Life with Erik is turning out to be more peculiar than I could have possibly imagined. He has a schedule for everything, but then never follows it. He spends half his time doting on me, and then half ignoring me. I cannot figure him out.

He no longer locks me in my room, but lets me roam about his house. Occasionally, he locks his own bedroom door and tells me that some secrets are left so no one will discover hem. I protest this at first, somehow stung with the unfairness of this rule.

"I am your wife, am I not?" I had argued. "You are my husband. You cannot forbid me entrance to your room."

"Erik is your husband, and you will obey him," he replied tonelessly.

And that was the end of that.

We sing most of the time. Ah, this is a kind of bliss that I can very contentedly accept. When we sing, I do not look at him and I do not think about him as anything other than the Voice that sends me to new places in every chordal tone of his musical progressions. It is a freedom that he is giving to me, to keep up this dangerously dependent fantasy, and I take it eagerly.

I do not mention Raoul again. I do not know where he is, I do not know what Erik has done to him and the other man, but Erik assures me time and time again that they are safe and unharmed, though far from here. I do not know how to decipher his message, so I simply give him blind trust, and pray that they are both safe.

Every night before I go to bed, I say "Good night, Erik", and he says "Good night, Christine", and that is it. He has not kissed me again, or given me any physical contact at all. Although somewhat comforting, it is still slightly unnerving for me, and sometimes I reach out my little fingers, wanting to touch some part of him, but I never do.

I am still frightened of him.

One evening, Erik is playing his piano in the other room, and I am in the main room, reading one of his books. I sigh, and stretch, deciding to go to the kitchen for a cup of tea. On the counter is the Époque, the newspaper he brings in every other day. I have never paid much attention to it, but today it is opened to a particular page, and as I search around for a cup and saucer, I read it.

'Erik is dead.'

I stare at the paper again. It is in the form of an advertisement, right near the bottom. Surely it cannot mean my Erik? What were the coincidences of it being in his house with his own death notice?

Was I brave enough to go ask him about it? It would be an excuse to speak with him, to hear his lovely voice in this tomb. He has been in the drawing room for so long.

I snatch it up hastily, forgetting my tea, and take it to the drawing room. The door is closed and he is composing. I know he will be very angry if I bother him now, but I do not think of that. I just want to know what this means.

I push on the door, but it is locked. I start to hammer away at it, not knowing why I am suddenly so confused. What does this mean? Why does Erik go out just to leave these messages? Did he write this? If not, then who else could it be...?

The door flies open, and Erik is not pleased to be disturbed.. His golden eyes glitter dangerously at me.

"What is it you need?" he hisses at me. "What is so important that you must interrupt Erik while he is composing?"

I hold out the paper.

He sees it and laughs. "Oh, my darling, you do not have to worry about Erik's tricks. I do many things to make sure we stay safe here, and you have stumbled across one. It is for his benefit, the one who was with your young man that night. It will be easier for him, to think I am gone. You need not worry."

"You go up into the outside world!" I say. "You deliver ads, you get the paper. I want to go out too!"

Erik laughs again as he shakes his head. "I would not let you out that easily, my sweet. You would run away from me."

"I would not," I say angrily, not sure why my temper has risen up so dramatically. "Have I not proved to you that I keep my word?"

He views me. "You keep your word, because you are a good girl, even though you do not love me. You keep your word, because you have no choice. You keep your word because you are locked down here. But you will still not go out."

He shuts the door in my face.

Rightfully upset, I throw the paper down and glare at the shut door uselessly. Unbidden, tears brim up in my eyes at the way he spoke to me.

I thought he was supposed to love me!

I rush to my room so I can cry in peace. I throw myself on my bed like the dramatic diva I am and begin to sob like a baby. Why is everything so difficult? I am just being emotional, I know, but I feel tired and sick. I have been married for three weeks, but I am not permitted to leave my house, I am not permitted to go into my husband's room, and I am not permitted to interrupt him when he's busy!

Is Raoul out there searching for me? I hope he is, but he will never reach me. I hope, at some point, he realizes the utter defeat in his search and leaves me to my utterly miserable fate.

I lay there, sniffling, and I wonder what it would be like if I loved Erik. Would we be happy? If I made the effort, would I feel just as loved as much as I loved him? Maybe he would kiss me then, those cool lips on my own. I wonder what it would be like to be a proper married woman, with a real husband who brings me flowers and courts me and laughs with me and kisses me sweetly.

I cry and cry and cry, until it has been several minutes. I hear my door open and I press my face into my pillow.

"You are upset," Erik says. "I can hear you crying. Why are you crying, Christine? It hurts me so much to hear you cry."

I do not answer him because I have no idea why I am crying. He comes and perches himself on the edge of my bed, several inches from my leg. One gloved hand comes out and reaches for my face. I peek over my pillow, and when he sees my eyes, he draws back.

I feel disappointment, again. Why am I so disappointed? Why won't my husband touch me?

I sigh and sit up like a lady, facing him. Our faces are level in this position, and I have a terrible, terrible urge to kiss him, but that would hurt him so much. I am so afraid to offer my love. Strange, but I think that's why I cannot accept his. No matter how hard I try, I cannot imagine what it would be like to kiss lips as dead as his.

"I will not cry if it hurts you, Erik," I tell him.

He smiles a little. "You are thinking of Erik, not wanting to hurt him. You have hurt him many times, Christine."

"I know," I say, feeling like a child being reprimanded for wrong acts—which, essentially, I am. "And I'm sorry."

I can feel his surprise like a windstorm. "You are apologizing to me? After all I have done to you, you apologize to me?"

"Can you take me up to the world, please?" I beg. "I miss fresh air and people. I want to see them. I want you to come with me."

I try to put tenderness in my words, and hope that by inviting him, his heart will soften, but he remains hard and unmoving. "You will leave me," he protests, and there is an unquenchable sense of sadness in that very simple statement.

"I promise I won't, Erik," I plead, tears gathering in my eyes again. "I will stay by your side." My words sound hollow to even my own ears, and I cannot tell if they are true or not.

"No!" he says with such force, that I jump. "I cannot lose you, not now. Not ever. You are my wife, and you will do what I say you will do. You will stay here, where you are safe. You will not leave me."

"You're cruel!" I throw back at him, and I regret my words. How could I say that to him? Now he will never let me go. I have hurt him, I know.

He stands, his eyes blank and furious. "Of course I am. You know that better than anybody, sweetheart. Now you will stay in your room for the rest of the evening as well. Good night, Christine."

He waits for my customary, 'Good night, Erik', but it will not come. I press my hands against my mouth as I cry again.

My silence bothers him. He grows uncomfortable, and turns angry. He slams the door.

I am beginning to notice that when I hurt him, he becomes angry. When he does not know how to display his emotions, he reacts in the only way he can. I must watch my tongue. My word can affect him more than anything else that could set him off. If only he didn't hold me in such a way that I was above everything else! I wish that I meant nothing to him- I wish he did not love me so!

I dress for bed and huddle under the covers, feeling lost and desperately alone. I do not know how much longer I can go through with this. I do not know which way to turn.

I am sick of thinking. I roll over to go to sleep.

As I close my eyes, I realize that this is our first fight as husband and wife.

But I know it will not be the last.

.