Little Sultina's Note: Here's the last instalment of 'Be My Living Bride'. Thanks for all your kind reviews, they have meant a lot to me and thank you for not abandoning my story after I have deserted it for so long. The second half of this chapter moves quite quickly, so pay attention and skim read at your peril. Again, thank you for all your feedback and response to my story, what more can I say? Enjoy.
Erik's POV:
My heart is pounding as rage tears through my body; from my death's head to be raging erection; though it is not raging with lust as much as it is raging with hatred. Hatred for my parents, my gypsy show-master, all the millions who have mocked me and terrorised me, hatred for the world; hatred for Christine.
Ignoring her pathetic whines, I am continuing to push myself further and further into that tight little space. I am not doing this for pleasure, although the feeling that are beginning to swell from tip are those of that particular emotion. No, I am doing this to prove a point; that no matter how much the world has abused me and degraded me, me matter how much I have been betrayed and mocked: I will never be beaten.
My body is shaking as it becomes more and more intoxicated by the power that is running through it. My breath is becoming more and more raged as I reach the climax of my actions, causing waves of nauseating pleasure to course through my corpse of a body.
It is only now that I begin to think of the boy; who must be lying dead on the floor of the torture chamber, the Daroga's corpse somewhere beside him. I wonder how long it took them to meet their ends? Was it painful? Terrible? Torturous? I hope it was. I hope it was quite horrible. I hope they suffered as much I have suffered, shut away in this underground realm of death, guarded by my very own River Styx.
I hope Christine is suffering now. I hope she wishes she were dead. I hope she hates me with all her might; for only then will she be able to grasp some of the hate that I currently feel towards her.
My body is retracting itself from that of the poisonous demon lying before me, and suddenly I can feel that aching sensation in the pit of my soul. What am I to do now?
Raoul's POV:
Where am I? What is going on? How is it possible? For the past few days I have been lost in a tropical jungle, similar to the sort found in the Asian Subcontinent. I thought that my travelling companion and I would die of thirst, as we seemed to have lost our knapsacks; either that or we'd be killed by the lions I could hear in the distance.
The Persian was sent half made by the intense heat, and started blathering on about mirrors and trap doors; and then, and then - the trees opened. There was a door in the space where a thick expanse of wood had been, a door that lead on to a dark space, emitting wondrous lashings of frozen air.
Lost in my sheer amazement at discovering a door in a forest, I followed the Persian through it, leaving my hat behind as he instructed to. The door lead to what appears to be a cellar, filled with a great deal of thick, oak barrels. Fancy, a cellar in an equatorial jungle!
That is where I am now, following the Persian as he darts frantically about the place, his face flushed and his body shaking. He is yelling something about finding a staircase or a door, or some such nonsense, Really, the jungle has sent him half mad, the poor chap! I want to stop and see if I can find a stream of some sort where I can take a drink or refresh my burning skin. Surely, with the coolness and dampness in the air, there must be a exotic little river or waterfall somewhere?
Still, the Persian persists in his crazed quest for another door; really he is rather mad, the unfortunate fellow! But yet, as he releases a half hysterical laugh he has found what he was looking for; a door with a pale source of light at the end of it. Maybe he has found a door leading to another part of the forest?
Along we go, along we go; along a stone passageway, the light growing gradually brighter. Now it is so bright, that I can make out shapes in it, an armchair, a bookcase, an unlit fireplace, a burning candle …in a jungle? The Persian is saying something about a house, a monster's house …Erik …Christine …he mutters, the words stirring an invisible memory at the back of my mind. Perhaps, they were characters I read in a book as a child?
Now we appear to be in a room. An old-fashioned, but smartly furnished drawing room, with a weak light burning in front of a frequently used, but currently abandoned hath. On the mantel piece lies a collection of oddities; an ostrich egg and two beautiful ebony boxes. What a quaint place! Perhaps good fortune has allowed us to stumble upon the colonial residence of a European explorer? Yet the Persian still won't be content!
I'm lowering myself into the luxurious armchair, allowing my weary body to absorb some of the pure pleasure that its soft upholstery brings. But the Persian will not allow me to, he is grabbing for my hand and dragging me up and toward a shiny, mahogany door, shouting something about that 'Erik' and 'Christine'.
He is turning the heavy brass door handle, and pulling me into another room, and another and then… and then, there's a small staircase, it's made from coarse stone and contrasts horribly with the rest of the house. At the top of it there's a window, and …and two people ….Erik and Christine ….and they're ….I can feel the colour draining from my face, as the poor Persian emits a gasp of horror and collapses on the floor.
Christine's POV:
Raoul? Raoul! Can it really be him standing at the foot of the staircase, an unidentifiable body beside him? His face is horribly pale, and smothered in sweat; his golden locks are messy and his immaculate opera suit is terribly dishevelled. But it is him, I swear it!
Oh my poor, poor Raoul, the look of astonishment and slow, painful realisation on your face is so terrible I can no longer stand to look at it. What must you think my dear sweet Raoul? Your little playfellow lying naked on the floor, tears streaming down her bruised face; a demon standing over her.
"Get away from her," Raoul is shouting, his voice trembling with a mixture of confusion, uncertainty and repulsion.
I can hear a snort of laughter from behind me, and I can see Erik walking away from me, pulling on his up his trousers; his eyes never leaving my precious Raoul.
"Well, aren't you the knight in shining armour, coming to rescue his damsel in distress; how very noble of you!" , the monster is saying in a tone filled with indescribable hatred.
"I see you survived your little trip to the jungle, unlike the Daroga …what a pity I have to greet you with such terrible news," Erik continues, his voice becoming higher and higher pitched, as he slowly saunters towards my trembling fiancée.
"Unfortunately, despite your brave efforts, your little adventure has been utterly futile. For now, that Erik's secrets have ceased to be Erik's secrets, I am afraid I must kill you"
"NO!" I am screaming as the monster throws Raoul against the wall, his disgusting hands closing around his neck.
Raoul, is opening his mouth to speak, but the demon tightens his grasp around my lovers' neck, causing him to gag for air. How can he do this? How can he simply murder my poor Raoul, well I shan't let him, and that is why I am pulling the remnants of my dress over me and rushing over to where it seems a devil and an angel are standing .
"'No' my dear little whore?", the beast is jesting, mimicking my voice with uncanny ability. His terrible body is trembling nearly as much as my own, and his horrific lips are twitching as they speak, his tarnished talons digging harder and harder into my poor Raoul's neck all the while.
"Would you rather I didn't kill this pitiful excuse for a man? Well my sweet, I'm afraid I don't give a fuck as to what you would rather! Why should I? You have never cared an ounce for my wishes or feeling! I may be a devil now, but if I am it is only because you have made me so. So this ….this is really all your fault! Yes! Your fault!", he laughs, his body shaking with each fresh burst of manic emotion.
He is tightening his pythonic hold on my lovers' neck, producing an unbearable splutter and gasp from his victim as he does so.
Now there are words! Terrible words, almost as hideous as the creature who utters them are filling the room. They are hoarse and broken, tainted with tears and stained with black, bitter emotions that stab me in places that I can not shield.
"I loved you Christine! I loved you as no woman has ever been loved before! I adored you and cherished you above all things!" They explode menacingly.
"All I asked from you was a kind word and a little companionship and in return I would be your willing slave, reducing myself a dog, undeserving of your ownership. But what did you do? You took advantage of me, used me and above all things deceived me. But I still loved you, yet now my dear do not worry yourself by fearing my pure love; for now I hate you with every ounce of my soul!"
My face is red with feeling, as it absorbs a twisted mixture of emotions. Anger, pity, hatred, sorrow, compassion, fury, understanding, rage and guilt are flying around me, filling me with fear and confusion.
All I can see is the dying face of my darling Raoul, rasping and retching in a desperate plea for oxygen. I can see the skeletal bones pressing in on his aristocratic skin, I can see the tears of sorrow and hatred pouring down the disgusting death's head to whom they belong, I can see the grim reaper fast approaching my sweetheart; yet I do not do anything to stop the sequence of events that are unfurling before me.
I am fixed in my position, without the ability to move a muscle in my body. I do not shout, nor do I try and intervene as Raoul is finally stripped of his life. I do not cry nor fight as his lifeless corpse is dropped to the floor. I do not turn as Erik approaches me, hot tears gushing from his black sockets, his yellow tinged skin flushed red. I do not. I can not. No physical force could have restrained me better than my own personal paralysis, created from a perverse mixture of confusion and understanding.
Erik is standing directly before me, his hands clenched into tight fists, his corpse like body utterly rigid, his an expression of all consuming anguish covering his death's head.
"I hate you," he states plainly, a slight twitch at the corners of his lips the only betrayal of the true emotions behind his blank façade.
Erik's words, sharp and painful as they are intended to be, have no effect on me. For I too, have become an emotionless, meaningless mess, standing here, allowing my dress to fall off my body. All of my thoughts and feelings have escaped from me, and my senses are no more. I am nothing more than a static object, a block of material that shall never live again.
Over Erik's shoulder I can see the seeming lifeless lump, that I have previously ignored stirring. Gradually, the lump is lifting itself up, just a little but enough for it to rest on its left arm whilst the right stretches round, allowing its hand to fumble in a deep coat pocket. Silently and with sudden agility, it grabs for something, whips it out, holds it tight, and squeezes the trigger.
There is a sudden bang, an expression of shook appears on the death's head, before its frame falls backwards onto the hard floor, as blood slowly streams from the wound at the back of his head. There are no last words, no cries or screams, there is a weak gasp, followed by silence, then that macabre sound of death, squelching out into the room.
I can hear a soft sigh coming from the lump, who I presume is the Persian, as he collapses back on the floor; his aged body caving in on itself. I do not bother myself with trying to comfort the man as he drifts into eternal life, nor do I blink as he finally departs, leaving his body, drenched with heat and deprived of life; lying on the floor.
Internally, I am as dead as those bodies, and in a few days when my weak form has burned itself out as it tries pointlessly to find a way out of his hellish prison, I will resemble those corpses externally too.
That is the irony. I chose 'yes', and yet death is still lurking beside me, waiting to claim me. Starvation and madness, that is all there is for me now. But why must I let it be that way? I am pulling myself off the ground, and walking down the steps in large, confident strides with my head held high. There are no rules. There are no boundaries. I have nothing to fear now.
I am approaching the Persian, my eyes never straying towards Raoul, for he is dead and gone. The Raoul I loved shall never live again, all that is left is a meaningless lump of flesh. As for my Angel of Music, did he ever truly exist? I do not bother to look at his decaying body, for if he ever existed, he does not now.
I am bending down and carefully lifting the revolver from the lifeless hand of its owner, and tightly grasping it in my own. I am not nervous nor am I scared. I am void of feeling. My skin doesn't quiver as I push the cold barrel against my temple, my fingers don't shake as they press down upon the trigger. All I am doing is thinking of the stretch of eternity that awaits me and now……..nothing.