The world was frozen.
Iced over in a layer of chilly snow, the streets and buildings looked like nothing more than a white blur. It was a dark night—thick clouds covered the skies, threatening the city with another snowstorm. Even though March was approaching, the weather was stubbornly clinging to winter, unwilling to allow the sun to break out and warm the earth.
Christine looked through the window, her breath fogging the glass slightly. The light of the streetlamps below was foggy in the winter haze. It had been well over an hour since she had seen anyone try to brave the cold night. She was warm and safe here, and it was brightly-lit and secure.
A high-pitched ding sounded through, and she looked back. The microwave was signaling that her food was ready. With a little sigh, she stood and made her way over to it, pulling out the microwave meal and grimacing at the smells. She had never liked these, but she hadn't felt up to the chore of cooking in…months, and it was too expensive to go out every night.
She ate alone, quietly, subdued, focused on forcing herself to enjoy the meal while not enjoying it at all. Still, it didn't seem to matter. Did it really matter, in the end, if she enjoyed this dinner—this solitary dinner in her solitary apartment?
Glancing around, she saw the plain furnishings, the plain white walls and the plain layout. It was a small, cheap little place. Raoul had helped her find it and had paid for the first two months' rent. She was incredibly ashamed of this fact. Sometimes, when they had still been in contact, she couldn't help glancing at him, because when he didn't think she was looking, she had seen all the pain and bitterness and sorrow and regret written across his handsome features. And all of those emotions were her fault.
Still, for however bad she felt, she knew that it would be best if she didn't try to mend it all. Giving him false hope would be crueler than anything. Christine could not be with him and be content at the same time. Too many things had changed, too many things had happened to her, and she was not the same person that he had fallen in love with. He wouldn't ever be able to understand her and her feelings when she didn't understand them herself.
So she had left, telling him that they needed this. She was poison to him, she knew. He was still such a good man, wanting to help her and care for her, and in the end, she had had to accept some of it, as her funds were virtually nonexistent. And when she had attempted to start repaying him, he had actually yelled at her and told her that there was no way he would take that money.
Being back in Raoul's apartment for just a few days had been hard for her. After being away from the city for weeks, she had been dreading to come back. It was as horrible and depressing as she had known it would be. Everything she looked at was a reminder. Even if she wasn't prone to sobbing at the drop of a hat anymore, she still had those moments when a sound or sight would trigger something.
For three weeks after she had come back, she had gone to a psychiatrist, only to please Raoul and give him some peace of mind. The therapist had been a pretty African woman with a deep, soothing voice and a bright, friendly office. The situation had been explained, and the woman had gently told Christine that she had been manipulated, lied to, and abused by a sociopathic, codependent, narcissistic man. There had been talk of anti-depressants and other medications, but after taking the pills for two days she had flushed the rest down the drain. Soon, she had become so upset and anxious when it came time for her appointments that even Raoul admitted that it would be best if she didn't go anymore.
She felt better without the therapy sessions. Mundane, day-to-day tasks gave her more time to think and reflect than her hour-and-a-half sessions on the psychiatrist's plush red couch. Christine had a certain feeling that her appointments were only a regression—she was stronger without them.
For a moment, she paused in eating and looked back out the window. It had started to snow again.
"Snow," she said aloud, to nobody at all, breaking the pressing silence.
The snow was steady, and it was coming straight down, meaning there was little wind. Christine remembered a previous time it had snowed in the city. She had wandered out into it, crying. Had it really been more than a year ago? One year, and everything had happened—her father's death, her short career at the Opera House, lessons with…
Well. She didn't like to think much further than that. It had been almost six months since…it had happened, and she was still trying to get herself to realize that fact. It was like it was with her father. This was final. This was…enough. She had to let herself know that this would have to be enough for her, because nothing would change what happened.
After cleaning up her small dinner, she went back to her chilly bedroom and lay down on the small, uncomfortable bed, staring at the ceiling. Up above her were two guys going to college. They had introduced themselves to her when she had first moved in, had joked and laughed and tried to flirt, but after about ten minutes they must have realized that she was a wreck, because they left and hadn't bothered to talk to her since. Perhaps that was good—she needed to get used to that if she was going to be here again—alone.
She knew she couldn't stay in this city for the rest of her life. Right now she was saving to move back to Sweden. However, that felt like a distant dream, years and years in the future. She was still young, she knew. Twenty-one was just the start of life, and yet she felt as if she had lived all of her life in one short year. All the events that seemed to matter had already happened to her. What else was there to look forward to?
Tomorrow morning at six o' clock her alarm would ring, and she would get up and go to her boring, ordinary job at a realtor's office. Mostly she answered phones and filed papers. Her life was meant to be lived in obscurity. She had been wrong, she decided. Her destiny wasn't the stage anymore. It was living a simple, unobtrusive life, earning her own way by doing commonplace jobs that paid her a real salary. That was at least somewhat satisfying, she decided. Earning her own money and knowing that she had done something to make it hers was good. She didn't want to be a burden to anyone else, ever.
For a few more minutes, she continued to lay there, until a loud, sharp clunk from above startled her. There was muffled laughter. They were probably getting drunk. She had heard girls laughing earlier that evening. Not looking forward to a night of listening to that yet again, Christine rolled off the bed and pulled on a coat, gloves, scarf, and a purple woolly hat. Then she headed out the door.
It was cold out, colder than she had anticipated. Usually the thick snow clouds kept it warmer, but she shivered as she walked. After walking a couple blocks, she saw a homeless man huddled up against a building with a small overhang, trying to keep out of the snow. He was sleeping. Christine dug her hands into her pockets and pulled out…nothing. She had no money in her pockets. Wondering who he was and why he didn't have a family to look out for him, she unwound her scarf and carefully put it over him.
Only a few cars trundled past her as she continued, and she tugged her coat collar high to compensate for her lost scarf. Most of the restaurants and other shops were closed, but a few bars were still open, their neon lights shining dully through the snowfall. Through the windows, she could see it packed with people. As she looked, she saw a flash of blonde hair, and she paused, wondering…But no. It wasn't Meg, and she felt a little silly even thinking that. Poor Meg! Christine wondered what she thought of her now. Christine hadn't performed in Elektra—hadn't even bothered to show up. The whole company had probably thought she was a weird, eccentric, pitiful girl who didn't keep commitments. Well, it didn't really seem to matter now. It wasn't as if she was going to go back ever. But she did miss it. A lot.
She continued to walk, her head bent low to keep the snow from blowing onto her face and into her eyes. Her job was thankless and repetitive, and although she had worked there for almost four months, the majority of the other employees didn't even know her name. It was almost a smack in the face when the woman who sat in an office right behind her asked her for it just last week. Still, it paid, and she was able to keep her apartment as well as put a small amount into her savings. She needed enough to buy a ticket back to Sweden as well as get set up in an apartment and find another job over there.
After a while, her teeth were starting to chatter, and she wondered if she ought to turn around and head back. She had walked quite a distance. Hopefully by the time she returned, it would be quiet upstairs so she wouldn't have to call and complain. She had already been dubbed as the weird neighbor; she didn't want to be the nagging one as well.
One final gust of freezing wind confirmed it, and she looked up to see which direction she needed to head to get back.
Somehow, she was both immensely surprised and not surprised at all to see that she was standing next to the Opera House.
For a long while, she gazed at it, now feeling oblivious to the cold. She hadn't been back here, not in all the long months she had been back, and it looked the same as ever. Without thought, her hand moved down to her pocket, grasping the key that she had carried around for months—not because it was useful, but because she couldn't bear to part with it. Her eyes strayed over to the alleyway where she knew the door was located.
She had never come this close to the Opera House before because she knew she wouldn't be able to resist. And she couldn't; she found her feet moving toward the door in the alleyway.
Thankfully, it unlocked smoothly, and she let herself in. It was still freezing cold in the building, but at least she was out of the snow, and she felt her way to the other side, feeling for the groove and fumbling with the cold flashlight. She clicked, but no light came on. The batteries were dead.
Several long moments passed, and she stood there, heart racing, wondering why on earth she had come back here, in a place full of so many mixed memories and feelings. Why had she done this? What was she going to prove?
As she thought this, she felt her eyes sting a little, and she wiped at them with her gloved hands hurriedly. She was tired, she knew. It was late, and she needed to go back to try to get a full night's sleep.
But instead of leaving, she threw the flashlight down, put a hand on the cold stone wall, and began her descent. She argued with herself every step of the way. Go back, go back, go back, her mind chanted at her, and she knew it was a good idea. If she went down too far, she might get lost and forget the way back up—and it was dark in those tunnels.
Still, she kept going forward. If she got to Erik's house, maybe she would be able to salvage some of his music, look around once more…Mr. Khan hadn't said much about Erik's death, only that he had been buried outside of the city in an unmarked grave. And Christine had hated that, because there was no way to go and mourn for him, no place to lay flowers and cry and wish things were different.
It was getting steadily colder the farther down she went. The air was stale, meaning the entryway was far behind her now. She looked back, which was stupid, as she could see nothing at all. When she came to forks or branches in the tunnels, she was able to navigate the first few by memory, but soon she was left standing there, thinking hard. And after five more minutes of wandering blindly, she knew she was completely lost.
She tried not to panic—but she did. She hurried down several tunnels, her breath coming fast, her heart racing, feeling closed in, trapped. The stone walls were endless. Nothing felt familiar, no direction seemed right. Everything was leading her to places she couldn't see, couldn't remember. Her hand was glued to the wall, as she was afraid to let go and wander around with no sense at all.
Why? Why had she felt this stupid need to come down here when she knew this would happen? Her cold, lumpy bed was waiting for her—alone but safe, and she had abandoned it all just to run around these tunnels in terror. She was trembling in fright and from the temperature, and with a shuddering gasp, she sat down, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes. She remembered those times Erik had led her through these tunnels confidently, her grabbing onto his sleeve. What had he said? If she got lost, she wasn't supposed to wander. She was supposed to sit and…sing.
Quietly, she began to do just that, knowing perfectly well that it would do nothing. There was no one down here to hear her, except maybe some spiders and rats. But she continued. She hadn't sung in months, and her voice was weak and out of practice.
I will always find you.
But the longer she sang, the worse she felt. There was no miraculous vision of Erik approaching. She was still alone, still freezing, and still horribly lost. She sang dozens of songs, everything she could remember from her repertoire, even old pop songs from the radio—anything.
With a cracked, trembling voice, she continued to whisper out her song, feeling more alone and lost and confused than ever before. Everything she had worked for, everything she had wanted, was all gone. Her father…dead, no matter how hard she tried to keep him alive. Her career—gone, even though she had wanted it so badly. And now…
A heaving, heavy gasp escaped her, and she finally broke down, sobbing loudly and uncontrollably. Her cries were ringing through, echoing slightly in the tunnels. These past months had shown her that she could continue with her life, but it would never be the life she wanted. This was her life, now: sad, confused, and completely alone.
She hadn't cried like this in such a long time—this complete abandonment of dignity, reserve, modesty, and courage. She was alone and afraid and more heartbroken than she had ever been. Gulping down air between her sobs, she wiped at her streaming eyes, but she continued to cry, long and hard.
Living by herself for four months had been difficult because there was no one else to distract her from her own depressing thoughts. Work managed to keep her mind busy…for a while, but when she returned back to her apartment and sat there, her thoughts drifted, and she always wondered if the pain and the frustration and the guilt would ever go away.
The guilt. It was worse than anything else. Why had she gone with Mr. Khan? Why hadn't she been more proactive? She had just stood there, looking between them, standing stupidly, silently, as they fought about her. If she had simply spoken up, intervened somehow…then maybe she wouldn't be here in the tunnels, freezing cold and sobbing fit to burst.
It was her father all over again. Why hadn't she looked harder? Been braver? The men she had cared about most had paid the ultimate price for her mistakes and her cowardice.
She looked up and into the darkness, wondering briefly if she would ever find her way back up. Somehow, the thought didn't bother her too much anymore. So what if she never came back? It wasn't as if anyone would miss her…She meant nothing to anyone anymore. Raoul wouldn't care that she was gone. She hadn't seen him in over three months, and that was all the better for him.
What was she to do now? Go on living and pretend like an entire year hadn't happened? Erase all the memories and emotions? Pretend as if she hadn't met the one man who understood the music like she did, who had made her feel more things than anything or anyone else? At that moment, if she had a chance to erase all of the memories, she would have taken it. Anything would have been better than the hurt and the pain.
The absence of music had hurt so much worse than she had thought. She hadn't even attempted going back to the Opera House, and she hadn't sung. The sight of her father's violin had been painful, so she had hidden it away in her closet, dreading the sight of it. She could never be satisfied now, not when she had heard true music and true genius.
When she paused to take some more breaths, she wiped at her eyes and heard a faint scuffling sound. It scared her immediately, and she momentarily debated getting up and running or staying very still and quiet. The quiet part was hard to come by, as she was hiccoughing and gasping softly as a result of her heavy tears.
Hoping it was nothing more than a rat, she waited for a few long minutes, but the sound didn't go away. It seemed to be getting louder. She crossed her arms over her chest, shrinking into herself and squeezing her eyes shut, even though she couldn't see anything anyway. For a few moments, she prayed intently.
Please, God, please—please, I won't think of suicide anymore, I promise, I'm so scared, please…
The shuffling was right near her, and she opened her eyes. There was a long moment of stillness.
"Who's there?" she whispered, trying to sound brave, but her cracked, trembling voice said otherwise.
Silence. She felt stupid. It was probably just a rat.
Then.
"Mechta?"
She would have recognized that voice anywhere, heard it cut through a cacophony of any sound, and she let out an anguished wail and grabbed the cold wall to scramble to her feet.
"Erik? What? What?"
He was silent again for a time. She was having a difficult time finding out where he was, and she groped around blindly, heaving on loud gasps, wanting to break down into sobs again.
He spoke again. "Un rêve?"
She laughed, bizarrely and anxiously. "A dream? No, Erik, I'm here. Tell me where you are." When she held her breath, she could hear him breathing, a heavy, rattling, ugly sound, and she drew closer to it. Her fingertips brushed some part of him—hard bone and cloth, and she curled her fingers in surprise.
"There," she said softly, reaching out again and grabbing onto him tightly. It was his forearm.
For a long minute, she stood there, unsure. Whenever she had (guiltily and sadly) imagined any reunion with Erik, she always imagined tight hugging and desperate kisses and promises to never leave again. However, Erik seemed to be…confused.
"Erik?" she tried again, wiping at her wet face. "It's me. Christine. I'm here."
"I know who you are," he snapped in sudden English, his voice curt but slurred heavily. "You always come back here—coming back here and making me wish I was dead!"
His talk was scaring her already. "No," she said shakily. "I've never…This is the first time I've been down here. Are you…? Were you imagining me, maybe? I'm real now." Carefully, she stepped closer and leaned over to embrace him. She pulled back instantly. He smelled of old laundry and sweat, all of it overwhelmed by a strong scent of stale alcohol.
"Are you drunk?" she demanded.
"No," he said curtly, though he swayed dangerously. "I am dreaming."
"I think you're drunk—not dreaming," she said, feeling incredibly sad and also a strong, inexplicable desire to laugh. This reunion with him was as unexpected and awkward as everything in their relationship had ever been.
"C'mon," she said, tugging on his arm. He stumbled forward a step. "Take me back to your home."
He grunted in irritation but did not protest further and began the slow walk back to his house. Soon Christine realized that he was leaning on her—at first impossible to tell, but the weight was coming, and she began to struggle a little. He seemed to be unsteady on his feet.
"You're too drunk to even walk," she said. They came to a divide in the tunnels. "Which way?"
When he was silent, she feared for a moment that he had forgotten, but soon he said, "Left," and they made their way through another long tunnel.
She wondered what was wrong with him. This was only the second time she had seen him like this—he was always so clean and polished.
"When was the last time you showered?" she asked, hoisting him up a little, her arm around his narrow waist.
"You're very rude," he said. "Why—why am I even taking you back with me? Perhaps I should just leave you here, to disappear as you always do…"
"Can it," she panted, feeling out-of-breath as they descended some more stairs. "Just tell me which way now."
Yet all of those other feelings were being overshadowed, crushed, by the warm, overwhelming joy of him being next to her. He was alive. He was alive and next to her and not dead. This feeling was worth those months of agony and depression. She would have waited ten years if only she knew she could have found him alive—he was worth it.
After another few laborious minutes, they were at his front door, and she checked; it was unlocked. Feeling her heart leap to her throat in pleasure and anticipation, she pushed it open, but she stopped short when she saw.
"Oh—oh, Erik…"
It was a disaster. His house had once been immaculate, everything organized neatly and all his possessions stored carefully. But now...There were countless books on the ground, loose pages lying idly on the grimy floor. Some of the furniture was tipped over. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, and the room felt cold, disused. A few of the light bulbs had gone out, and those that remained flickered feebly, giving the room an even lonelier feeling. She looked over at his piano. It, too, looked almost gray in the dim light, the dirt and grime thick on the body and the keys. He hadn't been playing…
He shifted a little by her, and she blinked. "Sorry. Yeah, let's go."
They walked through the room, and she opened the bedroom door, not expecting much better and sad when she was right. The bed sheets were hanging off one side, strewn across the floor. Old bowls, plates, and cups were littered across the room. All of his clothing was either on the floor or crumpled up at the bottom of the closet, and everything looked wrinkly and filthy. A package of moldy bread was there, as well as some stale crackers. And there were bottles of alcohol everywhere—empty ones on the floor, full ones on the bedside tables.
Her eyes were stinging with unshed tears as she looked at it all. He had obviously not been taking care of himself well.
"Okay," she said bracingly, though her voice was wavering. "Let's get to bed, c'mon, you're completely plastered."
He did not object as she pushed him onto the bed, and she got a look at him for the first time in almost six months. Even though she wanted to cry and hug him tightly and swear to never leave again, she had to grimace a little. He looked utterly woebegone. His hair was untidy and dirty. His shirt was hanging off one of his bony shoulders, several of its buttons missing and the bottom of it hanging over the waistband of his slacks. If possible, he looked skinnier than ever.
And his mask was off. Her stomach clenched tightly at seeing it again. At least this time he wasn't screaming at her—he still didn't even think she was real. Dark, clotted blood was gathered on his hollow cheeks, and she realized that it must have been from the cuts he had forced her to make. Somehow he had opened them up again. She shivered, not wanting to think any further.
He laid down at her request, and she pulled off his scuffed shoes before tugging the musty blankets back to their right spot and up to his chin, wishing she had something clean and warm for him.
"How's that?" she asked absently, smoothing the sheets. He was watching her closely, and she knew that he was completely out of it, otherwise he would've been making every attempt to hide his face from her.
"You're terribly beautiful…for a dream," he said.
She blushed and couldn't help a small smile creep onto her lips. It had been so long since someone had called her beautiful—and Erik never had.
"You're wasted," she replied, though she couldn't manage to get rid of the smile.
He grunted in an annoyed sort of way, but she put a careful hand on his chest, and tears filled her eyes as she continued to smile. It wasn't the romantic, desperate reunion she had wished for—but it was a reunion, and he was alive, and so was she, and at last they were together.