Chapter 30 - Their Descent

No toothpaste. No watch. One bottle of water.

She hadn't stopped; the bathroom was the first place she hid. She couldn't quite understand why her hands wouldn't stop tremoring, as she unfolded a map of the airport, two plane tickets, two fake passports with their faces with different coloured wigs. Ginger bob for her, black ruffled hair for him – Raoul – and a red baseball cap. Before joining the theatre she'd never put on a wig, now she was thankful she'd had some experience. Though, it took several tries for her to tuck her hair into a neat enough bun, with only a couple of clips for errant strands, for the wig to sit decently. Ginger…Wasn't a good look on her. Made her pale skin sickly and she struggled not to itch the back of her neck from the coarse hair.

The tickets were for Italy, Rome and when she read the paperwork, it said that the PI – Nadir – would meet them on the other end... However, there was a note attached, 'If for any reason you are separated, use the ticket and aim to make your own way to the meeting point at the airport on the other side. If, however no one turns up within the hour, you must make your way to the safe house alone. Do not wait. More instructions will reside at the safe house.'

It had been hard enough to understand the airport with Erik the first time in those glasses, let alone by herself... Every few minutes Christine was twisted around, searching for black shapes, burning amber eyes. Navigating through security, dumping her half-drunk water and being uncomfortably searched by security guards. Finally escaping into duty free, snagging an overpriced set of clothes and a book from WHSmiths. Tearing off the dress, hopping barefoot on the plastic bag in the toilets into clothes. Folding up the costume. Ditching it at the bottom of a bin wrapped in the bag, heart clenching at the resounding thunk – how had it gone so wrong? – but the jewellery had been safely tucked away. With any luck she could go to a pawn shop in Rome and salvage some more Euros.

Christine had time to grab a coffee – hell she needed something to stabilise the dread churning in her stomach – and a brunch bar for the plane before the gate number was released. The trip itself was going to be short, something she was thankful for. From Rome she'd take the train to Capri, the forty-minute boat journey and then she'd call a taxi to take her to the safe house. Perhaps it had been one of the places Nadir had been stationed in the army? Capri…It seems so idyllic though.

This world was so adult to her. Never once had she ever traversed an airport alone; from youth Christine had clung to her Papa's hand, leading her through to land in Brittany, four summers of bliss. There were no more trips when she turned ten. Papa just didn't have enough money to afford the flights and rent the little cabin. Looking back, Christine wondered if Papa hadn't had enough in him to face the place where he married and lost the love of his life.

If only she could go back to the apartment Erik had given her... There betwixt rusting chains and cheap pendants was the locket Papa had given her for her eleventh birthday, where there was a picture of both her parents and her baby photo.

It had cost her Papa much to get it in gold, so that it wouldn't tarnish as quickly and even more to have it engraved. But she'd never had the heart to wear it, never failed to tear up when looking at the word Ange upon it, had thrown it into darkness.

Christine had nothing left to hold onto now, bereft of gifts from Erik –

Her gaze jerked down to her finger. No.

This isn't possible. I swore it was on there when I took my jewellery off! Did I drop it? No. No. Oh, God no.

What have I done? What have I done!

No. No!

Panicking, Christine scoured the floor under her seat. Nothing but dozens of carry-ons and shoes. Crap!

It could be in the duffle.

Right. She could have dropped it in there! Two minutes later, after all but emptying the bag, Christine stifled a cry of frustration. Damnit! God damnit!

She didn't have time to search the entire airport, as a swift announcement alerted her that it was her boarding. It was useless! No one would hand in a ring that priceless and unique. The so called 'good' of humanity.

Fine. I can deal with it later. I'll call the taxi service, the airplane line – wait... Calls can be tracked and I can't guarantee that Erik won't hack into them.

There's nothing I can do.

Wilting, Christine joined the line. At least it was premium boarding.

I don't want to even think of how much first class seats are going to cost.

Alien. Hardly real. All the same courtesies of first class: Would you like a drink Ma'am? Can I offer you anything from our menu? There are several items on sale to peruse... The same tired performance. Hands indicating. Six exits. Two at the front. Two at the middle. Two at the back. In case of an emergency... Inflated life jacket, red whistle to blow through, put on your oxygen mask first. Brace position. Dull eyes and glassy marionettes.

Did they really do this for a living, flight after flight?

There wasn't a blanket, but Christine was shivering anyway. The world was lit by glaring amber and raindrops plastered mournfully against the window. No shadow had slipped onto the plane, no frightening claw had dragged her off. Yet.

Safety was a commodity. The heart trembling inside her chest didn't quite believe it. Breathless. So rarely had she savoured the taste. Or was it freedom? Was it freedom that rushed through her, jumping at every possibility. The shameful joy at purchasing clothes without guilt, relief as she had shed that butterfly's skin, a final metamorphosis. At last, she could sink into leather and let the tears escape her eyes.

I'm free.

She should have waited until summer broke through the clouds. Huddled against the tree trunk, a raspberry scarf – not red, it wasn't red now – staring at the grey rectangle that defined the latter part of her life. A name, that was what he had been reduced to.

And a violin. It had been in the boot of the car, Raoul had promised it'd be safe. Just a little journey, a market square.

Fragile fingers swept across the strings, plucking the untuned instrument, as if it would bring back the life it had once been imbued with.

It had been years since she'd looked at this memento. Sea salt melting on the tongue, gentle brushing of her curls, her father's hands strong and calloused, delicately twining her hair into braids, a ribbon she'd take out later to show Raoul. The little straw haired doll, wearing that pretty navy dress, a sad little smile. Pink painted cheeks. Perfect blue eyes. Little Lotte embodied.

Papa said he'd bought it before she'd been born. Saw it in the window of a shop and had an urge to buy it, not even knowing if by that point she was a girl or a boy.

That doll: she could picture it, laying on top of old school reports and her baby clothes, inside the box that was the 'spare bedroom' of Erik's apartment. Gathering dust. Forever gathering dust. The old cassette she refused to listen to, had gotten rid of the cassette player, just so she wouldn't be tempted to listen to it. Papa had never managed to publish any songs to the world. Christine was the only one left to hear them. But she didn't. Not anymore.

"I thought you'd want to see this," she couldn't even bring herself to varnish the thing, "I'm sorry I haven't taken care of it as well as I should have, I just –"

The lid snapped shut.

She inhaled, reeling back the anguish that swirled around her heart, "I thought this would help, but I just feel so lost Papa, still. Why? Why is everything still so confusing? I thought I would understand why'd you'd gone,"

"If you believed in God, is everything how you'd imagined it'd be, up there? Is there music too? How could you leave me here, all alone? I'm so scared, and I can't – I don't want to be alone anymore,"

Three beats of silence.

"You're not alone,"

A gasp left her, stolen from her throat as a voice echoed around her.

"Where are you?" her gaze swung around the clearing, hairs raising on the back of her neck.

"Everywhere, Christine,"

"Why are you here?" she struggled to her feet, back to the tree, "Why are you here when –"

"I am not here to harm you, or your boy. I am merely watching over you, your obedient servant,"

"I took leave! You said that I was allowed to go," hands clutched her scarf, voice trilling hesitantly, "Are you here to take me back?"

"I had hoped you would be amiable to that idea. After all, you've had all but two days without tutorship, in the hands of a cold and ignorant child, why your voice is suffering as we speak!"

"It's – it's not that cold," she shivered and deftly the scarf was tugged back into place.

"Why did you not bring a coat? How naïve are you, girl? It's the middle of winter!" a murky form detached from the shadows, a black vice gripping a beautiful berry-pink coat with a grey fur rim, trailing white flowers running down the sides.

Erik reached her, waiting patiently for her to insert an arm into a sleeve, holding it out with a reverence that was as grandiose as it was gentle, "Come, you must be warmed up, I cannot have you catching a cold now can I?" concerned eyes scanned her, "I have a warm thermos of hot chocolate waiting and a new CD I wish to share with you," one arm followed another, it slid onto her shoulders, birthing her in warmth, "You said that you'd wanted to listen to La Traviata, I managed to procure a copy. Or, if you wish, you may even peruse a selection of musicals that came into my possession," a black hand zipped the coat, delicately moving the scarf out of the zipper's reach, making sure not one molecule of warmth escaped, "You must come with me, Christine," his gaze gleamed, "It's far too wicked out here, you must be very tired, so weary traversing across town," a grasp clamped on her hand, tugging her docilely towards the trees.

It felt familiar, somehow, being led towards the forest.

"Christine? Where are you? I bought us some churros!"

Churros. Raoul. Churros. Raoul!

"Raoul!" she yelped, tugging against Erik's grasp, narrowing eyes glaring at something – someone - behind her.

"Blasted boy!" he seethed, yanking her closer, but she dug her heels in, refusing to be moved.

"You promised Erik! Let me go, please,"

"Please? – you nodded, Christine, you wished to come – I cannot –"

"If I go now, he will try to find me, find us," Christine breathed, "I don't want either of you to get hurt, please, I'll come next weekend, to make up for it," she squeezed his hand, the pine ticking her nose, itching her eyes.

Erik stilled, his head tilting, as if trying to catch something for the second time, "You ask…Willingly. You wish to stay – willingly?"

She nodded, not too eager, but enough, "I want to listen to that CD. We could read something, maybe? I never finished that Greek mythology book,"

Erik twitched, a tremor that shook him, and at once Christine was stumbling backwards at the sudden release of pressure. He was unable to meet her eyes.

"Go. Go to him then. We shall reconvene on our normal days for your lessons. Take this week to spend with your Meg, then next weekend it is agreed. Yes?"

"Yes, I'll see you Monday then,"

"Yes. Good. Yes," Erik shook his head, dazed.

Concern touched her, a sudden worry that made her step forward, "Are you alright?"

"Christine!" a bright voice pierced the air, "There you are! God's sake, stay in the sunlight, will you? Scared me half to death!" he joked, but Christine felt the stab of guilt when she saw the worry in Raoul's eyes when she spun around.

Raoul's hand landed on hers – stopping when he took in the coat, "Where'd you get that?"

"Oh, I uh – there was a clothes stall after we separated. Got so cold that I bought one," she shifted her hand away, accepting the cone of churros dusted in cinnamon sugar.

Raoul shook his head, "I told you not to leave your coat in the car, but you insisted you'd be fine,"

She ducked her head, "Well it wasn't so cold this morning!"

"Ah Little Lotte, always so naïve!"

She had to stop herself from nudging him, "I'm not naïve! People have got to stop calling me that,"

"Who else is calling you naïve?" Raoul raised a teasing eyebrow.

Christine rolled her eyes, "Just, you know, people. Come on, I left Papa's violin there, we should probably head back before it gets dark," she glanced at the sky, "Well…Darker,"

Raoul laughed, "Alright, we'll get the heating on as soon as we get back to the car. You must be glad for seat-warmers now,"

"Oh, make no mistake, I am,"

Christine glanced back over her shoulder, waiting for luminescent eyes meet hers, but like before, there were nothing but shadows coalescing under the trees.

"I've always loved Queen, I even saw 'em once," spikes of trees burned midwinter's image, gnarled fingers reaching towards the sky. Grey light haloed patterns upon the rug, roses dulled to sombre burgundy.

Christine giggled, unable to imagine the elderly woman headbanging to We Will Rock you in the crowd of thousands, "I'm envious, Papa once said Freddie Mercury helped invent rock. He even ha-" she swallowed, "Had a record of theirs,"

Mama Valerious smiled thinly, eyes glazed, "Paid a lot to get in for that concert, have ta say though, it was worth every penny. When are you singin' in that theatre of yours?"

"Oh. Um, well at the moment, I'm just in the chorus. We're working on me being the Understudy, hopefully," she reached to squeeze Mama's blue-veined hands, glancing at the muted TV. The Last of the Summer Wine was playing, but the comicalness was lost when it was silenced.

"Ah well, I'm pleased to see ya following your dreams an' all, you deserve it," blue eyes blinked, "Robbie never was able to achieve 'igher than the mailroom, poor boy. Least he's a good father, Alfred was never – you know – very good at that sort of stuff,"

"Robbie's coming to see you for Christmas Day, isn't he though? You said he's bringing Charlotte and Amy. Did you want me buy and wrap their presents? Or get you any supplies – wool, or crafts?"

The woman laughed, the sound loud and pure, wrinkles contorting into crinkled lines, "Oh dearie, 'course not. I just give them a little check an' they can spend it how they like. No fancy shmancy stuff from me. Do I look like I'd knit them a Christmas sweater?"

Christine swallowed back the reply that Mrs Valerious really did look like she'd do such a thing, and glanced at Mama's little table, "How are the new glasses going? Is the cataracts any better?"

"A little bit, dear. Not much they can do at this stage,"

Her brow furrowed, "You got the surgery, didn't you?"

Mama shook her head, "Didn't want no doctor poking at me. I've been fine all my life, don't need some poxy surgeon digging me up," her bottom lip jutted out.

"But I've heard that it helps –"

"Christine – dear – let's not talk about my health," bushy eyebrows drew together, "Why don't ya sing for me? How about that?"

Suppressing a sigh, she replied with a wan smile, "What would you have me sing?"

"Anything. Anything you like,"

Chilled fingers crept down the back of her shirt, lack of scarf doing nothing to protect her from the December evening. Darkness submerged everything but the halos of the streetlamps on barren lanes, creating an eerie peace as she wandered back. Though Erik normally had a driver waiting, she'd told it to go. Walking, just walking, with thoughts and feelings falling through her.

Pre-emptive grief. Poor, poor Mama. A dread building in the pit of her chest, a bitter brittle taste left on her tongue. Fresh air combating the stench of death that forever haunted her.

That deep foreboding, gnawing, constant. Anxiety. Did she have anxiety? She'd never been diagnosed for it. Was it anxiety with a capital? Or just general 'fear'? So many questions and so few answers.

The housing estate she turned onto was better lit, these homes more welcoming than the ominous doorways of repurposed company buildings, government homes, abandoned garages and take-aways.

I could live here, one day.

White porches and little black iron gates. Perfect little stones leading to the house, two steps and then the door. Gold numbers staring back. 616 or maybe 666.

Stifling a snigger, she continued.

As if I'd ever get a house with the Devil's mark on it.

"Would you be content with company, Mademoiselle?" a soft, musical voice interrupted her musings.

The shadow of a man stood on the other side of the road, luminous eyes catching her stare.

She swallowed.

"Please do, what brings you to this part of town?" she asked casually, fists clenching inside her pockets.

"An evening stroll, what else?" four strides and Erik appeared at her shoulder.

"You followed me here,"

He inclined his head, "It is dark and there are strange people about,"

Giving him the side-eye, Christine started forward again.

"Where exactly are you heading? This is not the way back," he kept up easily, his stride making up for every two of hers.

"I like to wander,"

"You do? How curious," he shook his head sagely, "You should never need wander,"

"Are we not all wandering souls in the middle of a journey?" she made a vague hand gesture.

"If you believed in souls,"

"You don't believe in souls?"

Erik released a thoughtful hum, "I believe that there are many things in which humans create in order not to feel distressed at the disorder and cruelty within the world. The concept of a soul releases blame…That forgiveness and uniqueness is that of not a purely physical thing,"

"So, we as a race aren't individual, we just construct ideas that makes us think we are?"

He rolled his shoulders in an elegant shrug, "That is just one theory,"

"That's a sad way to think about something," for a moment she pitied him, the hulking figure who didn't believe in humanity's goodness, its fondness for faith over reality.

He stared at her resolutely, "It is life,"

Christine pursed her lips and they moved out of the neighbourhood, "Well it's not my life,"

Exhausted. By the time she fell out of the plane, managed to drag herself past baggage claim, her eyes had become sore and throat exceedingly parched. She needed to drink. She needed rest. She needed to wait.

An hour. No more. No less.

Christine had finally found a café with enough room for her to squeeze into. Blowing over the steaming cup, the mere smell of caffeine hitting her with an unexpected longing, the duffle slung over one shoulder slid to the floor and the brown paper bag dropped onto wood.

Food was swallowed in forced bites, tasteless and rubbery. There seemed no way to escape the image of Raoul under the full and mighty impact of Erik's wrath.

What have I done? How selfish have I been? The old Christine would have never left him, would have stayed and went with Erik, bargained her life. He deserved some happiness!

Raoul would have gotten over me in time.

But Erik... Oh, what have I done? How angry is he?

How long will I spend underground and away from civilisation now, when he catches up to me? How many years will his face be the only one I see?

I need to enjoy this Starbucks, because it may be the last one I have.

Misery and guilt were her companions as she waited out the hour, each second ticking fast, but not fast enough. Her head jerked when a flash of blond hair flashed past, heart accelerating when shrewd eyes met hers, a mirage of the Inspector. All fantastical illusions.

Sleep depreciation. That's what it is.

It was nearing half an hour through her appointed waiting time when there was a figure making his way purposely through the stream of travellers. His head swivelled from side to side.

Christine shrunk down in her seat until his officer's badge shone. Frozen, the man's eyes met hers and a disappointment turned sourly in her mouth.

"Miss Dah-hey?"

"Yes, I mean – that's me," she stammered.

The man slipped closer, his cold gaze evaluating her, "You have a call and it's quite urgent, it's better you come with me,"

Shuddering, Christine replied with false bravado, "What's it about?"

"I'm not at permission to say, only if you do not answer it now, someone's life may be on the line,"

No!

Sucking in a sharp breath, Christine forced herself to calm.

So much for predicting that this would be my last coffee of the century. At least – at least this means Raoul can't be dead yet.

He has to be alive! He has to.

Shakily, Christine nodded, gathering her belongings and reluctantly threw her empty cup into the bin.

Ducking between streams of people, Christine slunk behind the man, finding the bitten nubs of her fingernails in need of desperate care.

At least if he takes me away, maybe I'll be able to persuade him to take Clarice so she can make me look presentable.

He's always loved a pretty package.

Breathe. No panicking. It's going to be OK soon. As long as Raoul can get out alive...

The officer waved them through the security measures, nodding to those stationed there as the clacking of plastic tubs was handed out, dozens of tourists piling their items inside.

Finally, he gestured her to go inside a small office, that looked as if it had once been a room to search someone's bag more thoroughly, with a desk shoved in one end and a filling cabinet in the other.

On the desk he picked up a wired phone, dialled and waited.

"Ah yes, I've got her. Miss Day-hey," he gave her a side glance and passed her the black receiver, "They want you,"

"Knock when you wanna go," the door shut behind him.

Biting her lip, Christine raised the phone to her ear, "Hello?"

"Miss Daae, this is the Periwinkle Retirement Home, can I have some details about yourself before I continue?"

Stifling a cry of relief, she slid down into a chair – her voice wavering as she recited her date of birth and the postcode of Erik's apartment.

"With the formalities out of the way," the nurse began, hesitating slightly, "I have some news about your mother –"

"Mother?"

"Yes, Mable put you down as one of her children - is that not right?"

"I – uh – " breath in. Breath out. "Yeah, I just, haven't been to see her recently, you know,"

"Ah, well... Your mother right now is in a very serious condition," the nurse said gently, "I think she would appreciate being able to see you during this time she has left,"

"Have the others seen her yet?"

"Been and gone. She's been asking for you,"

"She's – she's been asking for me?" her chin wobbled, "Oh God, she's really going, isn't she?" she gripped the receiver tighter.

"I'm very sorry, Ma'am," the woman acknowledged, "But there isn't much time, will you be able to make it?"

Can I? Can I make it? Oh hell, oh hell…Would I ever be able to forgive myself if I didn't go? Who would I be when Mama took me in, thinks of me as one of her kids and not see her if – before she goes?

But do I give up my freedom? How can I bargain if he catches me before I even make it out of the airport on the other side?

Oh God, what can I do?

Going, she was going out of the airport now, trembling fingers tearing off the tracker, pressing the middle until a green dot started flashing. Letting go. The plunk of it hitting the bottom.

I haven't forgotten you, I swear. This is just more important. There's a chance that they'll go here and won't be in Erik's grasp. They'll be able to hide.

Struggling back through the airport, Christine rebooked her flight at the helpdesk, her awkward English managing to schedule her place on one, in two hours' time.

I'm running out of my head start…I need to keep moving as much as I can afterwards.

If only she was not too late.

Going back in time, although it was not time travel. With a book in lap and a can of sprite sparkling on the tray before her, Christine was swallowed by the uneasy grip of sleep. Four hours into the journey, turbulence jolted her awake, the juddering cart bumping her rudely in the shoulder. Somewhere a wail pierced through the earplugs, and she was suddenly reminded of how much she missed first class. Yet here, among the other 'commoners' of society, the meagre of those scraping buy, the families and the couples who sought a new adventure, she had never felt more at home. This was where she belonged. With the rest. Where her father would have struck up conversation about nothing at all, showed her stories from the big book of tales, murmured in her ear about funny people on the plane, ached to play his violin when he exhausted the film selections on the screen. Complain half-heartedly about the food.

The pasta was too salty, her tongue swallowed the sludge anyway, knowing that it would do to keep her stamina up. Drinking water when she could, soda when she couldn't, another four hours of droning voices, flickering lights, the constant whirring of the engine, reading passages of the book over and over. Unable to think, unable to process.

Under the cover of night, Christine departed, lights twinkling invitingly from the hotels nearby, shivering despite the coat she wrapped tighter around herself. Eyes searched for figures that weren't there, a sensation of dread building during the flight that Christine had once painstakingly locked away, kept tightly sealed for months in a mansion, a hotel, a ballroom. Disconnected from earth, surviving by rationing her memories for those she'd been forced to leave behind. Smooth over the tiny cracks that threatened to fracture her.

Now the cracks had been exposed, the terror of the last year erupting, harsher and colder with no security blanket. There was guttural urge to fall to her knees and sob to the sky, but then she was escaping into a taxi, falling back into speaking English with relief after rattling off an address.

Neon numbers told her that it was half past ten, scenery rolling by as they joined the line of cars on the motorway, stars flickering under the light pollution. No black Bentley trailed behind them, she twisted to check until her neck grew sore. Sighing, Christine let her head loll back into the seat. With all the secrecy, she hadn't even been able to call back the retirement home to let them know she was on her way.

Torrents of rain slicked the pavement, by the time Christine had fought her way to the doors, a halo of light promised warmth. Traipsing into the foyer, the receptionist – the one who'd become a familiar face – greeted her, a sad smile lingering for a moment too long.

"Am I too late?"

The nurse came round from the desk, shaking her head, "No, she's still here," gentle fingers came out and squeezed Christine's frozen ones.

"Take me to her, please,"

Steps echoed solemnly, tolling like a bell, endless halls quiet but the odd cough or muted sound of TV behind closed doors, until she reached Mama's door. Greene ward.

"I am afraid to say she signed a DNR," the nurse broke the silence, shifting to face Christine, "If you need anything, press the red button – you'll see it,"

She looked about if she was going to offer a piece of comfort, eyes moistening slightly, before with intake of breath, the nurse strode away.

Abandoned, Christine copied the nurse's actions, trying inevitably to steel herself, but her hands still shook as they turned the handle and stepped inside.

Horror clung to her throat, lips sealed together with glue, eyes watering as the figure laying prone on the bed resembled nothing of the mother she knew.

"Mama,"

Beep. Beep. Beep.

She had never wanted to listen to such a sound, had avoided it all of her life until now. Had missed it with her mother, had never discovered it with her father; hell it thundered as loud as her heart did.

Stifling a sob, she barely made it to Mama's bedside before she was hiccupping, vainly fighting the tears that dribbled over her lips, splattering against cheap cotton.

"Oh Mama, how c-could he?"

"Dearie?" a faint wisp emanated from beside her, "I can't see you, not much now,"

"Mama – oh! You're awake!" Christine clasped the hand reaching for her, "I've missed you so much,"

"An' I too," the voice croaked, fond smile crinkling the corners of her thin lips, blue eyes staring blissfully to the ceiling.

"You put me down as one – one of your kids," her bottom lip trembled, eyes squeezing out more tears, "But I haven't been able to see you in months,"

"Love is patient an' kind," blue cotton rose unsteadily, a shuddering whisper, "Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things."

"I thought you didn't believe in God," Christine tremored, cradling the blue-veined hand to her cheek, gasping a cry when a thumb stroked away a tear, the smell of old roses and dusty lilacs curling around her nose.

"We all hope another life awaits when approachin' the end, even if for a moment," the hand that cradled her head shook, "Even one as old as I get scared sometimes," a wet swallow, the dreadful noise of someone fighting for breath.

"Shhh, rest, Mama, I'm here," taking the hand from her face, Christine shuffled the chair as close as she could, trying to stomach the sight of death's damning pallor, and thinness that belayed nothing but skin and bones underneath blankets; it was too far alike to another corpse's hands she knew.

"Oh Mama, oh Mama V, whatever am I going to do without you?" bowing her head, she shut her eyes.

"…Sing," rapid breaths, "Sing – with your Maestro,"

"I c-can't,"

"He's – a – good – fellow –" beeping, now, so much beeping, and Mama was gasping, clawing for life that was rapidly draining, eyelids fluttering, hand grasping hers blindly, tightly. It was too dark, rain pounding, hammering, crashing against the window panes, one amber bedside light.

"Mama!" fingers fumbled, smashing the red button, "Mama, stay with me, please,"

Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep–

"I can't do this alone again, please!"

"You need to calm down," a hand pressing against her shoulder, "Take some deep breaths,"

"Why aren't you doing anything!" Christine shrieked, "Mama needs help –"

"She signed a DNR," the nurse stated –

"I don't care, do something!"

I'm afraid we cannot do anything presently -

She couldn't hear, her heart was racing a hundred miles a minute, clinging frantically onto the hand that was slipping from her, dully registering a monotone, endless, awful noise.

"No. No, no, no!"

"I'm very sorry –"

"Shut up – please – please go away –" inconsolable, hard to breathe, eyes blind, hand begging for the other to squeeze back, one little movement, please, please, of all the things she asked for, she needed, she loved the mother lying before, reincarnated, the mother who had that twinkle in her eyes; the one she'd once seen in a photograph.

You aren't my mother, but her phantom.

A mother whose eyes twinkled no longer.

Ten had turned to eleven; the time she dragged herself from the room, skin was sore and stinging.

Where do I go now?

Hollow footsteps echoed, darkened corridors now dimly lit, the home itself had been put to sleep.

Goodnight, to all a goodnight.

Rain had lessened by the time she made it outside, forcing herself to walk – out – out – out – she had been told expressedly that the brothers had handled the funeral arrangements, that she'd get details of it in a few days…

Christine had closed her eyes when the nurse leant forward and did the same to the corpse that had once been human.

No. Don't think about it. I can't start crying again.

Fresh air soothed her cheeks, rain drops splattering against inflamed skin. Releasing a shuddering breath, she lifted her head, searching for stars under a moonless sky.

"It's a pity she will not be able to make it to our wedding,"

Gasping, air stolen from her chest, Christine scrambled backwards. Two black shoes slicked against the pavement, glistening from the rain.

"Did you not think that her benefactor would be invited to witness her demise?"

Piercing the night was the outline of a fedora.

"That if their fiancé turned up in the middle of the night, lost and alone, it could be - hidden from Erik?"

Bricks bit her back sharply. Nowhere to hide, no people were out – could she scream?

A hand jutted out, his right, "Shall we depart now you've had your venture into the big wide world?"

Her tongue ran over chapped lips, shivering. Left; dark street. Right; lit street.

"Christ-tine," clipped, impatient, "Come now, you've had much more than a night of freedom, Erik has been waiting –"

"No,"

Two full seconds of silence. Yawning, an ever-deepening gorge. Betrayal widening the gap.

No, because she didn't want to drown in him. No, because she didn't want to.

Three sharp pants, "Erik will count to three – and if you do not – do not take my hand Christine, if you do not take Erik's hand, then Christine cannot love Erik – but she must, because the ring – she accepted the ring – and that means she will have to accept the consequences of losing such a ring,"

And Christine, my Christine, Erik does not think you would like that.

Flinching at the sound of Erik's voice echoing in her mind, Christine gathered the stirrings of rage, repressed fear, the unflinching metal that stood within, refusing to be crushed under the furnace of his wrath.

"You have no right over me – I have just lost what mother I had!" her reply was punctuated with the wind's mournful howl, rattling through trees, "You're not taking me back,"

One.

Shaking away the stiffness that invaded her senses, Christine pushed against his voice, "Erik, stop,"

Two.

Sleeping, she could sleep, allow his voice to ease the pain. Give in, to me, Christine –

Swaying, Christine forcefully fell back into her body, jerking from the claws that had encircled her arms, had suddenly got close – too close – to the curb.

A bitter snarl, "Don't try my patience Christine," he leered over her with a predatory ease, body jutting against hers.

Shrinking back, she darted a glance over one shoulder.

"We can still live in paradise," he panted, leaving the barest distance between them, trapped, pleading, "Don't make Erik do this,"

Mournful eyes stared back, "It seems like I will have to do it myself," her hand rested upon his masked cheek, skimming it's sharp boned cheeks – his gasp, an exclamation –

And with a sob, Christine set herself free.

Inhuman vision of rage, breath rattling in a chest – stretching to accommodate a screeching voice, reeling away in terror, terror, No, don't let her see! Not his Christine, not his angel, not his little red-crested robin.

Had revealed the corpse who'd strayed from the path, had stepped off the road of evil for her, to keep her, to be worthy of calling her Christine, Christine, my sweet, time for bed.

Had spared his rival, for merely the chance that had been his to take! Now Erik's kingdom had not only been shunned, but her horrible pretty little fingers had shredded, shredded, shredded every last bit of – what, what was that word, hope? Exposed the wound, poured the salt of her screams and made the monster bleed, cry out, no mercy! No mercy.

No mercy, no mercy. The unrelenting agony of ashes sewn into his skin, the screams etched into the bricks, hands jarring against the cutting confines, black and blue of the belt of red, yellow, fireworks spinning across his vision.

"See! See, oh you foolish Jezebel, cry out for the monster, scream – scream like the dozens who have come before! Oh? You don't like it, do you? Do you!" red, like nails screeching, whimpers, like mercy, but no – no mercy! – there was never any mercy, no matter how loudly his screams echoed in the chambers, far, far away. But they laughed, they pointed, they stared, gawping, murdering his mind with matches and screws. All those lovely terrible bonds, keeping him from strangling Erik, murdering the child who had believed in fairies, wrung the melodies from the lingering stench of limp marionettes, staring, lifeless, hanging from ceilings – no mercy. No mercy had been spared for them.

"Erik, Erik, please! Please, no – stop –"

"How can I stop! All those smiling faces – they only smiled when Monster was gone, red smiles, beautiful, symphonies of red dance from my fingertips – you should see it – beautiful,"

Beautiful, it had been beautiful to see those wretches of humanity writhe, stuck in chairs, struck like a beast without sight, live in the pain and breath without air.

Too many, too many, have suffered Erik, you need to live a good life, then you can find peace.

"Erik can never find peace! Not in perfection, not in beauty, not in Angels, there are only demons, damaged demons,"

Erik, Erik please.

A face, blurry with tears. She was not beautiful, looking so similar to the way another monster looked, back when houses had doors and gardens kept butterflies, fluttering – so prettily above the bushes, sneaking out – to live in sunlight – watching butterflies waltz in pairs around the buddleia, wafting scent of honeysuckle and lavender whispering secrets. Chimes; two sets. The odd ringing notes, echoing softly on its breeze. And her smile, it had reminded him of the butterflies, oblivious and carefree, echoing its mate, entwined, dancing, a masquerade, mixing, changing faces. Beautiful faces.

"Christine, oh Christine –" whimpering, faint, faint whimpering…Erik, Erik, Erik, please, forgive me. Please, Erik.

"It is too late, forgiveness – it is far too late for that – you have released the Monster, so you shall have it!"

Slam, the head into the car door, slam, the belt smacking, rattling bones, slam, head underwater, slam, bullets flying through bullet holes.

Mindless, grasping, keep her safe, keep her safe, keep it inside, it won't die this time, its wings won't fade, won't turn to dust.

Screaming, sobbing, mewling, Erik, Erik, Erik.

But the corpse, its corpse wouldn't move, it couldn't fly anymore – why can't it fly, Mother?

"I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry. Forgive me, please," a breath, a whisper, her chest heaving, exhausted eyes and lips pursed with regret, pleading – and it was the first time he'd found anyone – seen anyone pray, for him.

A cough, gagging back against the sour bile wallowing, the steady patter of blood seeping from gouges, there had been violence – how? – limp strands of hair plastered, a wave of agony, a strangled "Drive!" – how did Mathew get her into the car? Why did something itch under his nails?

Why was she huddled in the corner, sobbing quietly to herself – hair shielding herself…

It pains me to see you cry. Why must you?

Face, bare face. Tremoring hands, why wasn't the mask fitting like before?

Oh. It's broken. Broken, broken, broken.

Delilah, no Mother is fine, she's asleep, she's safe, upstairs. Why? No, she's sleeping, come back another time. No! Don't take off the mask, please don't take off the mask!

Stop screaming! Please! Erik will be good! Erik will be good. Forgive me, please.

God had stopped existing after that.

Do you see why, Christine? Erik cannot be good; even loving you cannot be enough. Still you desire to see. In forever, now will you be trapped. Erik cannot help you now. Mad Christine who wanted to see; the Monster's touch taints thee.

Erik cannot let you go, not while I linger here on this earth, for if this is earth, then you are Erik's heaven. Love him, Christine, and he would bestow the world upon your traitorous fingertips and love you erstwhile.

A voice, warbling, a song of a robin, wafer thin, "Where are we going?"

"The end of the world, my dear,"

Phew wee! Was I swamped with work? Hell yeah! Did I have time or brain function to write? Hell no. XD

I would apologise – and each day I hadn't updated I've thought of you all waiting for this to arrive – but I simply have not had any time and so Falling Petals has had to wait! (Much to Erik's dismay, he was waiting very patiently for his turn!)

This was a bit of a toughie. All the angst sprung and unleashed POOF! A lot of work went into figuring out schedules and timings – literally! Working backwards and forwards, I struggle remembering what day it is at the best of times. But with 8 hours of jet lag…eugh!

Plus, any people who'd noticed the bit that Mama (may she rest in peace!) said from the bible: 1 Corinthians 13:4-7 ESV…Well done! And if you hadn't don't worry…I wasn't sure either!

Thank you again, to my reviewers! FleshofMidnight, welcome and thank you! To the wonderful rest, your reviews kept me going for sure: WanderingWinter, Qtkittee, HoursOfMazenderan and Laurenvbellado, thank you, seriously! Everyone else, I see you lurking ;) - I hope you've enjoyed everything so far! :D

I also went back to the original book, tried to make it my own but with distinctive Leroux aspects and rather enjoyed Erik's spiral into his own trauma hell.

What's happening next? Find out in hopefully a month's time!

Yours truly,

Enigma

P.S MERRY CHRISTMAS YOU PHRIENDLY FOLK, MAY ALL THE PHANTOMNESS BE WITH YOU. (or just be Merry if you practice something different or nothing at all!)