"Ready, my sweetest?"
I hear his voice call me from where he is probably waiting by the door. I have been ridiculously excited all day, knowing that he is letting me out without me having to beg him. I have interpolated lines fromFaust in all of our conversations today, just to see him smile, and he knows how I am looking forward to this. This little excursion means a lot to me- and it means a lot to me that he knows it. I pull a pale pink sash over my gown and go to meet him.
He meets my eyes. "No need to dress up so. No one will see you."
I feel awkward, slightly disappointed I did not receive a compliment. "But you will."
He opens his mouth as if to say something and then closes it. "Well… come along, then."
I take his hand as he leads me to a path I've never been down. It appears to be a murky cellar that feels dark and damp and I tighten my hold on Erik's hand.
"Don't be frightened," he murmurs in a soothing voice. "It will be light in a minute."
I am comforted as I sense his shape next to me. We climb strange, little steps until we are on a level I recognize; if I am not much mistaken, we are backstage.
Before we can be seen, Erik pulls me into the shadows as he lifts me up a spiraling, wrought-iron stair.
"Erik," I ask nervously. "Are we going up very high?"
"Oh yes," he answers. "Right to the top."
I cling to his hand. "No one can see us?"
He makes a clicking noise with his tongue, as if disappointed by my doubt, and shakes his head no. He stays low behind me as I begin to climb up the unfamiliar steps, soothing myself that I cannot fall dead to the ground if he is behind me. When we finally stop, we are on a block of wood that is about as long and as wide as a carriage, which hung precariously from the rafters, close to the side wall. I decide it looks fairly sturdy until I unfortunately decide to look down.
My vision whirls at the strange sight and I put my face in my hands. We are so very high! Looking down upon the stage where I once roamed is very frightening when it is at a new angle!
"Christine?" Erik asks anxiously. "Are you well?"
I pull back, just a small bit. "It's just that… we are high up."
"It is a beautiful perspective, if you allow yourself to look."
He eyes me curiously, but I do not reply and lower my hands reluctantly. I want to lean back on Erik, but my rational mind wants to know why on earth I would want to do that. The result is that I stand there, looking around blankly.
"Sit,"Erik coaxes, finally coming beside me, lifting me up and placing me on the wood. I stay on my knees, making sure I have an arm's length space around me from each edge.
Erik laughs at me and begins pulling down a long rope which brings down some sort of wall in back. "You can lean back now." he says. "This is very safe."
"How do you know?" I mutter, pulling my legs up under my chin.
"I made it. I am quite sure of it's quality."
There is a touch of pride and annoyance in his voice and I worry that I have insulted him. "I am sure you would never let me fall," I say kindly, hoping to soften him. His golden eyes stare at me through the darkened slits in his mask.
"I am sure I would not," he shrugs carelessly, turning his attention to the stage.
We have arrived just in time for the show; it should be starting any minute. As the music begins, I chance a look backstage, where everyone is scrambling to get ready.
For a moment, I wish I was down there as well. Everyone looks so excited and carefree, with no worries about fate or choices, only about their voice or feet. What I wouldn't give to be that girl again! I look around wistfully for any ballerinas, anyone I would recognize.
Erik comes and crouches down next to me. His gloved hand takes my wrist and gently pulls me slightly away from the edge. We both are still as the curtain opens.
It is so very nice to hear singing again. I bit my tongue in pure ecstasy, letting all the familiar sounds wash over me. True, the male singer sounds nothing like my dear Erik, sitting next to me, humming the bass line, and yet it is so poignant it brings tears to my eyes.
As the show goes on, I stay by the edge and Erik stays next to me, and I find myself drifting so casually towards his shoulder. He is so still and silent, I can almost mistake him for a real angel, promising to catch me if I fall.
I finally lean into his chest, bringing up my legs and curling against him. He inhales sharply as I feel him grow accustomed to my weight against him. When Faust leans in to kiss his lovely Marguerite, I hear him sigh. By the time Act III is over, he has let his hand rest upon mine and very gentle, taps my fingers against his.
I do not mind in the slightest.
Later, when the ballet comes on, I sit up, looking about for familiar faces. I was never really friends with any of the girls; I was a shy and lonely girl, but I did look up to many of them. Erik sighs once again in disappointment when I pull away from him, and I pause hesitatingly.
"You would like me to stay here?" I question.
"What are you talking about?" he asks passively, but he withdraws his hand from mine.
I smile a little sadly. "Do not take your hand away."
"I did not-?"
Carefully, I reach back out to him, taking his hand within mine. I can feel his fingers twitch uncertainly, but I give them a reassuring squeeze and glance up at him; his masked face is suddenly much closer than usual.
"How can you touch me?" he whispers, and his voice has changed. He sounds rather childish, no longer my mighty Angel of a moment ago. For some reason, this change makes me courageous, and without thinking much about it, I softly lower my lips to his gloved hands and kiss them. I feel him gasp for air at the contact and I look back up at him, keeping my face purposely devoid of any emotion, lest he misread it.
"Your hands, they are not so bad," I say in a soothing voice, and I begin to believe my own words as truth. "May I take off your gloves?"
Wordlessly, he obeys at once, stripping off one glove so quickly it was as if it was never there. Uncertain now, I lower my face and inwardly, prepare myself for this. But his skin is smooth, like stone, and not unpleasant at all. I plant an innocent kiss into the palm of his hand, and then once again, look up at him for reassurance that what I am doing is right.
But suddenly, I am too courageous, for his hands have sparked a curiosity for that which I have not been permitted yet, and I reach up, afraid that he will reject me and that I will lose my nerve, and slowly slide off his mask.
He squeezes his eyes shut, but he has been so uncharacteristically receptive of all these terrifyingly new hurdles, and allows the mask to come off without interference. Perhaps I was not expecting it to be over with so easily- my heart begins to pound.
There was once a time when I couldn't have even dreamed of touching him, but now I have found it is easier to accept when one is actually giving it a chance. I could grow angry at him, for pushing me away; I could cry; I could sigh and leave it be. But someone as indecisive as I learns that when a decision is made, you must stick to it. And maybe he is just beginning to realize it, but as soon as I put my lips to his ruined skin, I had decided that I was to kiss his lips.
Little steps. Baby steps. Love him one bit at a time.
His lips are cold.
That is the only thing I can think of as I lean forward almost unknowingly put my lips to his. It is a chaste, virginal kiss; not longer than a second, no more intimate that a handshake. His lips are ice cold, the coldest part of him, aside from his fingers. They chill my entire face, as if a cold liquid has been splashed across me.
His reaction is slow.
I have kissed him.
Quite intensely, I can feel his resolve crumbling as his skeletal fingers reach out and embrace me carefully around the waist and pulls me into a hug. Surprised but not displeased, I lean against his bony shoulder and hope he cannot feel my heart racing as it does.
I am thinking of tears again, but instead he just grips me tightly, his breath mixed with mine. I am physically and emotionally closer to him than I have ever imagined. Probably closer than he has ever hoped for.
Amazed by the utter simplicity of it, I am the one who starts to cry.
He jerks sharply away, leaving me with the all-too familiar feeling he always leaves me with. I stare at him hopelessly. "Come back!" I say brokenly, my voice cracking at the end. But I am sure he has misunderstood.
He shakes his head and does not stare at me. "I am sorry, Christine," he says blackly.
And we sit like that for the rest of the performance.
As applause rings out at the end, I look towards my husband. He meets my gaze half-heartedly and rises to his feet. I sit, crumpled at his feet and don't move.
"Time to go home," he whispers, touching one of my curls. I don't move.
Such a soft kiss I bestowed upon him… so sharply he jerked away…
My mind is too full at the moment to move, but I acquiesce slowly, beginning the descent down.
I let him help me through the areas as he leads me down. I have lost all interest in backstage as he hurries along the dark passages.
Did I kiss men whom I did not love?
I am a foolish girl, a girl who should never have been forced to carry such a burden of obsessive and passionate love! All my mistakes, all my decisions, everything has come down to one question that I am unable—or unwilling to answer. For some reason, guilt tears at my inside for many reasons. I have both guilt from kissing Erik and guilt from avoiding it for so long. Who am I to inspire in him such false hope, or is it false hope at all? I wonder which one is more comfortable to deny, and which one is more terrifying to accept.
And in an act of truly desperate nature, as we step into the drawing room, I completely lose my mind for emotions and spin wildly around and kiss him on the lips.
Is this what I have wanted to do along? Kiss him? He is a monster! A murderer! He is Death himself! And what guilt I do not allow myself to feel speaks silently Raoul! Raoul! Raoul! in a voice that I do not listen to.
"My mask!" he murmurs into my lips. "I have left it in the rafters!"
I have not even noticed that he is not wearing a mask, but I do not allow myself to reflect on the face that it is kissing, only allow myself to think of his soft, marble-like lips that I found so unexpected at their touch against mine.
"Christine, Christine," he keeps whispering. "Is this happening, or shall I wake up in a moment, like always?"
Why am I doing this? Tell me, Erik, what have I been holding back for so long? My maturity? My courage? What is it?
"Love of the most exquisite kind!"
I pull away, refusing to meet his eyes, and he instantly drops down to his knees, touching me so meekly like a child, and he is crying, crying in despair. I wait for him to say something to me, but it seems he can find no words as he only delivers muffled tears at my feet.
The air could be sliced with a knife.
"Do get off the floor, Erik," I mumble to him, my hands shaking and my cheeks flushed. It both embarasses me and flatters me that such a simple gift from me can still reduce him to such. Perhaps I am a wicked girl for denying him so long.
"Goodnight, Christine," he offers from the floor, pulling up his right hand and running it across his cheek, as if to check that the mask was really absent from his face. His hand runs all across his mouth area and down his neck, and down to his collar. He makes no move to rise.
Is that it?
"Goodnight, Erik," I say back softly, looking down at the rich carpet. My voice seems to stir him; he gracefully springs to his feet and turns down all the lights as I step away from him. This is the moment that I have chosen to say my words- this is my moment where I must not be a silly little girl any longer!
Not now.
Was I sure? Speaking those words to Erik wouldn't be quite like speaking them to anyone else.
I hesitate, closing my eyes in the dark and imagining his odd lips.
"Erik?" I say again, opening my eyes. His shadow pauses at his door, as I have. I can see his eyes glowing in the dark.
"Yes, Christine?" he asks hopefully. It is almost as if he knows what I am going to say.
And in the end, I reassure myself, it does not really matter if I mean it or not. It does not matter if what I have to say is true- only that he hears it.
With that disturbing comfort in my mind, I sigh:
"I love you."
.