A/N: Thank you, all of my amazing lurkers and readers that are ever so patient with me. I do apologize in the lapse of updating this particular story, and I plan to try harder and update more regularly (University is sucking out my soul). Anyway, please enjoy! Trigger warning: The aftermath of blood/gore/violence. Please read at your own discretion.
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His Blood on My Hands
She knew he had ordered her to go pack, and swiftly, but she could not tear her eyes away from the carnage that lay before her. Raoul's face was swollen, his nose twisted and smashed to one side, with blood seeping out of multiple contusions from the sting of Erik's hands.
Hadn't she wanted this for so long?
Didn't he deserve to bleed; didn't he deserve to die?
Now it seemed like a wicked sin, a smiling demon that tittered with laughter from a dark corner of the room.
Wherever you go, pain and suffering follow.
She thought about the orphanage. How the beds were lined up into clean, white rows…how the other girls would make fun of her at night, whispering loud enough for her to hear.
Beastie, Beastie, has no hair!
She clenched her teeth, dragging her eyes away from the blood that was already sinking into the carpet. Erik was staring back at her, a frown etched upon his scarred up face, dripping with speckles of red. He looked as if he had just bathed himself in Raoul's blood, and she almost knelt down to feel his pulse, wondering if maybe, just maybe Erik had done what she'd asked…
But what would be better for her; Raoul, still alive and filled with vengeance?
Or Raoul that would be found later by an absentminded maid, who would let out a horrified scream at the inhuman form before her?
Ask him. Ask him to finish it. To end his life.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head slowly. "He must live."
"Christine," Erik murmured, stepping over the mangled body to where she stood petrified. "I haven't killed him, I promise. He will wake soon, but…but I fear he will try to find you, and if he does…if you stay here, you will die by his hands. Can you not see the murder in his eyes? The devil that lurks from within his mind, toying with you, laughing at your misery…Christine, look at me. You must get your things. Now."
She looked back at Erik, suddenly desperate to be in his arms. He could have killed Raoul, had he wanted to, had she asked him to. But he left him alive…
And she had to get out. She had to leave this rusted, blood infested orphanage behind.
"Let me grab some of my things," she replied softly, reaching out to touch one of his hands. "I will be quick about it, I promise."
Christine broke free from the spell that held her still and cold like a statue, hurrying across the living room and into the bedroom. She pulled a large tortoiseshell suitcase out from under the bed, and began stacking leotards, perfume, and point shoes into its modest space. She left most of her clothing untouched and folded, for nearly all of it had been hand picked by Raoul, and each outfit contained her own repressed disdain for his control over her. He had never allowed her to show her collarbones or the skin of her neck, and often chose slacks that were too big for her slender frame.
Thus was the rulebook that he forced her to live by – cover yourself and I won't strangle you tonight.
It was sickening. Disgusting. Horrifying, the longer she dwelled upon such things. It was as if his blood stained more than the living room carpet…No, it had tarnished her skin, her clothes, the relaxed waves of her chestnut hair…
She wanted to cry, to be held, to be comforted. Would this be the last time she feared for her life?
He will hunt you. He will find you.
Tears blurred the edges of her vision as she bit the inside of her cheek, forcing the suitcase clasps shut with trembling hands. She didn't have to think about his fate, anymore…
It no longer was of her concern. The "I love you" had died so very long ago…and as the burns upon her neck stung, she remembered how firm his hands had been, how excited he had seemed during his torture of her. He loved it. He loved to ruin her, to manipulate and strangle her, to make her think he was in charge of her pitiful, one-winged soul...
A little sparrow with a gimpy wing, trying desperately to fly. But it had been pinned to a cork board, prodded and pressed until it cried out in pain. In pain that would no doubt leave an invisible scar upon her heart, just like the orphanage of her early years, of all the thickened sadness that had lived inside of her…
Until someone; a brooding, masked man came into her life. Or had she slithered her way into his?
"Father," she whispered, laying a trembling, pale hand upon the top of the suitcase. "Father in Heaven, can you hear me? I am so afraid. I think he meant to kill me, tonight. And I want to escape, but…but I'm still afraid. I want to stop being afraid of everything. I want to live without fear."
How dare you pray to God. How dare you come to him on bended knee when you wanted someone to die. You wanted Erik to kill him. You wanted to see the light leave his eyes. You didn't have the courage, you coward…you'll always be a coward. Always afraid, little Beastie…
Christine shook her head blindly. "Father, let me heal…please, let him take me away from here. Forever." The insidious thoughts still lurked in the back of her mind, but she pushed them away with prayer, hoping it would be enough.
For even the devil could not be stopped until his divine punishment was delivered by God…not by the hands of man. Death would be too sudden, too wonderful for Raoul to slip inside of a deep, dark sleep. No, he must be punished and live with what he had done…he must be bound in chains of her absence, forever. Even if a small part of her still wanted and wished for his death, she knew she could not ask this of Erik.
But how could she stop worrying, how could she still live knowing he was out there, his anger and obsession growing every time he looked at himself in the mirror?
Christine reached up slowly, brushing the two tiny burns with her fingertips, squeezing her eyes shut at the hideous notion that they would not fade away like a bruise...they could not be hidden from the eyes of her fellow ballerinas, or anyone within the outside world…
No. They would befoul her flesh forever.
"Christine?" Erik's concerned voice sounded from the doorway, and she stood up quickly, wiping angry tears from her eyes.
"Yes, I'm…I'm ready…ready to leave."
She stared at Erik for a moment, her eyes falling upon his shirt that was covered in spurts of dark blood. He had cleaned the smears of red off of his face, at least…but even still, he stood before her unmasked and powerful – and she allowed her eyes to trace the scarring of his face, not wanting to forget how he looked in this moment…
She had her own, wingless Archangel.
"I…I like seeing your face. Without the mask," she ventured timidly, leaning down to lift her suitcase off of the floor. Erik's eyes fell to the carpet, his large hands twisting in front of him nervously.
"Please don't get used to it," he mumbled, while color flushed through his already reddened cheeks – a frightening match of the blood on his shirt. He stepped forward, pulling her suitcase out from her grasp, leaving her hands empty and numb. He turned away from her, walking across the bedroom swiftly and into the living room, expecting her to follow. She looked around at the bedroom once more, remembering all of the times she had been held down in her bed.
"I should burn you for all the secrets you hold," she whispered, touching the wooden bed frame one last time. "But even a fire could not stifle the evil that you've seen. Goodbye, my nightmarish friend…may you never be used for torture again."
She found herself hurrying to catch up with Erik, who was already waiting by the front door. Christine knelt down to shove her feet into a pair of black leather boots, turning around once more to face the living room, and Raoul's crumpled, beaten form.
"Erik, I need a moment…will you wait for me on the stairs?"
Erik let out an impatient sigh. "The car is waiting for us downstairs. But I'll give you two minutes – and I'm counting. I need you out of here, Christine…please," his eyes begged for her to be hasty, as of course, they should, she thought…after all, he was her protector, and knew where to take her and keep her safe. This, she had no doubt of.
"Yes, two minutes…that's all I need."
Erik nodded, running his free hand through his disheveled hair. "Two minutes," he repeated, turning from the doorway to meander down the hall. Christine let out a long sigh, walking over to where Raoul lay on the carpet. She knelt, setting a hand gently on his stomach that took slow, labored breaths.
"This is the last time you'll ever hurt me. And I don't know if you can hear me, but…you will pay for what you've done. You'll never see my face again, dear husband…and you broke your vows to me long ago. I won't pray for your blackened soul to be delivered…I will instead pray that you dream of Erik's torture upon you every night. That even if you stitch up the side of your mouth…you'll always remember that I sat there and watched, finally seeing you get the horrific end that you deserve. Goodbye, Raoul…you are my husband no longer."
Christine stood up then, whirling upon her heels through the threshold of the door – no longer would she shiver to slide a key into a lock. No longer would she count every step on the staircase; no longer would she be the little sparrow pinned to his cork board, crying tears so harsh that they stole blood from her heart. No longer would he utter the name, "Beastie". No longer would she dwell in the orphanage of her childhood.
Erik, as promised, was waiting for her at the top of the staircase. As soon as he caught a glimpse of her, he sighed audibly – clearly relieved that she would follow wherever he chose to take them. The two descended the curve of the staircase together, making their way through the smoke filled lobby until they reached the double front doors. Erik strode over to them, opening one of the doors for Christine, pretending not to notice the patrons of the lobby staring at his naked face. She giggled slightly, not used to having the door held for her, giving a small curtsy to him before she stepped through.
"For you, milady," he smiled slightly – oh, how his untethered, naked smile was so lovely to her in the midst of this darkness. She stepped through the doorway, sliding a hand across the glass; this was the last time she would ever enter this building. The last time she would get lost in this insolent crowd, filled with people that had empty, undrawn faces…waiting for the demonic, liquor-filled smile that sat rotting behind her old apartment doors.
The cold wind swirled around her as she walked over to the curb, where the same shiny car was waiting patiently. Smoke billowed out of its exhaust, sending a thousand spirals up into the smog of the city, disappearing inside the dark curtain of the sky. Erik was behind her, again, pulling the back door open with ease. Christine paused at the open door, looking back at the complex with a determination that surpassed all fears.
"Goodbye," she whispered, closing her eyes against the memories that flooded in. "You shall haunt me no longer." And with one, easy movement, she slid into the back of the car, the door blowing out all images of Raoul's disfigured face as if it was the flame of a match splashed with one, single raindrop.
And she would be the storm.
Erik entered the car on the opposite side, leaving a lengthy amount of room between them. "Take us to Bruce's, please," he instructed the driver, and the car lurched to life, weeding itself into the harsh traffic of a Manhattan autumn night.
She reached for his hand almost immediately, and he let his fingers curve over hers, willing warmth and certainty back into her lifeless palms. Christine smiled in the darkness of the car, turning to look at Erik, who now stared aimlessly out the window.
"We need to get you away from here. You can stay with my brother, Bruce, until we figure out –"
"Erik, I have nothing…no money…I'm…I'm going to need to get a job. Perhaps I can be a seamstress, or – "
"You'll do nothing of the sort," he said brusquely, his jawline tightening. "If anything, you should be performing in the ballet, Swan Lake."
Christine's eyes widened as she squeezed his hand. "How do you know what ballet the director chose?"
"Because I…well, Bruce convinced me to meet with the director. Their orchestra needed a conductor, and I…well, I met with him and he liked me decently enough." Erik suddenly seemed bashful, ducking his chin and looking out the window again. "Of course, he disliked the mask…but I told him the orchestra would run smoother if they didn't have to count how many scars have torn up my face."
"So…I should continue at the conservatory? But…but Raoul knows where it is…he…he could come find me," Christine said worriedly, biting her bottom lip.
"Make sure you are never alone. Tell your director you've separated from him, and either Bruce or myself will pick you up and drop you off. Early, might I add. You need more time to warm up if you're going to play the lead."
"The lead, Erik? I'm not so sure, I…it's a very complex role, and I think –"
"That's exactly it, little dove…quit thinking yourself into circles. Just this once," he added with a smirk, squeezing her fingers. "I also made it a point to find out the potential leads. All in a days work…and how much brandy I could get him to drink. Liquor loosens the tongue a bit," Erik grinned, his golden eyes gleaming with mischief. Christine shook her head, trying to take in the enormity that was her life, now. "The lead," she breathed, laying her head back onto the leather seat. "That would be a dream. Just like this," she motioned to their clasped hands, and Erik once again looked away.
"You need time to heal from what's been done," he said simply, a wave of sadness stretching through his voice. "And you need to…well, dissolve your marriage. Before, er, well…before things can go further. If you wish them to."
Christine sighed loudly. "Yes, Erik. I wish for them to. I kissed you, tonight…or have you forgotten?"
He leaned into her slightly, pulling her hands into his lap. "I believe I kissed you."
She laughed softly at the lightness of his tone, as if he were teasing her. "Perhaps we should agree to disagree. And when are you planning on changing your shirt? Or do you prefer to run around all of Manhattan, looking like the personification of murder?"
"Time was of the essence, little dove. And yes, to answer your question, I shall be changing at Bruce's."
She sighed again. "Will you sleep in a bed with me?"
Erik fell silent. "What?" he choked out, clearing his throat.
"I don't mean…I mean, I want you near to me. I have a lot of nightmares."
"Then I will come to you when you have them."
"What if I'm too petrified to move, or to speak?"
Erik leaned his head back onto the seat. "I shall sleep close to your room, then."
"Why?" she tugged upon his hand – did he not understand that she'd never been touched as he'd touched her? "Can I still kiss you?"
"Christine," Erik murmured, "If you kiss me again I'll have to take you. And you're not ready for that. Not after everything he's put you through. So my answer is no, for now…no kissing. Perhaps on the cheek, though…we'll consider that a grey area."
"Okay," she forced out, irritated at his finely cut-out rules. "Can Bruce help with the…dissolving of the marriage? Might he know someone that could help me?"
"Yes, and I happen to as well. It may take some time, and possibly a bribe or two…but I think he will let you go, eventually. We will make in damn near impossible for him to even find you."
"I don't understand, Erik…he could find me at the conservatory."
"He knows what I'm capable of. But yes, little dove, I know you're afraid. I need you to trust in me. When the ballet is over, I shall take you somewhere new. Somewhere you've never been before."
Christine leaned into his space further, forcing him to turn and look her in the eyes. "But why wait until the ballet is over? Shouldn't we go now, shouldn't we run?"
"I won't run from that sniveling little thing. And there's paperwork that needs to be done, if the marriage is to be dissolved. And I'd rather us take care of it here. It's going to need his signature."
Christine laid her head upon his shoulder, greedy to touch him regardless of his "rules" about kissing. "So I'm to play two parts in life as I am in ballet…Odette and Odile."
"Two parts in life? And how do you figure that to be?" He asked quietly.
Because I already love you and I have to pretend not to.
"The first one is the pure and the innocent," she breathed, pushing away all thoughts and wanting of his lips upon hers. "The second one is darker, an uncontrollable transformation…both are happening at the same time. Both are wreaking havoc upon what I've known in this life. From the hellhole of an orphanage, to these two burns upon my neck. I've been hurting longer than I've ever been happy. But you, you…you make me feel different. Like I can be whoever I want to be."
Erik stayed quiet, pondering the words that she had uttered so very close to his mouth, while her head rested against his shoulder. The car slowly came to a stop, and the driver – not wanting to interrupt – rapped a pen twice upon the steering wheel. Erik took a deep breath, giving her a quick peck on the forehead before speaking. "We're here."
"So forehead kisses are allowed too? Oh, I had no idea," she remarked loudly, and Erik shook his head at her, his heart thundering in his chest. "Stay there, I'll get your door."
With Christine's suitcase in hand, the couple climbed the smooth whirls of stone that led to the front double doors. Christine looked around her, her breath whirling up into the cold night air. "Such a beautiful street. And look! I can see central park from here. Well, sort of," she squinted her eyes into the darkness, trying to see past the blinking lights of vehicles that were smudged with throngs of people passing by. Erik stood on the top step, simply watching as her suitcase hung from his left hand. As she laughed breathlessly into the air, he did not feel the chill of the night, nor did he notice the pain radiating through his knuckles. He saw her, and only her, just as he had the night of his bender through the skylight; a pale, majestic queen that was beginning to stretch her wings – one that was pure white, like snow…and the other, a blue-black smudge that unfurled like the darkness and came alive…an angel with two very different wings.
An angel that he was hopelessly beginning to love.
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A/N: Well, what are your thoughts? Any comments at all are very close to my heart. Thank you for taking the time to read, and another update is on the horizon! Love, L.