Hardly Different

I am scrambling to the corner of the room, feeling caged and trapped.

"Christine," Khan says, approaching me, "you are the only way. Philippe has no wife. Do you understand? The law says that if a member of the Oligarchy dies and his wife does not have a son, the man who next marries her will inherit the member's station. Don't you see, Christine? This is a quiet takeover. There is no need for war and bloodshed when it can be done so much quicker and much more quietly."

"You…you have been against the Oligarchy the entire time?" I say, my voice more of a whisper.

He nods. "For a very, very long time. I have been lucky enough to rise through power undetected."

We are silent for a moment. I am trying to absorb all the information and comprehend.

"You do not need to worry," Khan assures me. "Your marriage will be hardly different from your previous one." There is hesitation in his voice as he says, "Did you know, Christine…that you were being considered for eradication? We have saved your life. You only lived as long as you did because of your husband's continuous plea for your survival." When I question him with a glance, he continues. "Yes, he was always appealing for a few more months, but his luck had started to run out."

I do not want to think anymore. All I want is a warm bath and to sleep for eternity in lovely white sheets. After a moment, Khan heads toward the door.

"Our time is gone, Christine. Do not be concerned. You will learn. Follow me, please."

This house is much, much smaller than the mansion. It is only down one flight of stairs to a single hallway. We go through the door on the right. I shiver and clutch my shawl tightly. There is the man with the mask, looking out of a window into the black night. Another man is in there, looking quite as out-of-place and frightened as I am feeling. He looks vaguely familiar, and I stretch my memory. The masked man turns when we enter and grabs my arm. His fingers are long and bony – like the doctor's, and I shudder. I am placed next to him. There is complete, pressing silence for a very long time. And then, the frightened man begins to speak. As he does, realization dawns upon me. It is the same man who performed the marriage all those months ago: the same man with his dark eyes. I feel my knees give way, but the man next to me is still gripping my arm, and he jerks me up slightly, clearing his throat in a significant manner.

I do not have to say anything again, but a piece of paper is thrust into my hands, and I sign it with shaking fingers.

"I will finish up here," says the man. "Nadir, would you mind escorting her upstairs?"

Khan takes my arm and pulls me out of the room. We are both at a loss for words, it appears, for he says nothing as he leads me up the stairs. I notice his hand is pressed hard against my back to keep me from falling.

The room to which he takes me is small and simply furnished. After pressing my hand in what he hoped was a comforting way, he leaves, but no sooner is the door shut than opened again. Four women tumble in quickly, speaking in hushed voices and bustling about. Finding myself unable to stand steadily, I take a seat on the bed. The women pull me up, however. I suppose I am lucky that there are women there to help me. I cannot hold anything without dropping it, and I am so confused and terrified that I can barely pull on a fresh nightgown by myself. They hold me up, speaking useless things and brushing my hair. I stare blankly at the wall. How shall I be able to stand the rest of my life? How can I sit here while every inch of me is screaming for escape?

I will never know what escape tastes like, because the door opens. The women scatter quickly, leaving me to stand there, trembling fiercely. I feel very ill. Now that there is decent light, I am able to study him more closely. When he looks at me, I swallow a gasp of surprise. His eyes are not brown. They are a most peculiar color – almost a green, but there are more colors. If I had to place a color on them, I would say gold, but eyes cannot be gold. Nevertheless, they are beautiful and stare at me. My eyes wander over his mask for the hundredth time. White, bitter, and blaring out of the rest of his face. The exposed half is not unpleasant-looking. It is accented sharply by high, proud cheekbones and a thin mouth. He shuts the door behind him.

"Good evening," he says courteously. I say nothing. After a minute, he approaches me and takes my hand; his are large, bony, and cold. They remind me again of the doctor's hands. I shiver and pull away. I do not care. Death would be more reassuring than this. Death would have a final, decided outcome. This, however...this goes too many ways for me to see.

His eyebrow arches after I do this, but he does nothing. "Sit," he says, gesturing to the bed. More than the unwillingness to have my knees give way than obey him, I do so. He sits beside me, and the mattress sinks under his weight. He is heavier than he looks.

"It is strange," he says after a while, "that when words are most important, they cannot be found. You may ask me anything you like, Christine. I do not wish for you to be afraid."

Thousands of questions tumbled over in my mind. "Who are you?" I finally say. I keep my eyes on the carpet and my feet.

"My name is Erik," he says. When I say nothing, he breaks the silence, saying, "Christine, I know you must be very scared – "

"I'm not scared!" I lie forcedly, my voice a little louder than normal, and a dull blush stains my cheeks. Now he is silent, and I say, "D – did you kill Clara?"

He seems interested in this question. "Who is Clara? Her name is familiar."

"Philippe's wife."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him smile grimly. "Ah, yes, Clara…But no, we did not. It was Philippe, and, of course, that little stunt stopped us for a while."

"Stopped you?" I interrupt.

"Well, as Philippe was the head, it was natural for us to need to gain his position. But, as he had no wife to speak of, we went for our next choice – you. And, once we realized that you had no children, it was then known to be the right choice." He shifts next to me, and I feel one of his hands touching my shoulder lightly.

"Is Raoul dead?" My voice is the quietest it has been.

There is silence. "Yes." After another moment, he rises and begins to snuff the candles. The darkness soon envelops us, and I cannot control the small, shivering gasps that come from my mouth. In those moments, I hate everything I am. I hate my parents for creating me. I hate those who arranged my marriage. I hate the Oligarchy for not killing me. I hate Khan for his loyalty to this – this man. And I hate him! I see his tall outline in the dark. He comes closer. I move away. He kneels on the bed. I cower at the headboard, clutching my new, clean-smelling nightgown with terror. As I feel him approach, I close my eyes.

But something completely unexpected happens. Something touches my lips, and I jerk away in surprise. As my vision adjusts to the dark, I can see that his brow is furrowed. He bends down once more, and I watch. It is his lips that touch mine, and I am still. It is strange for a moment, but soon I am overwhelmed by this incredible feeling that I have never experienced before. I pull away, gasping,

"What are you doing to me?"

He sounds very irritated. "Kissing you. Do you know what a kiss is?"

"Well – yes," I pant, the waves of that unnamed emotion rolling through me. "But I've never – and I feel strange…"

Erik sighs. "He never kissed you?" I shake my head, but, as I am doing so, I remember that it is very dark. However, Erik doesn't seem to need the light, for he shifts closer and says, "They have completely driven that part away?"

"They?" I say. "What part? Driven what away?"

I feel his fingers press against my mouth, and I am silent at once.

"Tilt your head back," he instructs. "I will show you."

Warily, I obey him, and am soon glad that I did. It is like waking up to something I have never seen and adoring it instantly. I do not know what to do except sit and feel him kiss me. His lips are hard, and they do not seem to need my cooperation. I allow him to do whatever he pleases, for wave after wave of that feeling is crashing through my stomach, and it is wonderful. And what I once thought of as loathsome and tedious becomes enthralling and tantalizing. It is not long before I am reaching for him, anxious for his touch, his kiss, and everything else is wiped from my mind. I cannot remember what happened only a few hours ago, nor the fear that accompanies the thought of the future. All that I can think of is him and his lips and cool hands and his mask. It is hard and it presses into my cheek constantly. Whenever I open my eyes, I can see it there, a white flag in the black.

I cannot remember falling asleep. The last thing I remember is kissing his exposed cheek – the first kiss I have ever given to anyone. But soon I am waking, still exhausted and aching beyond belief. Pale sunlight is coming through the windows, and someone is moving next to me. Hurried words are gradually coming into focus as I blink away the sleep.

"…Couldn't find him anywhere…everywhere in chaos."

A voice close to me – a full, musical one – replies, "And he is aware he is missing something?"

"Oh, yes. That's the reason for half of the chaos."

There is silence, and Erik is still moving. I turn slowly to see him pulling on boots, his back to me. Another man is in the room, and I feel a hot blush rising from my neck. He, however, doesn't seem to notice me and keeps his dark eyes on Erik.

"Of course," says Erik, rising from the bed, "with Philippe dead it will be much easier. I suppose it's not an entire loss."

"From what I have gathered, the younger brother is easily impressionable. It will not take long."

"It better not," snaps Erik. "Do you realize the situation we've put ourselves in?"

They begin to leave the room. Before they do, however, Erik turns to me and says, "Get up, quickly, and dress. I will send someone down for you."

And he shuts the door.