Sorry for the shortness of the chapter, but I like how it works. As always mad props and love for my Beta/PR Agent, Erik.
They were almost alone in the huge, gloomy house; and a great silence surrounded them.
From "The Phantom Of The Opera" by Gaston Leroux
He was fairly certain that he was dead by eleven a.m. and that Hell, in fact, revolved around memorizing the various stains in the toilet bowl while he retched again and again. Erik was shattered, too utterly exhausted to even move his cheek from the toilet seat as his belly finally relaxed. His hands trembled uselessly as he reached out for the glass of water that sat next to his mask on the counter top nearby.
Darren walked past and watched Erik chase the glass around with clumsy, fumbling attempts at gripping the smooth surface. After a moment, he walked in, took the glass and knelt next to him. Erik sneered when Darren lifted his head and put the rim to his lips, but he did not protest or struggle. He took a long drink, giving a slow exhale of relief through the ruined hole of his nose as the cool liquid soothed away the acrid burn at the back of his throat.
Christ, he felt so pathetic. So this was what his life had become? It was all so pointless. Erik was tempted to roll onto his back and choke on his own bile. He had no music, no drugs, and no one would notice if he died right here.
Putting his sweat-slicked forehead back against the toilet seat, he sneered at himself in disgust, wave of frustration surging forward. Lookit yerself, Billy No Mates, going on and on 'bout how alone you are when Darren's worryin' hisself ill over yer boney arse. You make me sick! His stomach gave a violent heave and he clung weakly to the toilet bowl as he lost the few swallows of water he had gotten down.
Sometime later, hours or years, Erik managed to crawl back to his bed and fall into a fitful sleep, the sheets tangled around his legs. He had dreamt of blood for years; the color and the copper bite haunted his memories and nightmares. But never like this, it filled his vision and crept down over his mask like the tears of a mournful saint. He could taste it, roll the thick liquid over his tongue as it slid from his lips and dripped off of his chin. His neck was hot and wet with more blood that fell from the Chelsea Smile below his jaw.
Erik felt his lips pull back into a crazed, feral grin as he approached the sniveling figure before him. He hefted the man to his feet with a growl, fisting his hands in the front of the stained button-down shirt. The older man whimpered pathetically and pushed weakly at Erik's chest, trying to get away. Familiar, hated, grey eyes widened in horror as he was pulled closer to Erik's bloody visage. Sucking on his tongue a moment, Erik spat a mouthful of blood and saliva into his father's face. "You fucker," he growled and ruthlessly backhanded him. "Are you proud of me now!"
His head twisted away under the impact, and Erik felt a surge of satisfaction at the sight of blood when he looked back. Then his father grinned and Erik stared in horror at the mirror of himself. "Your mother would be," he purred cruelly.
Suddenly, Erik was choking on the blood in his mouth as he struggled against a wave of bone-chilling nausea. Oh God, oh no, no, no, NO! "That's not true!" He managed to spit the words out as he gasped for breath. His father only grinned wider. He hated that grin, and the rage burned away the fear. With a roar, he pulled an arm back and threw all of his weight behind his fist, shattering the bastard's jaw. But he only kept grinning!
Erik hit him again and again, until the familiar features were lost under the swelling and the claret.
There was so much blood!
The scream was dying in his throat as he woke with a violent start, sitting straight up in his bed, sweat running off him as he trembled. No sooner had he drawn breath than he was on his hands and knees on the floor, sobs mingling with dry heaves. Christ, he could still taste the copper!
Darren was at his side in a moment, bringing a bucket and muttering pathetic words meant to soothe. Erik weakly batted away the hand trying to rub his back, and then collapsed to the floor in exhaustion.
He stared at the cracks in the ceiling and took a shaky breath through his nasal cavity and ignored the sting of tears. "Get me some booze," he finally muttered to Darren. "Something hard."
