Chapter 9 – Talk of darkness
Hi everyone! No idea if people are still reading this (my last review was a year ago) but I was reading some fan fic the other day and thought why not get this story going again. It's received some lovely reviews, and some not so lovely reviews (mainly about the way I spell Eric which apparently is infuriating to some people) but that's show business! I have a couple of other fics that I might carry on as well, there's Edward Satay Hands (a parody of Edward Scissor hands where his hands are not scissors but satay chicken skewers, thus posing a great risk to himself and others, and especially nut allergy sufferers). I also have another POTO fan fic but I probably won't continue that one as it was a bit stuffy. I also have Mrs Potts' Pie Shop, a Beauty and the Beast Crossover, set after Beauty and the Beast are married and settling down, and Mrs Potts (formerly a teapot) is running a human meat pie shop out of the back kitchen of the castle. So feel free to check those out or follow them in case they get updated. They're all rated M.
I just want to point out that in one part of this chapter, Eric mentions that he made the 'mistake' of going to therapy and I want to touch on that briefly before getting into the chapter. Therapy, with the right therapist, can be wonderful and I personally, and others, have benefitted from it greatly. If you are not feeling yourself and need someone to speak to, please consider therapy (alongside any medication you may be on, do not stop taking meds without a doctor's advice) because it allows you to unpack feelings you never knew were bothering you. Every time I left therapy I felt like I was walking on air! So don't take Eric's dismissal of it as advice
Finally just a reminder that this fic is rated M, mature, with sexual stuff and rape references throughout.
Hope any returning readers are doing well and the past year has brought them good things, and hello to any new readers :) – Trin
Eric slipped out of the house, a picture of calm on the outside, but inside, he was all at sea. His mind kept replaying their conversation over and over and it created such a crazy range of emotions that he knew he needed to sit at his piano, hammer out some tunes and then try to make sense of it all.
Now sat at his keyboard with a steaming mug of hot toddy, Eric turned the ancient thing on and waiting for the weird buzzing noise to stop. The 1990 keyboard had been a gift from his father, after the fight that had ruined his face, and his life. Although, he had never really been normal before that anyway. His broody, serious nature was baffling to many. Only Nadir really saw some of the real Eric, when he allowed himself to spill through the cracks in the stoic, imaginary mask that he wore.
So then, his feelings. His therapist, the one time he had made the mistake of going to one, told him that 'unpacking' your feelings should be like unpacking a suitcase. You take out each item, or feeling, and give it a once over, see if it needs to go in the wash (or be talked through), and when you're ready put it in it's appropriate place.
Letting his artful fingers be vessels for a faint melancholic melody, Eric realised that he was partly ecstatic, and partly devastated. The fact that he could even say that there was a lot to think about from their conversation thrilled him. Their conversation. They were talking now, they had a tangible relationship, she knew he existed and she hadn't run away or called him a freak. His desperate words of 'please…can I hold you?' repeated in over and over in his mind. He felt like a complete idiot. Of course she would say no to an almost stranger hugging her. But the anguish of her turning on him like that so quickly after uttering those near holy words, could she hold him, only to reject him before he could even smell her sweet perfume.
How could she think that of him? Eric knew the answer. Because he looked like he could be capable of anything. And he was. He had killed the man responsible – or at least beaten him up badly enough that he died. Was that the same thing? Eric didn't care.
And the anguish, the anguish that Christine must have been feeling now that Meg and, whoever that blond fop on her arm was, knew about the attack. He had seen him coming in and out of the house, and a couple of times at uni. He probably studied something crap to go along with his stupid hair and glasses. At least if he was sleeping with Meg he didn't have to worry about Christine catching his eye. Only true artists like him could appreciate her…
And how was she? He had to know. He could hear raised voices through their shared wall which, now that they knew each other, felt thinner than ever. A drinking glass helped magnify the sound of their fight.
'I can't believe you didn't tell me Christine, I thought we were friends! Rob was so embarrassed that he went home, what kind of bombshell is that to drop in the middle of the kitchen!?'
Well that was totally unreasonable, but Christine made no attempts to defend herself. She probably knew Meg well and expected the tirade of yelling to be over quickly.
'I mean…how could you let that happen to you? How could you get that drunk that it was so easy to try to take advantage?'
Christine finally spoke, very quietly. 'I had two vodka cranberries'.
'Well fine, but what were you wearing?' Eric couldn't believe what he was hearing. Meg should be holding her friend's hand, and promising they were going to catch this asshole (not that she knew he was dead), not victim blaming Christine.
'A full length sleeve baggy orange top with jeans and boots. It wasn't tight, and the only skin showing was my neck, face and hands'.
'I just can't believe you didn't tell me. Does Heather know?'
Christine shook her head. Heather, their other housemate, was very very studious and had lots of extra clubs like baking society, peer mentor meetings, and she was also on the student council, so they rarely saw her, and never for long enough to get into deep conversation.
'Then who the hell was that weird guy? With the naughties emo hair? I could barely see his face! Was that the guy?'
Eric gritted his teeth, wondering if Christine would defend him.
'Meg, don't talk about him like that. He saved me. Beat the guy up and got his friend to drive me home…And-' Christine's body language changed, almost drawing herself up to her full 5ft 1inch height.
'…and I don't think his hair is a fashion choice, although I quite like it. He has some scars from a fight-'
'Oh great, so he makes a habit of beating people up then. That's two fights you know about already and you've known him five minutes! You trust men way too much Christine, no wonder-'
'Alright Meg, that's enough. It's really none of your business and I didn't ask your opinion. You have no idea what happened and to be honest, your reaction to this news means you probably never will, unless, God forbid, it happens to you too. See you later'. And with that, Christine grabbed her keys, and left Meg standing in her room, shocked.
Eric had to say, he was shocked too. Christine could really stand up for herself when she needed to. And what an exit!
He thought back to the words he had just heard about himself. She liked his hair. And she didn't talk about him like he was a freak. 'He has some scars from a fight'. That sounded so simple, like 'she has some freckles from the sun'. It was a gross understatement of the damage that made his life hell. The damage that made people cross the street if the wind happened to blow his hair from his face, that made having photos taken for ID cards a royal hell, and made Halloween a nightmare when people complimented him on his 'wicked fake scars'.
Christine clearly needed someone right now, and he could be that for her. He lived for her, breathed for her. And so, once he had played through a couple of songs on the piano, he got out his pen and paper, and started to write.
Christine
`Christine', Meg read in a haughty voice, 'I'm so sorry for the events that have occurred over the last few days and hope you are on your way to feeling yourself again. I hope that your housemate Meg- seriously?!- is being understanding and kind, and keeping the blonde man away in case he frightens you-The blonde man? Rob?! Honestly this freaking guy- I've included a short piece of music that I hope will take your mind off things, and calm you. I'll give you some space but let me know if you want to meet for a hot chocolate, although in nicer circumstances than the last one'.
Having Meg read what, for some reason, felt like an intimate note, was as inappropriate as singing deafening death metal in Church on a Sunday instead of a hymn. Her heavy mood was lifted momentarily when she heard that he wanted to see her. And he remembered what she drank that night? She barely remembered it herself.
'Christine, how does this man who you've known five minutes know who I am? Have you been talking to him about me? As if I wouldn't be understanding and kind?!'
'Meg, I haven't said anything to him about you. We've never even had a normal conversation really, we just ended up meeting because of…well because of the attack'. Christine held back the information that he had been leaving her music before they had even met, Meg wouldn't understand it and would think it was creepy or something.
'I'm sorry Christine but you can't bring up the attack and then expect me to overlook the fact you've obviously been talking about me behind my back. I feel like I don't even know you anymore' Meg really was upset over this whole thing, and Christine could not understand why. It was none of her business.
'Meg, you have no idea what I've been through' she said angrily, fighting back hot tears.
'I'm the victim here, so why am I the one getting all the drama?! If you can't support me, then at least leave me alone. I won't have you telling me off like a child for who I chose to be friends with'. Christine snatched the note from Meg's hands and went to her room.
She curled up in bed, still with the note, and reread it a couple of times. She inhaled and realised she was hoping for the comforting smell of him. But she caught herself – what was she doing? She knew nothing about this guy, other than his name and the name of his friend. His business card was somewhere around the room, Navir or something. She could speak to him somehow and ask him who Eric was, and what his intentions were towards her. And then she would decide whether to allow herself to be friends with him, or not.
