Trigger warning: language
Her Surrender – Chapter 16
They drove in silence. Christine tried her hardest to peer out of the large window, doing her best to find where they were heading, thinking of ways to halt the proceedings. But now she was inside the vehicle, any opportunity of stopping was pathetic. She knew no 'toilet stop' would allow her a reprieve and she blanched at the idea of Erik listening, let alone watching her for any attempts of escape as she undressed in the bushes.
No, that was a truly horrifying thought.
It only crossed into July around three weeks ago, and she had to forego the celebrations on the fourth for her singing lesson. Her singing lessons had truly been under that Voice. Most occasions she came out feeling dazed with a recording of the lesson no longer than a few moments, but knew that with the time on her clock, it had been far longer than just an hour. Had there been warm ups? She thought so.
"Why can't I remember any of my lessons?" the question sounded meek to her. Feeling the shifting atmosphere of Erik's temper told her that caution was necessary.
The beard of his mask floated as he gave a shuddering sigh, amber eyes not leaving the road, "You do not remember them well because of my influence,"
Her fingers stopped picking off the mud on her hands, becoming still, "What?"
He didn't even have the decency to look guilty as he sighed again, like she was a pestering child who wouldn't shut up, "The potency of my influence persuades a different consciousness to emerge, like a lighter stage of sleep. More open to suggestion," the car took a sharp turn and suddenly the undergrowth cleared, revealing a lone backroad.
The rumbling of the engine and the tarmac under the wheels of the car were the only accompaniment as they glided along, before she turned accusatory eyes on the slim figure in the driver's seat. Suggestion? Surely -
"You hypnotised me!" she cried in outrage, knowing that if he was not driving, she would hit him right now with no regret.
Erik shrugged, "Call it what you will, it was meant as a teaching technique," and at this, one eye slid towards her, causing all sorts of shivers crawling through her, "One that's obviously out served its usefulness," he turned his full attention to the road that seemingly had no end in sight.
"You had no right to do that – you're sick!" she hissed, folding her arms and turning towards the window.
But instead of anger, he let out a dark stomach-curdling chuckle, "Oh my dear, you have no true idea how sick I am," he squeezed the wheel, eyes taking on a misty hue, "Yes, terribly sick. I do aim to find a cure to this madness, but I'm afraid until I do, you will have to stay with me,"
He was insane. Utterly insane. How was this knowledge still surprising her?
"And how long will that be?" she spat, eyes on the rushing trees passing by, stretching black fingers threatening to pull her out of the car. She shuddered.
"Forever, I suppose," he drummed his leather clad fingers once on the wheel, before shifting gear and taking the right at the end of the long road. There was an incline as the ground rose beside them, heading further and further away from civilisation.
One.
Two.
The penny dropped.
"Forever?" she gaped, twisting around to see the world fading away behind them. Where was the stadium and its lights? Where was Raoul and his smile?
"Forever indeed. There is a reason why you'll be staying with Erik,"
Erik. Third person again, her stomach turned fearfully. Was this some sort of regression? Her breathed seemed to jar from the tightening of her chest, instinctively her hand moved towards the window –
"I should warn you about the consequences of opening that," Erik's chilling voice halted her pursuit, "My dear, you should know that we are taking a very long, secluded route back home. There's no one for miles,"
Was that a hint of smugness? Her chest was still tightening, and she needed air -
"Please? I just need air, please," she knew her voice would be assessed for signs of deceit. She waited anxiously for his permission, still keeping her eyes on the road outside her window.
Christine could feel his eyes on her, moving down her as if he could tell a lie by the very way she sat, "Very well," he said slowly, "However, should you at all look as if you are about to scream, you must realise you will be punished for such conduct," there was no mistaking the threat in his voice, that almost made her regret asking.
She nodded, letting that sink in for a moment, before she moved towards the button.
The sickness in her chest seemed to lift with the sharp breeze. Christine very nearly let out a shout, a cry, hoping in vain that it would travel to Raoul, but clamped the idea down before it even had time to ruin her.
No, it was not worth it. She was already in terrible trouble with him as it was – he was taking no chances with her now – and should she push him far enough, the fear in her gut told her there would be a heavy price.
And so, she sat back in her seat, arms folding against her chest with the wind sliding against her skin. She needed her jumper. The jumper that was miles away, in the bag.
Her bag! Her phone! What was she going to do? She couldn't even phone in that she was sick! Gritting her teeth and swallowing her fear, she glanced at her silent driver.
"Erik, you need to take me back," her voice should have been too quiet over the open window, but he heard her with the slightest stiffening of his fingers on the wheel.
"I believe we have already discussed this. You are staying with Erik," his tone was final.
"But I have school! I have lessons," she insisted.
She realised her mistake too late as Erik's harsh bark filled her ears, "Oh, yes. You have indeed lessons to attend. Fortunately, they are not at your beloved college. I believe that we are dreadfully behind schedule. This week we will make up the difference, yes? No more…distractions," his voice curled pointedly in her ears and she shrunk away from his venom. All she wanted to do was bow her head and apologise, no more than a child would do to a stern uncompromising teacher.
Shivering and having enough of the air that was only making her colder, she closed the window, slumping back into her seat.
"At least let me call in sick,"
She felt his frown, "No, I don't think that will do,"
No?
Christine sat up at this sharply, mouth popping open in shock. She had not expected his adamant refusal to a compromise and heat rushed through her body dangerously, "You can't just spirit me away! I have a life, responsibilities, people who I care about," her fist banged on the leather armrest between the two of them, "And I won't let you ruin my life because of some stupid lessons!"
Christine shrieked as the car made a jolting halt, her body crashing back into the seat and her head slamming against the headrest painfully. For a moment, she lay winded looking at the impossibly ordered man in the drivers' seat. The slow movement of his head and yellow pinpricks pinned her to the chair, frozen deer-like terror fluttering in her chest.
"You would do well to sleep on the way there," there was something ever so dangerous in that emotionless tone. Nodding timidly, even though there was no Voice controlling her, she obeyed.
"Is there – is there a – a blank- ah never mind," she tremored, shifting around so she could recline the seat slightly – not trusting herself to ask for his permission for such an act. If he wanted her to go to sleep, then she would use the recliner as well as she possibly could.
Her hands were shaking, she realised numbly as she struggled for a few moments in gripping the lever. Lowering the chair's back, Christine was aware of the yellow eyes that tracked every shift of position. How she settled down to sleep, on her side, with one hand turned downwards and one resting under her head (obviously facing the door and not him). Slowly, the car started again, the engine's purr in the background and the occasional turn when they got to the end of the road.
Christine had not anticipated she would sleep, her mind far too alert in the current circumstance. For a while, she lay unmoving. It got uncomfortable, because somewhere itched, one leg ached and she needed to take her shoes off. But she was loath for Erik to see her, to know each movement she took. That she had disobeyed his order to sleep. Even though she was unable to, how would he know the difference? She couldn't speak.
She didn't dare.
She realised she had her eyes closed when there was movement and she heard a speaker being turned on. She still kept them closed, unknowing if Erik could see from his viewpoint if they opened. After a few moments (after she guessed what she heard was him putting in a CD), soft classical music filtered from the multitude of speakers in his car. It was too loud, but was corrected in a few seconds, coming to a lazy sort of pitch that spoke directly to her drifting mind.
Though she wasn't exactly fighting the music's enchantment, for it was reverently beautiful, she was aware that it was a lullaby.
Christine was trying to place where she had heard such a melody before, when thoughts began to get hazy. The gentle movement made it seem as if she was on a boat, cradling her. She was aware in another part of her mind, that she was falling asleep. The sound of the violin caressed her and eventually she gave her mind to the music. All the memories, all the worries melted into darkness.
Fear seized her when she couldn't feel the springs of her dorm bed digging into her spine, or the slightly rough duvet that had passed through the washing machine one too many times. Vanilla wafted from the foreign blankets. Complete darkness enshrouded her.
She had to choke back a scream that crawled up her throat – before she was blinking frantically to see the surroundings. But memories came instead: the music festival; warmth of coffee and Raoul's gentle blue eyes, the stars around them while his arms cradled her –
And then…The Voice.
Horror did little to numb the events that followed. How she had lost her mind to it. Flashes of grass coming into vison, tightening bonds on her limbs as she screamed for help that was so abruptly cut off. Christine clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.
Raoul!
Oh god, what time was it? Had he been searching endlessly on the grounds? Had her phone remained deaf to the world, her lost bag found by a wandering hiker or a lost bunch of drunks when the music finally stopped at dawn?
Breathing became harder as she imagined the horror of her body being found – but no – she was alive…Alive. Her terror abruptly boiled into something hot and sharp, poking within her chest like a needle.
Erik.
Oh boy! That gargoyle was going to get something and it wasn't going to be pleasant! Gripping her heavy blanket, she flung it to the side. Stumbling only once before her eyes had adjusted completely, Christine marched to the dim rectangle of light that emanated from the door.
Her fingers shot to meet the wood, scraping the side up and down to find the handle before her fingers clenched around it. Metal bit into her fingers as she flung the door open. Slamming into the wall with an almighty crack, it revealed the weeping underground home of his.
He wouldn't be a pretty sight when she was finished with him. Her mind gripped onto the flimsy advice she had gotten on a few rudimentary school lessons years ago. Hands in a fist, thumb over the knuckle. Aim for the eye with a thumb. Elbows to the crotch or side if taken from behind, stamp on feet and buck.
Christine nearly stumbled over the brown bags left outside of her room, peering at them before that prick of hate surged into rage. How dare he! How dare he rummage in her things!
Christine flew to the nearest room, only becoming more frenzied as he failed to show up in the kitchen. Christine tried the lounge without the TV and then the room with the antiques. Nothing!
"Bastard!" she hissed, turning into the music room before screeching to a halt. A shadow loomed in front of her, leather hands neatly folded in front of him.
Christine froze. Her eyes were glued to his dark button-up and hanging coat. He had just gotten back from somewhere. She could tell by the fresh air that he excluded.
Vision was hazy, but her fists were shaking with rage. Before she could control herself, one fist was coming upwards, upwards towards his chin, zooming like a bullet –
Christine felt the burning grip as she was shoved away, rough hands sending her stumbling back into the wall, flinching when pain crashed on a tender spot from the jump-stop from the car. But she didn't moan because her eyes locked with that screaming black shirt and that was her next target, before she was rushing at him, plans of attack as frenzied as herself.
How-dare-he-how-dare-he-how-dare-he–
Her fist connected with that horrible chest once. Pain split her fingers but her next fist was already coming.
Her next punch faltered when her wrists were caught with a halting grip, so strong that her knees almost buckled at the jarring force. A squeak of surprise left her mouth and she raised her head to meet with burning eyes that took her breath away.
"You will calm down," the sternness of his command held her, while as her knees knocked together. Any moment they threatened to collapse. Her breaths came fast and irregular. That sharp black mask bore down on her, hands iron and restraining all movement, almost squeezing her wrists into submission.
No!
Another bout of defiance rose and her legs stood as she pushed against his grip, "You fucking kidnapped me!" she yelled, straight to those unyielding eyes that crinkled with shrewd calculation.
"So you are angry?" came the conversational tone.
It incensed her.
"Are you insane! Yes, you jackass! Let me go right now!" she bucked against his grip, before driving her knee into his crotch. He did not withstand this attack and his fingers loosened as a pained breath reached her. Pushing his wry body aside, she ran into the room, searching for the exit.
No! Only horrible red walls and two those two music-filled bookcases. Bolting to one, her fingers searched the tops of the books, hoping to find an anomaly.
"Foolish girl, you would think you would find an escape so easily?" came a his barking reprimand that her body automatically shrunk at.
No! There had to be a door! He must have one, here, in this very room!
Christine ignored him, changing shelf and feeling the bumps of the spines – searching for the one that would allow a hatch to open. Desperation clawed at her, with tears springing to her eyes.
I need to find it! I need to find it!
"You are wasting your time, Christine," he sighed, not bothering to stop her.
Christine left it, spinning around to see his casual stance watching her from the wall.
"Don't you fucking call me that," she snarled, spitting nails.
Those beady eyes narrowed, body stiffening ever so slightly, "I suggest you desist with such vulgarity. It is not becoming,"
"Let me out!" her voice was hoarse, rasping and dying of thirst. No. This felt good.
Of course it felt good.
Erik raised his eyes to the heavens, "Screaming is terrible for your voice, I do so wish you would stop. Otherwise, it might be necessary for me to subdue such attempts," Christine shuddered when she saw the fire flash through his eyes, the dangerous temper that she was so close to unleashing.
Once more, the fear of his wrath trickled down her spine and Christine swallowed, taking a step backwards. Her back met the bookcase.
Her pants were the only audible sound.
"Let me go," her voice came in a small entreaty, yearning for her freedom like it was oxygen.
"No," came the cold reply.
She shivered, scanning the room again, waiting for the door's seam to jump out at her.
It didn't.
"You can't keep me here," she resisted that panic that urged her to rush headlong into a wall to create her own way out.
Erik growled, "I do not whether to admire your gall, or have the urge to silence you for the impertinence,"
The car journey flashed again in her mind and his words bit her.
Christine's back pressed harder against the book spines.
"No, you can't keep me here. You can't. You can't. You can't," her mind refused to stop shaking and her arms came to cling around her chest. No, even though the plead rested on her tongue, she refused to give it.
She still had her pride! Her dignity.
Her head shot up, his eyes watching her with two walls that would never let her in.
"I need my education, pl- I need to see Mama Valerious," those words tasted hard. He would never know her despair. She would not let him see it.
He would let her go. He would.
He would.
Christine sat curled up on the room's bed, arms hugging herself. She had refused to come out after she had been sent to 'her room' with a cooling tray of bacon and eggs, which without a clock in sight she had dubbed it as her breakfast. Before he could check the sound of her door opening, (which had a resounding creak Erik obviously refused to oil), she had quickly dumped the tray outside. The eggs had been left (for she couldn't eat them cold) and the bacon was nibbled on. He had fried them until the edges were burned and left the taste of charcoal lingering in her mouth.
He was obviously not used to cooking bacon.
Christine had huddled on the sofa in the lounge, that Erik had curtly gestured to after he said she should have sustenance and he would go and prepare it for her. It was the sofa she had once passed on the way to the music room. While Erik cooked she half wanted to run to that room she had awakened in and dive under the warm covers to evade the chill in the air, while contemplating the idea of having another look in the music room for his secret door. There was no way the normal 'entrance' which led to the house above was going to be an option for escape. Erik had not said when he was going to let her go. Christine feared she would be living in that hole for many years. Terrifying didn't even begin to cover it.
Christine had, in fact, noticed the door to the bedroom she had woken in before. It was just down past the toilet she had been directed to after a session, she recalled. Christine had cast a curious look at it several times, yet Erik had always waited outside (to her mortification) and ushered her up the stairs to the waiting black vehicle. After that, things became less hazy. Though, she only truly regained herself when she walked into her small dorm room, blinking at the mess she had left it in. The black car always cornered her after class and she truly had no choice but to get in or have it aggressively follow her. Once after dashing through a public road, sure she would be able to avoid its pestering in public view, it had belligerently - and embarrassingly – honked at her to get in, causing dozens of curious stares aimed at her. When she had peered through the windscreen, shape of a driver had stared dully at her. That frightened her more. As if he was a broken automaton driving the car. Shudders ran down her spine at the memory.
Erik had left her now, she was sure; there was silence in the 'house' that told her instinctively he had gone. Disappeared God knows where, but she refused to come out anyway.
She missed her dingy little window in her bathroom, the two slightly bigger ones in her room. She missed the dream catcher she had hung up, tawny feathers and white twine swishing when a phantom breeze whispered by.
Not this royally awful room and its unending gloom that made her feel slightly nauseous. Trapped away miles underground.
She had nosed in the drawers, distraught to see dozens of neat rows of clothes, colour ordered. She knew that they would be her size. Though she had told herself she didn't need to check, the item she had been holding was still flung back as she discovered that her assumption had been right.
Damn you!
Christine had the compulsion to hit something, preferably something yellow-eyed and rather thin. But after her failure that morning, she had little energy to try.
Curse you…
Christine had crawled onto the bed, still refusing to wear anything that the monster owned and disgusted at the thought of his hands on them – touching those silken lacy underthings that had burnt a furious blush on her features. After feeling the pressing issue of a full bladder, she discovered the other door in the corner that led to horribly perfect bathroom, that she knew no spiders would ever think to crawl in. Not like the ones that hid in her taps, corners of the windows and preyed on her in the too-small shower she always banged her elbows on. Utilising the sink after doing her business, Christine used a flannel (found in one of the pearl hued draws), to scrub away the rest of the flaking mud that engrained itself into the crevices of her fingers.
She noted with slight dismay about how much mud had tainted her usually pearl-coloured nails.
Black, black like his mask. Brown, brown as the dirt that she was currently residing under.
Her nausea twisted again, causing her to shudder slightly. Swallowing the dryness of her mouth away, her attention was recaptured by the looming case of shelves taking residence on one wall.
After searching around in the numerous drawers of various sizes, which seemed to be all carved of the smooth, though slightly uneven pearl, she stumbled upon a pristine manicure set. Fuchsia flowers set on cream background, that she would associate with the taste of someone like Mama Valerious rather than someone of her age, revealed shining familiar tools. There was something so…easing about seeing the pair of nail clippers, the tiny cuticle pusher she had never known what it was meant for before she had met Meg, the nail file that was also prettily adorned with flowers.
The tiny, pointed scissors.
Christine froze as an image of her plunging the point of those scissors into one gleaming eye passed through her mind, the echo of his agonised scream as her feet pounded against the staircase to the world above. How she entered it once more like a butterfly bursting from its chrysalis. Like a girl turned woman, spitting out the last remnants of fantasy.
Fingers slid the shining weapon from its sheaf, holding it gently in her palm. Something so small turned into a weapon for liberation. Something so looked-past and inconsequential being picked from a dozen others, honed from a tool that would be domestically destined to serving others, to something that could cause suffering.
If wielded correctly.
Her fingers remained obscenely calm as her fingers curled over it, before depositing it into the shallow frontal pocket of her jeans.
Yes, an obscene symbol of freedom.
The grinding sound of reverberated through the air as paper sprinkled the artist's worktop, little flecks of artificial snow dusting the wooden surface. With one final snip, she set down the gleaming pair of scissors. Christine admired her reverse stencil (a mask), holding it up to the light in the studio. Peeling some masking tape off the roll, she attached it to one side of the cut-out and placed it on the canvas.
Glancing towards the shut door, Christine sighed, wiping away the beaded sweat from her brow. Even in the heated summer that was pushing against the spring breeze, Christine was perspiring. Today her wardrobe was stubbornly refused to change to summer wear, one day closer to admitting that her home was so far away. That the one who epitomised summer, heat and ardour with eyes of freedom's blue was not here.
The one of glacial fire was, however. The one to freeze or heat up someone with just the intonation of his voice, the delicate weaving of the violin above or the crashing sounds of piano keys on the instrument downstairs.
Today, however, she could hear his harp. It made her wonder how such sounds could carry in such a cavernous home, but she guessed it was something to do with how thick the walls were or ventilation system.
Not that she would ask. Yet, it could provide good dinner conversation, since the man rarely ate a bite. Sometimes she felt the urge to tell him to eat, just for irritation she felt at the food that would go to waste. Guilt, was it guilt? All she could think about was all the extra things she could donate to the kids on their way to school who had holes in their clothes and the threadbare jackets they wore. How in winter their eyes would light up at all the unobtainable gifts in the shops that glittered with expense. The red bow-wrapped magician's kit, the shining toy train and gleaming tiara.
How she had felt so guilty for even thinking that what she already had wasn't enough. That her Papa's laugh and accented voice telling Swedish folk tales by the fire didn't make her feel whole and the singing in the midnight mass when she clung to his large hand. How the dust of the church had tickled her nose, fingers tugging the red scarf tighter to snuff out the cold prickles of air.
A spike of pain pierced her chest and she flinched.
Her fingers rubbed at her heart, but then slid to the row of paints that waited for her. Taking one cool pristine tube, she uncapped it (using her woollen top as an extra piece of friction to break the seal) and squeezed some onto the pallet. It was finer than the paints she had used before, slick and supple, yet having the consistency that belayed the true quality.
Far better than any of the flimsy paints Papa had bought her, wrapped in red paper, blue paper…Any colour he could find that wasn't bedazzled in glitter or had little resistance for white tape marks.
She had loved it all the same. Because it had been from him.
"Stop!" her voice hissed, willing the pain and the memories away. But it wasn't going. It never faded. It rose as a piercing wail of the sea, crashing into her and leaving her dry barren heart beating dully against the rocks. Rocks that were the remains her father had left behind.
Fingers tightened around the varnished brush, dipping it into the golden ichor that pooled within the pallet. When her hand rose to the drawn outline on her canvas, Christine allowed her grip to slacken with the peaceful image her mind conjured.
It was time to paint.
For hours, her fibered brush became her stylus, sewing in the lifeblood that she endeavoured to create. It wasn't hard work, however. It couldn't even be considered hard. It was a mania of thoughtless peace, a whim that eased expression from liquid form, to concrete whimsicalness. Blues, golds. Contrast and vibrance. Step back, scan, add, rework, redo. Blaze a trail of paint here, a dash of this there. Feel the paint tighten against her skin as she worked, without caring. Stopping only to slip from the room, slink down the padded stairs for a glass of water. She didn't pay mind to the curious glances of Clarice and Heather as she made her way back to her point of being. She knew it was the same process of which Erik worked when inspired. She didn't see him either.
She understood the creative process and when it hit, she milked it for every last drop.
Christine didn't know a time when she had been able to create for so long, uninterrupted. How she recalled abjectly – thoughts like little bubbles in a river that passed by and popped once touched – how all of her other works were never truly finished. There was never time for another layer of paint, or a touch-up. Never a moment to stop and look, really look, and feel that yes, things were becoming right. It was not there yet, but something slumbering was beginning to emerge.
She knew then, it would be her best piece yet.
The sky was slowly turning. Crepuscular rays pierced her work through the windowpanes, bordering on an orange she knew even all the paint in the world could never capture the vibrancy of. There was something special with the sunset. In the summer, it was a peaceful turn to slumber. A signal to all animals it was time to return to their nests and quiet their singing. A hush would fall over the distant world, when the freedom's blue of the sky would dissolve into mist, until burnt amber by the sun's halo.
The fingers of light traced her image leaving her in darkness when they left. Her own tired digits trembled. The amount of strain she had pushed them through that day had been strenuous. How long had it been? Seven hours? Sixteen? She could hardly tell.
It must have been six hours at least.
She hadn't even been called down to dinner yet. Ironically, the echoing bell rung moments later, a sharp call against the harp that had faded away hours earlier.
It her signal to attend dinner; the sound carried as well as Erik's music. Hearing the bell meant that either Erik was busy, didn't want to collect her this evening, or for some other reason she had no desire to come up with. Wearily, she tidied away her things, leaving the brushes in the sink under some water (so that the paint wouldn't dry out before she came to clean them) along with her pallet and a few other tools that had been caught in her mindless creation period. Then, untying her apron, she folded it neatly in the pile for used smocks to be cleaned.
Tenderly, she came to gaze at the canvas, barely brushing her fingertips across it and following the wavy lines of paint. A watery smile threatened her composure and she abruptly started to turn the easel that held the picture away from the door, to the back of the room.
It didn't deserve to face a blank wall, but the door was just too much of a vulnerable position at the moment.
She cringed at how the legs grinded against the concrete floor. It was the wisest option since paint would soak into wood, fabric and other materials, whereas concrete (though hardly what you would call pretty) was practical and undistracting.
Erik was smart with the design of the studio; he let natural sunlight in with large windows, that also were attached with blinds, gauzy curtains and heavy curtains. This allowed her to maximize her certain needs for moods, atmospheres while still being able to focus on her drawing. There was a good deal of space, clean white countertops that allowed large pieces of paper and other tools to be rested on. A small dark cupboard with aprons, gloves and overalls to protect herself, with also a small step ladder, a wheeled table that held supplies with a stand for her pallet and a long roll of sleekly gleaming brushes.
Of course, she could spend all day naming the materials and supplies Erik had stored in the cupboards.
It was an artist's heaven.
The only thing that was both distracting and useful was the whitewashed walls. It begged for her to paint them. To create stories and weave patterns on them.
One day, she knew that she wouldn't be able to resist the temptation.
Christine slipped inside the dinning room, expecting to see only the steam from the platter waiting for her.
"I was beginning to believe that you weren't coming at all," came a soft drawl. Her eyes caught his gleaming ones, seeing his fingers twirl an onyx ring. One moment it was there, the next it disappeared within the folds of the gloves. The ebony jewel matched his attire and mask, as he leant back in the chair languidly. As if he had been patiently waiting for her.
"Sit down then, or it will become cold," he reprimanded slightly, before titling his head in a way that reminded her of a robot, "Unless... you're going to foolishly try and digest while standing up. I do not recommend it from experience,"
From experience? She wouldn't take him to be one to stand up while eating hot dogs from a stand.
She shook her head dumbly at this and his hand, in response, flicked to her chair that was already pulled out for her. The sinking cushions greeted Christine as she sat, fingers curling around the utensils.
She began eating, not waiting for anymore encouragement from her host. Though she felt his eyes on her, as usual, Christine focused on cutting her roast potatoes neatly to fit the bites of gammon. Christine had forced herself to change the way she ate in front of him. Before, at his home, she had been allowed to eat in her room (she had never seen a dining room in his previous home) and the island in the kitchen had always irked her. The white of the tiles had sneered smugly – reminding her of their agreement and her bonds to Him – while the lone stool told her that she would be observed, similar as it happened now.
But she had always been able to see Meg when she returned when she had the time. How ungrateful she seemed now, never having time but to collapse on her bed and continue the same routine the next day. Her visits with seeing Meg had only decreased, even when she had been mysteriously arranged a place at the theatre that had been opened to them both. Meg had quit her education when her mother had announced she had made it to the prestigious theatre in the golden areas of the city. But instead of moving in together, as they had dreamed, Christine had been forced to move into the sterile luxury of Erik's upstate apartment he 'kept for a rainy day'. Christine had never called it home, even with the sweeping views of a fog-filled city and a spire-pierced sky. Erik had proudly pointed each peak that was aligned to his design.
It all had looked ugly to her. Just another building hogging the natural forests and soaring skies she had imagined retiring into when she had lived her life well and her dreams achieved.
Was it cruel to introduce the idea of a doting blue-eyed husband before it was stolen all away? Her heart told her it was.
Despite the urge to just push around food on the plate, her belly was decidedly empty after her day in the studio and demanded attention. Especially when the insides of the roast potatoes were so fluffy, but the outside a golden crisp.
Was it relief she felt when she could actually taste the food? That there was a light taste of cloves and some other herb she couldn't put her finger on. That when her fingers gripped the pepper mill, there was finally heat that had been lacking for months.
"I see you've worked up an appetite today," Erik remarked softly, voice gliding to her on silver wings.
She ducked her head in a nod, not wishing to face his scrutiny.
From the corner of her vison, his fingers drummed on the table thoughtfully.
"What project were you working on?"
Casual. Ever so casual.
A shrug.
"Come now, why so shy petite?" French rolled off his tongue in such a gorgeous tone, that had it been any other than Erik, she would have swooned.
She could feel it. The prickling shyness, the invasion of his questions. The guilt that hunched her shoulders.
It had been a terrible mistake and she knew it.
But somehow, Christine discovered there was a difference between feeling guilt and having no regrets of doing what was right for her. Of creating something safe from an image so dangerous.
All it took was one unmasking and she'd be doomed.
Could she lie? Could she lie but tell the truth?
The water was cool on her tongue, moistening her throat yet doing little to allow words to flow.
"It was a piece based from when I was younger. A recurring dream I had," she felt the plunge, wishing that he'd respect her need for privacy.
That he'd trust her. Not to needle the new threat that threatened to take her away from him and their precious singing.
Merlot swirled in his glass, "And you've relived it recently?"
Another shrug, "It used to comfort me when I was that age," a fond smile was encased in slight bitterness.
Another couple of bites later he asked, "And now? Does it provide comfort?" he was still twirling his goblet, the liquid like dark waves on rising up the sides.
Was this a test? Her mind was tired of games, never knowing when he was still playing. Assessing, creating conclusions and using the information against her.
Christine had never understood chess, but she knew the feeling of being a pawn.
"Now it does, in a different way," she said, cutting off the conversation. Why should she elaborate?
Erik set the glass down softly, the liquid settling once more.
"We shall just have to catch up tomorrow," he murmured, ceasing the inquisition and turning to the subject of singing. Her heartbeat returned to its normal rate and she replied genially in the affirmative.
For now, her secret was safe.
When the plate lay clean before her, she chose instead of flitting away upstairs to avoid anymore time with him, or rising stiffly to the lounge, her fingers lay neatly in her lap.
His surprise was quickly covered with a cough, "Desert, my dear?"
Her head inched up, a little thrill at the thought of indulging in something decadent. Now she could actually taste things, could almost…relax, like tiny curls of tension slackening around her heart. Even Erik's stare didn't bother her as much tonight.
Not when she thought of the peaceful thing that existed upstairs. Now she wouldn't have to always rely on her memory. Memories always faded.
"Yes, please," the words came out hesitantly.
"Allow me a moment, Cherie," the shadow unfolded from his seat, gliding from the room with little more than a whisper. When the door shut, she slumped in her chair, back pushing against it in a very un-Erik like way, knees tucking up on the edge of the seat, with her head lolling backwards.
Staring at the white textured ceiling, she studied the jewels of the chandelier and the glow that cast curling shadows within the room. From within her heart felt heavy, tied down from an unknown force. Though it didn't feel as tight or as tense as usual, it was still there lurking. But her mind, it floated. Still reeling slightly from the day of finally being able to indulge on creativity and imagination. Just a day for herself.
To imagine Erik having no responsibilities, having money at his will – it seemed appealing. His temper had driven others away, she was sure. But then, the image of his hands flashed in her mind. Bony, thin with joints protruding at the knuckles, yellowish and awfully long.
What was his face like? Sallow? Malnourished and pale? Even the image she could conjure couldn't be so terrible to wear a mask for. No. It must be his identity. He was a criminal and she knew that those ghastly digits had dealt death before she had seen it with poor poor Joe. Erik's very way of living screamed criminal, yet Christine had always thought that it was a very rare chance she would meet one as dangerous as he.
Let alone start a …fascination in him that would become her undoing. To be trapped in the English country-side for the rest of her life, with a madman who swore her love was all he needed.
The madman who had become so close to discovering what lay within. How he had tried yanking and brutally pulling at the seams of her shell, before coaxing it with warmth, tenderness and …something she had no comprehension of.
Music.
His music.
The most soul lifting, gut wrenching, beautifully tragic, melodies that slipped through the cracks into the dying relic of herself. Passing the seams of her shell that had smashed against the rocks. Music which had lifted the remaining pieces to begin to weave together again into a tapestry.
She didn't owe him anything. She was independent…
Her eyes fluttered shut. No. No she wasn't. She was still learning how to try, how to live. Had Erik helped that? To know her path, to know her destiny?
Did destiny even exist?
"I wonder where you go, when you dream like that," his voice melodic with tenderness, as she saw his shape in the dim hallway entering the room. Tender? Erik? Did she really think that?
So many questions, her mind sighed.
Slipping from her casual repose, she straightened as Erik drew nearer. The plate he held even had a cloche on.
There was something so eager in his demeanour as he set it down before her in a flourish, fingers curling in the way she had seen when he acted the 'Magician'.
She smelt it before she saw it. The scent was too much, too much of a recent memory.
No.
Why was it with everything he did remind her of a time gone past?
Leaning forward, his hand whisked off the steel dome, pride shining from every inch of him.
"I trust that you recognise it?" Warm. His voice seemed so warm.
"Toscakaka," she whispered, feeling tears try to prickle the corners of her eyes.
No. No more crying.
She could remember her attempt at trying to make it when she was younger, using treacle (thinking it would be a good substitute), in her erroneous way making caramel. When the oven was then too high and how it was burnt around the edges, with her devious use of almonds to cover up such a mess sticking them on top; but forgetting to toast them beforehand.
How awful it was when Papa insisted he would eat a piece – because his little ange had made him his favoured desert for his birthday.
But even with his great acting skills, they both cringed when he took a single mouthful and spat it back out with a cough and grimaced at the charcoal lingering in the air.
How she had cried – cried so hard that she would never be like Mor - had wanted to continue with the practice that had weathered through decades of joys and laughter and tears. So many tears.
A dangling white handkerchief hovered in front of her, before she felt the faint press of it on her cheeks, along with the whiff of the leather of his gloves.
"Oh, Christine," he breathed, the startling kindness in his voice almost stunned her, the black mask coming into view with his thin pale lips. Her jaw clenched in the attempt to stop the pain that had flared in her chest, so unwieldly and unexpected. Her hand reached out to clasp Erik's, finding steadiness on the firmness of his muscles beneath his shirt coat.
A plea whimpered in her throat and she found her chair being pulled out, grinding softly against the carpet. Christine felt Erik kneel before her, his height allowing him to reach her head in equal measure.
"Dearest girl, please calm yourself," he soothed, caressing a delicate curl before brushing it away from her wet cheek. Carefully unwinding her hands from their tight grip on the edge of her top, he clasped them with his fingers making soothing circles on her skin.
Her eyes found a kind of focus on them, ignoring the scent of it wafting around, until her heart was pumping in steady beats and her skin was tingling from the sensation of his digits on her hands for an extended period of time.
Thinking about it – this had been the longest time they had ever touched. But before she had time to reach a conclusion on exactly what she felt, his voice beckoned her to follow, leading her with one of his hands clasped around hers.
And she followed blindly.
Welp, that was a long chapter! It feels wayyy too long since I posted…My sincere apologies, I did truly have a plan to finish sooner, alas…there's a thing called life that gets in the way with that.
By the way, isn't 'alas' a great word? I always hear it in a male sottish accent weirdly. (don't ask XD)
Mor is mother in Swedish – I checked twice :)
I find it really hard to portray Christine's relationship with her father well – with the emotional side of things. I've been going through the wringer with that sort of thing at the moment so to imagine such a relationship seems such a beautifully far-fetched idea to me. It hurts, but sometimes writing can be just as cleansing for you as an author as you imagine your characters developing! And sometimes it just hurts.
If you look it up, the desert in question is actually a sort of caramel almond cake that looks de-lish! Well, apart from the almonds…I may seem kinda nutty, but I am nut a fan. Haha, get it? Nut and not?
Ah well, I am pretending I am not hearing your groans.
I adore the Christmas season, but I do not adore no heating, so fingers crossed that my heating returns soon! (I am currently huddled under a very large and fluffy blanket).
Also, no promises of a Christmas oneshot special. Who knows which Erik and Christine may appear? ;) Let's just hope my Christmas muse awakens from its yearly nap.
Who has an idea of what Christine painted? What about her sass in standing up to Erik and calling him out on his not-so-nice 'teaching tactics'? Anyone fancy a special pair of Leroux branded scissors? XD
P.s that is a reference to what happens in one translation of the Leroux original where Christine steals a pair of scissors to end her life. However, since I've not been able to read that version – nor know how to access the English one with that bit included, my knowledge is sourced by other fanfics with that information! I thought that with this modern take, it was a nice parallel. Also, don't ever try to take a manicure set in your hand luggage on a plane. Big mistake, I can tell you. XD
Not that I'll be going anywhere this Christmas…:(
Anyway, once again a big thanks to my reviewers from previously: Chevesic, TheTenthMuseSappho, Laurenvbellado and Batty Dings! Big hugs, Christmas mulled wine to everyone! (or just juice for the underaged haha) XD
Or mice pies. Lots of mince pies…Yum. As long as Erik doesn't steal all of them, I'm happy.
Welcome any newbies, seeing a lot of views so thanks for the attention - ahem may I draw your attention to the little review box that welcomes any praise you would feel generous enough to give?
Thanks for listening to my rambling as always,
Enigma