raoul who had pushed himself into a seated position.

"I just realized something quite peculiar," Erik mused, looking down at the unsullied palms of his hands. "Your eyes remind me of someone. Someone who, very much like you, loved to torture. Ah, perhaps there is a God, wouldn't you agree? Otherwise this would merely be a lovely coincidence…but I prefer to think of it as a redemption."

Erik threw himself atop Raoul, pinning his arms down with agility and ease. "Don't worry, I'm not completely merciless – I shall guide you through the whole thing. Think of me as…your guardian angel!" Erik laughed, slamming a fist into the bridge of Raoul's nose. Blood spurted forth like a fountain, spraying crimson water all over the white of Erik's shirt – redder than even the most delicate of sunrises. Erik examined his hand, watching the bits of blood run over his heavy scarring.

"You're probably wondering why I came unmasked," Erik continued nonchalantly, uncoiling another ragged fist into Raoul's defined jawline. "I wanted to show you what I'm capable of handling…I wanted you to see how much pain lives within me...and how much pain I can give. I thought it only fair," Erik shrugged, beating the same fist twice into each eye socket. Raoul was gagging and lurching, wriggling his body from underneath Erik's massive frame.

"No, that won't do," Erik said softly, looking over at Christine. She watched him as if he were a dream, a small smile prickling at the corners of her mouth.

"My darling, why don't you get yourself a drink? I think this ought to be enjoyed with a cocktail," Erik simpered, licking his lips as he looked back down at Raoul's bloodied face. Christine nodded numbly, holding a hand over the base of her neck – guarding the scars as she made her way over to the liquor filled decanters. With shaking hands, she poured herself a glass of whiskey, and with it she padded back over toward the couch. Erik waited for her to stretch her legs out, smiling at glimpse of her bare feet. "Lovely," he crooned, turning his attention back to the poignant blue eyes that glared through a sea of mottled, thick blood.

"Bite your lip, this will only hurt a slight bit!" Erik laughed, pulling back an elbow and smashing it into the other side of Raoul's face. One hit didn't seem to satisfy him, because he laid another with his now bloodied elbow in the same place. Over and over he slammed his full weight down into the blows, his smile transforming into bitterness with yellow, widened eyes.

"Fucking rapist…sadist…degenerate…" Erik growled, pulling back his elbow to inspect the damage, his breathing coming in short gasps. Raoul moaned woefully, his head tipped to one side, his face almost unrecognizable with immediate swelling and blood. Erik shook his head, mumbling to himself, "No, not enough…he needs a mark. A permanent one…one that he can't wash off." Erik looked up at Christine, his face speckled with dots of red, like tiny roses blooming between each scar.

"Yes," Christine whispered indignantly, sipping from the glass, her hands still shaking from the pressure of the burns. "Give him a mark."

Raoul wailed incoherently in protest, but Erik shoved an imposing hand over his mouth. "Now listen…it's your turn, little boy! I want you to look in the mirror everyday for the rest of your life and see my mark. It will be a metaphor, something beautiful, don't you see? For now all your ugliness is hidden, but this scar will show you – and anyone who dares to come close to you again – what a demonic, fucked up, shard of a soul that you have."

Erik pulled a small razorblade from his shirt pocket, turning it around in his fingers, watching it with delicate malice. "Interesting, isn't it? That such a small piece of metal can leave such a deadly scar." He traced his stitches with the razorblade in a mockery, his face ripping wide open in a smile. Raoul's eyes grew large with a childlike terror, and he let out a series of cries, moaning and shaking with the small bit of energy he had left. "Oh yes," Erik whispered, reaching down to shove three fingers inside of Raoul's mouth, pulling the cheek away from his teeth. He looked up at Christine, the razorblade poised on the corner of Raoul's lips.

"Perhaps you should look away, little dove," Erik said quietly. Christine shook her head, her fingers brushing against the tiny wounds on her throat. "I want to see," she whispered, clutching the glass with two hands. "Let me see it."

Erik turned his attention back towards Raoul who was now silently sobbing, unable to move underneath the weight of Erik's full body. Tears dribbled down the sides of his face, washing away the blood and leaving pallid skin underneath. "I know, I know," Erik sighed, shoving his fingers deeper into the side of his cheek. "As you can see, I too, have had this done to me. Mine didn't hurt too badly, no…but yours…well, I'd like it to be worth my while."

And with one, singular movement, Erik ripped the razorblade through the corner of his mouth, sawing through the skin jaggedly, extending the process just enough to hear his muffled screams. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, fainting from the overstimulation of pain, from the blood that now stained the carpet from his new wound – a newer and wider smile.

Erik stood up, wiping the razorblade on the sleeve of his shirt – the entire front that had been pure white was now stained with dark blood, and his unmasked face now dripped with new spurts from the cutting of Raoul's cheek.

Christine sat very still, staring blankly at the unconscious body that was her husband – devilish, no more…nothing but a damaged, broken human being with a long rip in the side of his mouth, amongst other things…

"Christine, I do not mean to rush you, my dear, but you need to gather your things. And quickly. He is not dead…he will wake eventually. And I refuse to leave you here alone for even a moment," Erik said firmly, slipping the razorblade back into his shirt pocket.

Christine nodded, setting the glass down onto the floor – she did not care to place it anywhere else, for this had never really even been her home…everything that was hers, Raoul had tainted with evil…everything that had been pure, as white as Erik's shirt, had seemingly been smeared with black blood. She rose up from the couch, bewildered at the events that had just transpired…yet in that moment, in another man's blood, she had never felt so divine. This was the end, she told herself. This unconscious man would do her no harm, not anymore...not after the dual burns, and the laughter, and the pain that made her feel like dying.

The dance between heaven and hell had finished. And he, the bloodied Archangel stood triumphant, with golden eyes so bright they could have outshined the stars.

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A/N: I hope this was a satisfying chapter for all of you! Please do let me know your thoughts. Any feedback is so very special to me. Love, L.