Her Goodbye – Chapter 20
There was a great deal of anticipation during the next day; their flight was booked to depart that afternoon. Christine had found out from Erik that he had been making arrangements for their trip when she had sought him out yesterday. After breakfast, which had been a helping of toast and strawberries neatly placed on the side, Clarice ran her a bath.
Would there be a shower in the suite? Oddly, Christine longed for the comforting spray that had often been her method of washing. There would have been music: the pounding of the droplets upon her skin, the music blaring from her phone from outside the cubicle. But she had been forced to be content with the silence and the abrupt movements she made within the water.
She had often sung acapella in these new routinely 'bathing times', to replace what she had lost. The acoustics of the room was used to combat the gentle lapping of water.
Those tiny waves had never been enough to calm her. Not truly. The only ones able to soothe her soul were the ones ruled by the tide, foaming tempests rolling onto sand. Free and beautiful, rather than those captive in a porcelain cage.
Waves were nature's music, Erik would say. Christine was inclined to agree with him.
Slipping from her bathtub into clothes that were comfortable for travelling, Christine spared a glance around the room, eyes settling on the forlorn teddy slouching on the dressing table.
"I'm not abandoning you, I swear," she whispered.
Christine exited her room without a backwards glance.
God, she was relieved to be free of those depressing yellow walls.
Christine made a stop by her studio, peering inside to see her only painting facing away from her. There was little way to hide the painting, other than tucking it into the sparse room's corner with the wheeled cabinet that held her palette and brushes within. The top of the canvas just peeked out from behind.
It was enough. Christine gulped. At least…She hoped so.
Though it was unlikely anyone was going to snoop, she had an instinct to protect it from all harm that may come its way. It was a piece of her heart, canvas or not.
Backing out of the room, she said goodbye to it as well. Albeit, more fondly.
Descending the stairs, it was a perplexing sight to see her suitcase standing proudly by the door. Faintly, a sense of contentment spread throughout her, as if she was going to return home after a long time away.
Of course, it would be France instead of America. But Christine refused to acknowledge the difference.
Christine propped her carry-on on top of her suitcase, while noticing another next to hers. Impossibly, it was an even darker shade of black. In addition it was taller, slimmer and a red strap was wrapped around its middle.
It was Erik's.
Raoul's suitcase was navy, with a symbol of his hockey team he played for emblazoned on the front of it. He had chuckled about this when they stopped to buy new luggage after their escape from the catastrophe that was Il Muto. They cheapest suitcases available had been a pair Mickey and Minnie Mouse ones.
At the time, she thought it was a sign of their relationship was 'meant-to-be'…That they would have kept them and years later when they would get them down from the attic their kids would giggle at their battered childish cases. How they would share a look and tell their children of their dashing elopement, with just the clothes on their backs (and the cash on Raoul's credit card), they had escaped their home to find a new life. Together.
Alas, circumstances changed.
Brought back to reality, Christine passed the cases and lobby, marble tiles turning to carpet as she stepped into the threshold of the corridor.
Her ears caught a rising melody flowing from a piano, lonely without a listener. She found herself being reeled in, lead closer and closer until she halted in front of the door. Her eyelashes fell shut, unable cease her body's instinct to sway to such a melody.
Trickling notes rose and fell, a decrescendo that left her empty and wanting, but then rapidly accelerated in pace and pitch. Discordant, staccato, harsh, cruel, teasing…
Until it became soft…
Sensual.
Tentative, the first few notes were, like the fluttering glances of two coy partners. Christine could almost feel the burn splaying itself across her. Daring, flourishes of sonorous notes falling into harmony with the higher octave. Notes began circling one another, twisting…Entangling, the lower melody twining deeper down the scale.
Heat spread across her cheeks, sweat beading across the back of her neck, as she instinctively pressed herself against the door.
It became fervent, a musician who sought to fly. It dared to be passionate, a man signing his soul to the devil. Paying anything and everything for a chance at joy.
Fingers caressed her spine, cold stinging heat cradled her head. Wanting, the door was too harsh compared to the thrill ghosting her chest. Growing, there was too much fire burning on the panes of her body.
Smooth kisses danced across her throat, circling, drinking from her as a starving man would, promising so much, asking for so little. Questing fingers descended from her face to her breastbone, sending waves of tingles across her face, phantom touches she remembered, could feel as if they were truly there.
Need, desire, want…The want of more. More.
More!
When the crash of a fist upon keys and a sudden cry of anguish that was so raw it hurt her ears, Christine stumbled backwards.
The trance broken.
All that remained were her ragged breathing. Petrified that she would be heard, with a clammy hand she desperately tried to muffle herself, the other trying to stabilise herself against the door.
Oh god, why had he been playing something so…So…Erotic?
Christine shuddered, wondering if she would have time to run back to her room to change clothes that weren't saturated in perspiration.
However, the thought was dashed as footsteps pounded down the marble lobby. Christine ducked into the corner, body curling inward, frantically hoping she wouldn't be caught eavesdropping.
Clarice flashed in front of her, ginger braids flying with panic as she swept inside to the music room, slamming the door shut.
The French she heard was so rapid Christine could barely translate it all, rushing back towards the door and pressing her ear to it.
"Monsieur! Monsieur! I heard your cry, are you pained?"
Erik's voice boomed, powerful and unyielding, "Foolish girl! How dare you enter when you hear such music? Such music is not for you!" Christine jumped when another crash of notes erupted.
"But it is past dawn, Monsieur! She is already awake, likely to hear such music. You commanded me to warn you –"
Clarice sounded almost in tears.
"Hush," Erik breathed softly, "Hush, petite,"
An unknown emotion twisted in Christine's gut at the tenderness in his voice. It was wrong. He was talking wrong. This was Clarice. The mute.
Not her.
Was Erik stroking the girl's braids now, like he almost did to her? Was he being gentle as he did with her when trying to placate her own wrath?
And why, oh why did it feel so antagonising?
Christine clenched her fists, needing something to sink her claws into.
Muffled sounds of sniffling, a whispered 'Merci' (that Christine hoped was not because he gave her his handkerchief), continued until they too died down.
Erik coughed, breaking the silence, "I had not known it was dawn. It was poor timing, I suppose,"
Christine knew this was as near as an apology as the girl would get, the first time recognising the same pattern of behaviour repeated with another. Another sting at the centre of her chest told her how awful it was the maid had worked such favour with him. Christine blinked back to reality as she heard Erik's voice.
"Is she…Awake?" Erik hedged.
"Oui, she was preparing her carry-on, Monsieur. Her eyes are wide, but not sad," the girl paused, tentatively adding, as if a fearful doe, "France will be good for you, yes?"
Erik perhaps nodded, (she at least imagined him closing his eyes for a moment), "Perhaps your home country will give her all the good she deserves. If not, there are at least decent operas there I am sure she will enjoy," Erik sighed, muttering almost undiscernibly, "If nothing else,"
"Do not lose hope, Monsieur. She will come around soon,"
Erik scoffed, "Go, girl. I have little use chatting obscenely. Attend to your duties as usual when I leave,"
Hearing padding steps, Christine shuffled away from the door, backing into the corner again.
"Oh, should she ready, send her here. We shall have a singing lesson before we depart," Erik added.
The door to the music room swung open, revealing Clarice once more.
When Clarice's green orbs twisted to see her, expectant, Christine froze in horror.
Clarice had known her to be there the entire time.
Christine expected to be told off, perhaps, yanked away and scolded in 'mute' that she was terrible for listening to Erik's passionate and private composition, but the girl just jutted her head towards the music room, giving her narrow-eyed once-over, before stalking away.
Christine waited before going in, for a moment, wishing for a mirror so she could see if there that wild look in her eyes, or whether she was as good an actress as it seemed.
Instead, she wiped away the sweat from her brow, tucked a strand of hair behind an ear and peeled off her knitted cardigan (Erik would be caught dead before he would provide her with an article of clothing more casual than that), before finally knocking on the door.
"Enter, Christine,"
Erik was at his piano, in his usual repose, as if the storm had never passed. It caught her off guard. She had half expected him turned away from her, cold and temper unhinged.
But this…Coolness that he had always excluded in their lessons was unnerving.
"Good morning Erik," she murmured, the ever-dutiful student as she walked to the music stand that awaited her with sheet music stood upon it. He had insisted from their very beginning that she would read off proper music, rather than just mere lyrics. She had needed to understand all that music was, not only the necessary piece.
It had been valuable, she knew. When others had been fumbling with their new scores at the theatre, Christine had deftly navigated it.
Examining the page, her eyebrow quirked in surprise, "A new piece?"
It was much more than that, a conclusion made with the leather-bound folder the music had been adeptly fitted with.
Erik's orbs flittered to her for a moment, before settling upon the piano, "You need not worry about that for now,"
Christine's protestations were bit back by Erik's bark of, "Scales," and had already begun to play. In order to keep with Erik's demanding pace, she was forced to keep her questions silent and open her mouth to emit peerless notes instead.
Her exercises continued longer than expected, Erik's harsh drilling pushing her to reach both upper and lower ends of the scales she had conquered, relentlessly, until he allowed her a reprieve.
Desperately, Christine desired to know what lay within the confines of the folder, yet each time she had snuck a glance at it, Erik's bold glare drew her back in. Now, given the opportunity to sip at her water, her fingers slipped the cover open.
Dark red ink, in curving script, stated 'Περσεφόνη'.
Christine squinted, trying to recognise the language it had come from, but to no avail.
"What language is this?" she asked her tutor, who was idly tinkering at the ivories.
He shrugged, "It is of no importance,"
Brow furrowing, she read the word again, "Is this Latin? It seems older than that," she muttered.
"If you must know, Child, it is Greek," he huffed, mask solemn, "Now, have you finished?" Erik gave a pointed glance to her half-empty glass.
Caught red-handed, Christine nodded meekly returning the glass to the table between the armchairs in the room.
"Now, this piece of music is new. It is an artist you have not studied before and will challenge your range. You would have noticed that your exercises this morning have prepared you for this," his voice glided softly.
Christine nodded, scanning the page for the artist's name and hoping to quash the hopeful dread that it might be the musician sitting before her.
She had never touched his work before; read over his shoulder as he played, snuck to his piano to see the music perched on the stand, sniffed around piles of thick paper the colour of parchment…But never once had she the opportunity to sing from his expertise.
His divine music, a musical paragon, to worship as one would a deity.
Music that would rival Apollo and his lyre. Christine supposed Erik's form of lyre would be his violin.
Erik cleared his throat and Christine bowed her head in apology at being caught with her attention wondering twice in one morning. If she was caught one more time Erik would begin an inquisition.
"Ready to begin?" he drawled, earning a sheepish smile from her.
"Yes, please continue," she replied, meekly chastised.
She was rewarded with a harrumph and a suspicious shift-of-the-mask before Erik began to play the introduction.
Thankfully, the lines were not in Greek. Instead, they were French. How much it was a coincidence that they were going to France that very afternoon, she wasn't sure.
The intro was longer than she had anticipated, which she was grateful for. Whenever she learned a new song, Erik would play it through on the piano, or violin if it suited the piece. He would often sing it through, (it had at first been an alien sensation to hear his voice without seeing lips moving), but would guide her on the phrases or parts of the song until competition.
Contrary to her first expectations, Erik never rushed her to sing in a furious pace. The reason behind it was that he would be able to focus on all the faults in each part she sang, allow her to go through the entire song once before they worked through it. Though at first, she would most likely: breathe in the wrong places; forget to open her mouth wide enough – he said that it was because her 'confidence' immediately decreased when attempting a new song – and other numerous faults she had long ago memorised. It had been useful to go through the entire song since it gave her an idea where it was heading. Erik had told her that singing a new song but not being allowed to sing it to completion, was like wading through a swamp in the dark.
He had said it with such a conviction that Christine thought he had done such a thing once, but couldn't allow such deviation from the topic to press for an answer.
She most likely would receive a non-comital reply anyway.
As Erik had warned earlier, the song was not easy. Though it started small, her voice guided by the piano, it grew in power and her path was forged with fighting against the piano with each measure, until the crescendo of the song, where they both fell in harmony.
But it ended with the piano dying away, with her last note left terribly alone.
Christine knew, thanks to some of Erik's education and her own knowledge, that most operas were often in love triangles, involving deceit and complicated scenarios where one group outwitted another. Sometimes, the result was disastrous.
Though the composition was tragically beautiful, it spoke of a freedom she would never acquire. It hurt more than it should have, she knew.
It was just a song! Reminding herself of that during the lesson was not enough, because Erik demanded the opposite from her. With each time Christine tried to distance herself from the song, Erik noticed her voice potency waning and tried to coax her into submission.
After an hour and a half of nit-picking, mostly directed at her lack of passion rather than technique, Erik banged his fist onto the keys in frustration, discordant notes blaring harshly. Taking in a deep breath, Erik composed himself once more, the anger that Christine had just flinched at, disappearing within moments.
Erik levelled his gaze at her, "Christine, what do you think this song means?"
It was a tactic he hadn't tried before and it caught her off guard. Often, he told her what it meant, or confirmed that she knew its lore or part within the show, but had never asked her directly. Not like this. In the past he would use metaphors and brought the emotion through her from words igniting memories.
It felt like he was telling her that she would do it by herself this time.
He would no longer place boundaries on her own interpretation or guide her in how it was explicitly performed decades ago. As if this was a new piece that was only hers to direct. The power was both a heavy responsibility and an intoxicating prospect.
"Whatever you decide shall not be considered wrong, my dear. What you feel comes from deep within and no one can dispute what you say,"
Not even I, were his unspoken words.
Her fingers went to fiddle with a loose strand of fabric on her sleeve, "It sounds…Like a battle,"
"Go on," he prompted softly, amber orbs urging her to continue.
"Maybe two people arguing?" she swallowed the dryness away, "A man – the piano – and a girl, no woman – the singer – is fighting against the man. They reach a pinnacle of the argument and then fall into, I don't know, peace? But then the man 'goes away' and the woman is left by herself," her explanation felt rudimentary at best.
But Erik's stare flickered with pride.
"Very good," he whispered.
Christine quickly realised her host could slip from amicable to deadly in moments, but she hadn't realised that the same rule would apply when it came down to taste in music. For lack of better things to do (and because Erik wasn't pressing her for a music lesson as of yet), Christine started to browse his small collection of books within the living room of his home.
The place of where the TV should stand was glaringly obvious. Christine desperately wanted to be able to settle down in the corner of the sofa and flick through the channels. Her captivity was boring without it. Perhaps she had taken both her phone and TV for granted. No, she definitely had. Even when Meg and Mary-Anne had both chipped in to buy her one, she had been determined never to undervalue it. Yet…It had soon become a part of her everyday life, like another piece to the jigsaw.
It seemed as if shunning her phone for Raoul was now a permanent consequence.
Ideally, a television would brighten up the dim-lit home and create an ambience that was something other than silence or supplicated with idle humming. It would at least make the hole a bit more welcoming, rather than be something of a fossil in modern times.
Christine had noticed the fridge was sleek new model, which meant that Erik had got internet somewhere to order one online or had not worn the mask and had walked into your average shop to buy one.
Just because he had a mask, didn't mean that he couldn't take it off, she chided herself. The guy isn't one of those horror killers where their face is allergic to air or something.
She stopped, fingers pausing on the spine of a book.
Unless…that could actually be Erik's illness! He could be double purposing the mask as protection from the air, preventing her from discovering his identity. She would be none the wiser.
Clever bastard.
"Do you see something you like?" Erik's voice drifted to her.
Aiming to not let Erik see her flinch, Christine turned abruptly, feeling her body draw nearer the bookcase as she caught his stare.
She shrugged, changing topic, "Why don't you have a television?"
Erik's head titled, replying smoothly, "I have never seen the need,"
"That doesn't mean they're useless," she replied steely, thinking about all the things she had learned from the documentaries she'd recorded.
He replied with a shrug.
"So, you don't have any tech?" she hedged.
Erik chuckled, sauntering over to his grand chair, slipping into it as if he was king, "I realise it may be a surprise, but I am unlikely to give secrets away. Especially when they are only going to be used against me," he gave her a pointed look.
Christine deflated, irked that he had seen right through her. Crossing her arms and leaning against the bookcase, she retorted, "Are you really surprised? One does not simply kidnap a girl because they skimped on a lesson,"
Resting his chin on interlaced fingers, he glanced up at her, "Is this what you truly wish to discuss right now, Christine?"
She shivered, "What do you mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean," he snapped, the placidity gone, "I tire of your trivial lying. I have half a mind to retire and come back out when you've been left fending for yourself for a couple of days…In the dark," his eyes shone with an ugly gleam, "I wonder if you'll be begging for my company then,"
There was no bluff in his words. She shuddered against the bookcase, making no attempt to hide it.
I'll never want your company, she vowed.
Christine shuddered from the memory, soothing away the worry lines with her fingertips that she could feel forming.
"My dear, are you nearly done? We must be out the door within the next ten minutes to not be late," Erik's voice echoed to her.
Wiping her fingers on the towel, Christine exited the bathroom, meekly walking to the foyer where Erik was bending to tie his shoes.
It was an odd sight to see him to be so domesticated and rarer for him to be smaller than she.
"I'm here," she greeted, eyes flicking to the door. Soon.
Erik rose, his body uncoiling and fingers reaching for her coat. She allowed him to help her put it on, the tender care of which he did so filling her with a sense of peace.
It reminded her of how Papa had done it for her as a child. But Erik did not come round to press his lips to her forehead.
Christine left the coat undone, knowing that she might have to slip it off in the car ride.
To the airport. Where dozens of planes were transporting people across the world. Was Raoul on one this very moment coming to rescue her?
"Are we going to Heathrow airport?" she asked tentatively, looking around for her suitcase and carry-on.
Erik chuckled at the look that was all too clear in her eyes, "My dear, as much as I would love to say so, my lips are sealed," he sobered at the sight of her disappointment, "If it means so much to you, we will come back via Heathrow,"
Christine couldn't help but bite down a smile that rose at his leniency – dare she think it - obliging tone.
A trickle of hope warmed her heart.
If I can convince him like this, it means I am not as powerless as I used to be.
The smile faded, have I really been powerless this entire time? The thought poked at her sharply, but Christine shook it off.
Erik's voice became a touch softer, "Our bags are tucked within the car and carry-ons stashed in the stairwell. There is no need to look so worried,"
Unable to reply suitably, she remained silent and followed Erik to the doors. Clarice, she realised, was hovering nearby. By the tension in her frame, Christine was almost sad to be leaving the little maid all by herself.
Nonsense! I hate her, I hate her…
Her lips turned down. The words did not settle as easily now.
Clarice found her eyes, green and blazing, sending her a message she couldn't decipher.
What are you telling me?
But as soon as it came it disappeared, in a haze of disappointment. Clarice gave a silent sigh, eyeing her forlornly, which was missed by Erik as he plucked a stray hair from his coat.
"Shall we go, mon Cherie?"
Christine gave one last glance to the elegant marble lobby. The spiralling staircase in the corner where she stepped down the first time to be given a tour by Erik, the corridor leading to the lounge where they had shared evenings of art and storytelling. The little front window where she had run to in order to see outside her prison. The music room which they had spent lessons pushing her to the heights and at last, had soared free of the world he had created.
The back garden where she had met her little butterfly.
Throat closing, Christine turned to him and nodded.
He offered his hand.
Hand, not elbow.
How people in the real world showed affection. Closeness. Friendship. Love.
Love.
Taking a deep breath in, she closed her fingers around his glove.
His hand gave the slightest tremor, before she was walking out of the door.
Twisting around, she saw Clarice stand there.
Their eyes met.
Clarice mouthed one word to her, giving the smallest shake of her head.
Don't.
It was the same type of car, as always. Black. Sleek. Elegant.
So very Erik.
The pikes of the gates pierced the sky, as Christine was helped into the car. Erik had his chauffeur, who she glimpsed a brief look at, but he was not one she recognised. After she had looked into the face of the first dead-eyed lackey, they had all seemed to merge together. She wished she could ask how many men Erik had in his employ, but it would be a fruitless endeavour.
Perhaps one day, when he trusted her more. Christine dreaded that momentous occasion, yet it would come. Remained tied to his side through blackmail until Mama Valerious died…And after that? He'd find someone else. Someone like Raoul.
The knowledge weighed on her like a death sentence.
Erik settled down on his side of the car, thumping his fist against the side of the door, signalling that they were ready to begin their journey. She flinched at the sudden sound.
They juddered forward, as the tires struggled for purchase on the pebbles underneath, before they reached to the road that started at the end of the drive.
Christine was allowed the freedom of viewing the estate as they travelled down the hill. It was disconcerting to see the path they had walked upon when they had headed out for an evening pass them by. Still, she was once again forced to view the property in an admiring light as the heavens bathed his kingdom in warmth. Before they moved entirely out of sight of the Erik's behemoth home, Christine looked through her window.
It was still beautiful. The pewter building with its Jane Eyre ivy and curving arches. All the lines of lampposts and lion-embossed knocker door.
Goodbye.
Even the homes of the gardener, Clarice and Heather looked like simple havens. Christine assigned the squatter cottage to Heather and the white-washed cottage with the blue-painted-fence to Clarice.
Goodbye.
She thought of the chime-garden as they passed the lavender fields that surrounded them on both sides. Her eyes sought the top, where the oak tree and the swing shadowed the fields.
Goodbye.
They went further – the orchards were zipping by.
Too fast. She wanted to freeze time, to stop and watch the memory of them walking down the lines of those trees, where he told her of how Zeus had borne the God of wine and madness himself. How she had forgotten for a while that Erik was not her mad captor, but a man who loved to share his music and his world. How she had forgotten all the worries she carried for the intoxication that was his voice.
Goodbye.
Further now, they were heading to the distance where she had almost been turned to ashes. Fear crept along her veins, waiting for them to hit it, to hear the sizzle of the dome cut the car in two.
Words froze and she looked pleadingly to Erik.
He seemed to sense her concern, "Do not fret, do you not think me anything but prepared?"
She barely heard him as they continued to sail forward, forward. The car accelerated as the hill rose, higher and higher, until they reached the top. Erik's hand twitched from the corner of her eye, fingers stretching before curling up and repeating in rapid succession.
As if trying to grasp onto something slipping away.
Christine felt the scream rise in her throat as they started to descend down the hill, nausea swirling in her stomach. Squeezing her eyes shut, she wrapped her arms around herself, waiting for the barrier to stop them.
But nothing stopped the car from moving forward. For the road to smooth once again as they finally left the reach of Erik's domain.
"You can open your eyes now, Christine," Erik murmured. It was painful to hear sorrow in his voice.
Did he know now how much that thing had scared her?
"Breathe slowly," he advised as she twisted around in her seat, staring out of the back window trying to pinpoint where the forcefield would be if it had been 'on'. Leather was slick on her fingers.
She couldn't find it. It all looked the same. A long road from home.
Goodbye.
It was half an hour into their dull car ride before Erik produced a book from the confines of his coat. Her gaze had grown bored of the fields, trees and rape plants that grew within them. Still, he had given her half an hour, whether out of respect or her apparent satisfaction, she couldn't much care. Half an hour told her as much that fields, lone roads and occasional cars were all she was going to see.
Part of her just wished to stop the car now and run until she came across a village and beg them to fly her to America.
"Are you interested in me reading the Hobbit my dear, or are you content?"
His gentle prod confirmed that he had been watching her. Part of her wished for that wilful ignorance she had just moments ago.
She nodded, looking to the privacy screen erected between them and the driver.
Was it bullet proof?
It didn't matter, even if she could squirm into the front seat, she'd have a skilled murder and a likely trained man to contend with. Unarmed, no less.
And if she tried to escape, she would be sent back to the hell hole she'd just escaped. With rules even tighter and the glares of the servants back in full force.
No, there was truly nothing she could do but enjoy what she could and pretend. Pretend she was here on her free will, on a fancy holiday all paid for by her gentle music teacher.
And hope that she'd have a chance to win her freedom. Or that with each trip they made, she would become more trusted in Erik's eyes. Perhaps after years, Erik would make a mistake and she'd run. Run far, far away.
That she'd appear on one of those documentaries they'd make on previous hostages of unstable individuals. Tell her story on a program that only a few people would bother to watch and a topic of interest that would last only a few minutes in conversation.
Soon, Erik's silver voice filled the air, recounting the journey of Bilbo, the dwarfs and Gandalf in vivid detail.
They made a brief stop to a petrol station mid-journey, much to Erik's annoyance. Acquiescing to Erik's demand that she raise the blind reluctantly, she hunkered down to wait. Until a thought struck. A shiver raced through her.
Toilet. There were toilets!
Christine prepared a meek voice, "Erik, I'm really sorry, but I have to –"
"Use the lavatories?" Erik finished in a sardonic voice.
She sighed, turning to him earnestly, "Is it that surprising? I just want to be with other people, pretend things are normal. Surely you can understand that?"
Erik sighed, his fingers drumming as they played out his thoughts, "Can you not wait until the airport? I do not wish to be delayed,"
She wet her lips, stopping the urge to take his hand in order to soften his affections. The gesture would only pit him against her.
"Erik, please, I'll be good," the whisper was so true that it hurt, "Trust me,"
His pained yellow orbs met hers, "How I wish it were so,"
Don't.
Don't fight.
Christine tried not to feel the tears gathering in her eyes, knowing how ridiculous it seemed to be fighting over being allowed to visit the toilets, to walk a few feet to the store, to sit in a cubicle for a few minutes, then turn around and walk back. How all those months ago, she had sought safety in the toilets away from his gaze and never thought twice that she would be begging to have that freedom now.
How important it was to have that right.
Give up.
"Fine," she gritted out, hating how tears streaked her voice.
"Christine –" Erik's mask shifted, the beard fluttering over his lips.
"No it's ok," she scoffed, "I don't know how it will work out in France when I'm not allowed to leave the room, but ah well. It's not like it's an actual holiday or anything,"
What a fool, to think that it could be anything else but an orchestrated fantasy.
"Christine –" Erik whispered, "I cannot trust that you will not betray me once more,"
"You have my friend, in your 'care' and you still believe that I would endanger her by misbehaving? Wow, do you really not know me?" she couldn't help the bite in her words, glancing towards the shop.
Yet the way Erik stilled was worth every word and he said very carefully, "Very well, Christine. I will allow you ten minutes to go from here to the toilets and back,"
"Twenty. I'm hungry,"
Erik's incredulous gaze snapped to hers, narrowing to angry rings, "You bargain for more and test my patience, child? Matthew will get your sweets and escort you each way,"
Christine raised her head, feeling the power course through her veins, "Give me the money instead and have the watchdog escort me. I want to be able to spend it myself,"
Erik's cold tone did little to take her victory away, "Fifteen minutes then," he reluctantly agreed, "You may choose your form of sustenance. Be warned, I do not tolerate disobedience well, should you take your chances your friend will-"
"Don't Erik," she cringed, "I have already imagined it all in my head,"
He quieted, appearing satisfied at her reaction.
Mathew the chauffeur returned a few minutes later, his grizzled appearance sending shivers down her spine. He looked at her if she were nothing but a piece of meat. Erik allowed the man to open the car door before explaining to him what they had agreed on.
"Hold out your hand, my dear,"
She obeyed and Erik placed a note there, "It's English money, Christine. It should cover all you should require,"
Nodding, Christine slipped it into her pocket of her jeans.
Mathew opened the door for her, as slight breeze ruffled her hair. It was a welcome sensation. Though that peace was quickly whipped away by the man lumbering beside her. How terribly out of place she felt, let alone the expensive car that they had come from; it put all others to shame.
When they reached the outside of the shop, the hulk stopped.
"Will wait outside," his polish accent did nothing to soften his English, "Eyes will be on you all time," he narrowed his gaze, pointing to his watch, "Have fifteen minutes. Go,"
Shrinking, she scurried inside, heart hammering.
Normal. Act normal. As if it didn't seem like some weird hostage film and she was the insignificant figure being held for ransom.
A mother with a toddler was walking down the aisle, weighing out a packet of crisps and cookies. The kid stopped and began to ogle all the sweets in the vending machine. Stubby fingers tried to reach the buttons on the keypad, reminding her off all the treats she had been given when travelling miles at a time.
It was such a sweet little sight; how beautifully mundane those lives where. How ungrateful she had been to overlook that.
When she was free, Christine knew that she would never take her freedom for granted ever again.
Pulling the note out of her pocket and looking at the vending machine, she was pleased to see that the note was able to be accepted.
Going up to the woman, she cleared her throat, "Um, excuse me?"
"Yeah?" the mother looked up, placing the pack of cookies in her basket and discarding the crisps.
"Can I get your child something from the vending machine? Please?" she gave her best smile.
The mother laughed, the dye job almost hiding the grey in her hair, "Has Tyrone asked you? Little tyke, he is,"
Christine shook her head, aware of the pressing time, "No, no, he just looked like he wanted some and I have some spare cash,"
The mother's eyebrow rose, "Knock yourself out,"
Christine grinned, heading to the vending machine only to stop and ask, "What's his favourite chocolate?"
"He likes Milkybar," the mother offered warily.
Christine looked down at the child, who was watching her with avid interest, "Do you want a Milkybar?"
Tyrone nodded, shy enough to stick his cardigan's sleeve in his mouth to chew on.
Feeding the note in the machine and tapping in the right code, the little boy watched with interest as it started to groan and how the spiral pushed out the bar. He seemed to bounce as the chocolate clattered to the bottom and Christine encouraged Tyrone to take it, holding the flap open.
His tiny hand reached in and plucked it out, giving her a toothy grin of thanks. Christine pocketed the change that plunked into the slot.
"What do you say, Tyrone?" her mother asked the boy who was already ripping into the bar.
"Thunk you," the boy said through a mouthful of chocolate. She desperately wished to reach out and touch the curls on his head, but he was already heading back to his mother.
You're welcome.
She left the kid and mother, quickly entering the toilets and heading to the basins. It was not clean nor particularly nice smelling, but splashing water on her face felt good, so good. Feeling the unfiltered water drip down her skin, cleansing her of the rose-tainted perfume that she had come to despise. It was a welcome sensation.
Her bladder was actually empty, yet she didn't want to leave. Even with the cracked tile walls and the seatless toilets, it was freer than Erik's mansion. Or Erik's car. Or Erik's fields.
There were no windows. Not that she'd even be able to get further than the next field. Trying would condemn both herself and Mama Valerious.
Sighing, she wiped away a drooping piece of hair. It was hard to avoid how she looked when the mirror stared back at her.
Did she look dead? Perhaps the bags had always been there, or her skin had always been that pale? Did her hair truly look that limp?
Christine could barely remember the old her.
Tearing her eyes away from the mirror she escaped the bathrooms, it no longer feeling like the refuge she so desired. Remembering her excuse for food, Christine grabbed a chocolate bar and a fizzy drink and dropped them on the counter. The man passed them through, barely looking at her.
"Four fifty please," his voice was monotone. She thanked him when she left holding her items. The smile had been genuine.
Though her alone time with a few people had been little (far too little in her opinion), she comforted herself that she had made a child happy with Erik's money.
Mathew was glaring at her when she exited, but she didn't pay him any attention. She had taken longer than fifteen minutes most likely and dared to use Erik's money for something that she hadn't gotten permission to do, yet she didn't feel remorse.
No, it was the exact opposite.
Pride.
"You were three point four minutes later than we agreed upon," Erik snipped as she re-entered the car.
"Well I'm here now, safe and sound," she replied curtly as she clipped her seatbelt in, "You could have seen us better if you had gotten out of the car,"
"You know perfectly well why that wasn't possible, Christine," Erik all but hissed, fists tightening as they lurched out of the petrol station.
She arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms, "Oh, so you're a wanted felon here too?"
Erik blinked at her, "No. My only crime is not experiencing what the English call their 'Bangers and mash',"
Confusion was all too clear on her face, even as she tried to work out what he meant.
Why couldn't he go outside? It wasn't like he was going to cause a stampede at the very sight of him.
Then she realised what he meant, "Of course, I know. You can't reveal your identity to me, can you? How could I forget?" Christine gave a grim laugh.
Erik was silent for a moment, eyes dimming in the dank light of the car, "Indeed,"
They sat in the shadowed light until Erik breached the silence softly, "What made you give a gift to that child?"
Christine's heart seized, knowing he had seen her interaction with the mother after all. Scratching her neck absently, she tried to remain casual, "He looked hungry,"
"Lying has never suited you, my dear,"
She winced, "Why are you asking me this?"
Did she have to pay him back for spending his money on the boy?
"I am merely curious as to why you would spend your given quota on an insignificant child," he huffed, "The least you could do is explain why,"
Christine gazed through the holes of the blind, avoiding his stare, "I just wanted to do something nice for the kid. He wanted a chocolate bar; I didn't think that making a kid smile was that offensive to you,"
Erik bristled, "The money I give is yours to do as you wish. I will not restrain you,"
Christine snorted at the irony.
"I am serious, Christine," Erik implored.
She shrugged, unable to say that what he promised her meant nothing.
Time slipped by minute by minute. The journey wasn't on the main roads, she could tell by the tight hedges and occasional swerve as another car darted by. Although they drove by a few rural hamlets that were not big enough to even be sign-posted and saw a pheasant or two, they didn't make anymore stops. After passing hilly area, he offered to read her more of the Hobbit. However, after he was declined, Erik requested the music to be turned on.
Mathew had good taste, as the music was calming and lulled her mind into contemplative haze for the rest of the journey. However, as she noticed the roads becoming wider and more populated, Erik's stiffening posture made the music loose its calamity.
Erik turned to her gravely, "I'm afraid my dear you will have to wear this until we reach the airport," he held a silken scarf.
A shudder ripped through her as she remembered the last time he had whipped out a scarf. The ringing phone, the slow creeping paralysis, the maniacal look dancing in his eyes. The fear that burrowed a hole in her heart. The face pressed to her knees.
She shrunk back into the corner, shaking her head. Her voice tremored, "Please, you don't have to that,"
Erik sighed, a pitying look entering his eyes, "I do not wish to, truly. I would like to pretend, but I cannot allow you to know our location,"
Christine blanched, "But – It's not like I'll be able to tell anyone,"
"I have already made up my mind, Christine," he replied, hands coming nearer.
She leaned away, the car door pressing into her back, "How am I going to be able to walk into the airport if I can't see?" Christine stalled.
Erik sighed, "I have already sorted such things out. It will be much easier if you submit now,"
She shook her head vigorously, putting her feet up on the seat to prevent Erik from slipping into the seat next to her.
Don't.
Erik eyed her shoes distastefully on the upholstery of his car, before he tried again in a strained voice, "It will not be for long," he unclipped his seatbelt and Christine felt her heart thud against her ribcage.
"Try to calm down," he placated, shuffling along the seat to where her shoes were. Unable to resist the initial reaction of drawing further, her shoes moved backwards to where they weren't able to touch.
Erik immediately took their place, before she could shoot them back out.
Panicking, she ducked her head into her squeezed legs, feeling the cut of the seatbelt against her neck and wrapping her arms over her head.
"Don't touch me!" she felt the looming presence of Erik above her.
"Please, Christine. I do not wish to force you," Erik murmured, "Do not try patience,"
Christine squeezed her arms around her head, sniffing, "Please don't – I hate not seeing. I hate it,"
"My beauty, do not be afraid, I will lead you well. Trust your Erik," he sounded so sincere that it broke something inside of her.
Tears trickled down her cheeks, as she raised her head slightly to view the creature who implored her with his eyes. With his heart.
"Just don't make it too tight," she whimpered, moving her legs off the seat but keeping her arms crossed against her chest.
Erik produced his handkerchief and she allowed him to dab at her cheeks, before a black film covered her vison.
Goodbye world.
A little question for you all…What do you think the teddy bear represents?
And…How did you like the music? ;)
Also, out of a music battle between Erik and Apollo, who would win? :P I have no clue. Ok, what about Orpheus? Erik vs Orpheus…Now *that* would be hella interesting to watch…And you'd need dozens of tissues to boot. I was going to read the Iliad, but it was so old that I couldn't get through the first chapter…Wonder if there's a Youtube Audiobook of it. I mean, it's an epic after all. The only other epic that I've heard of is the one Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote, with the albatross. Damn, one thing that must be learnt from that is NEVER KILL AN ALBERTROSS. (I mean, really don't kill 'anything' if you can help it. Apparently, karma sucks).
Also did you know that to 'harrumph' is a legitimate verb? Isn't that cool :O AND it originated around the 1930's according to Google's dictionary! (sorry, I may be a nerd, but I'm not stupid :P)
But doesn't 'harrumphing' sound hilarious?
I also had to look it up to spell it, but shhhhhh.
Anyway, I'm tired! I hope you enjoyed that chapter! :D Chapter 20! Woot woot!
Thank ye all kindly for your reviews! They truly made my day, your support is phenomenal! :P Thanks to: TheTenthMuseSappho, FreyaCodwell, cmisselt98, Chevesic, Qtkittee and last (but not least), HoursofMazenderan!
This chapter is longer because of all of you! :D
I think Christine is getting rather assertive and frankly, I'm pretty sure Erik's rather shocked! The scene where Christine goes into the shop is really what I found interesting. It's so amazing how to think she's been so deprived of interaction and find something like that so vital. Who knew that interacting with a shop clerk would be the highlight of someone's day :P
I wanted to make this chapter longer, but after fearing it will be too long (yes, in this series there is such a thing) and will take far too long to post if I delay it by two weeks, I will be hopefully posting the next chapter soon.
Wishing you guys all the best!
Merci,
Enigma.