Standard disclaimers apply.
Something in her has changed, something else this time, and it's undeniably not for the better.
She recovers, slowly but steadily, from the blood loss, and he wonders whether her emotional recovery will be as painless. He needn't have worried. The nightmares are all but gone now, and though the dark circles don't disappear from beneath her eyes, it's rare that he'll hear her crying over the course of the night. She hasn't talked about Raoul in weeks, but now the unborn baby and the young stagehand are all but ignored as well. If he so much as mentions the opera house, she laughs gently and changes the subject.
It's not that she's lost the ability to care, hardened by one tragedy after the next. It wouldn't surprise him if that were the case — after all, isn't that what happened to him? Nothing short of her own voice snatched him back from the edge where humanity was all but inconsequential in the grand scheme of his plan.
But she does care, about some things at least.
He finds a small mouse in the cabinet one day, trying desperately to work its way into a small package of crackers. It must be winter outside now — most other sources of food have disappeared into the snow. He takes it quickly to the lake, worried enough about impending infestation that he doesn't notice her approach as he's dangling it above the water.
"What are you doing?" her horrified voice behind him gasps.
"We don't want to be overcome by vermin, Christine," he says, slightly agitated. He's not sure why he has to explain himself to her.
"It's just a little mouse," she counters, taking it gently from his hands. "How could you even think of hurting something so innocent?"
He lets her take it across the lake and release it on the banks, where it darts immediately for the tunnels. She smiles at him on the way back, looking for all the world like an angel who was tasked with stopping sins.
If only that were true.
He'd like to think she cares about him as well. It certainly seems that way sometimes, late at night when there's nothing but the cold sheets and their skin, when she whispers his name against his throat in a way he thought no one ever would. But she doesn't seek him out anymore, doesn't sit by the piano as his fingers coax a new melody into the world. Sometimes, he wonders if she truly notices him at all.
The thing that's really wrong, though, is the singing.
It's nothing more than a murmur, a few bars of an aria hummed in the bath or while brushing her hair. He's not even sure she realizes she's vocalizing the notes out loud. But that soft voice, unchanged in its innocence and sweetness since her opera days, sends goosebumps racing down his arms. Now, however, it's not a good feeling. There's an eerie emptiness to her tone.
The apprehension culminates the morning he sees her staring blindly off into space, cradling her thin stomach and whispering a crooning song. Memories he'd tried to forget as well — the baby, the blood, everything she'd done — come rushing back, and he has to stop her.
"Christine," he says gently, pulling her hands away from her stomach and wrapping them in his own. "There's nothing there."
She only looks at him strangely, as though he's lost his mind. "Of course not," she murmurs, taking her hands back and wringing them together. "I know."
Then she slips away, picking up a book from the table and disappearing into her room. The song he hears this time is slightly darker in tone, but lilting all the same.
Hey guys! Sorry it's been so long. I'm sort of back (done working anyway) ... but I just started college so I'm not sure how much time I'll have.
Reviews are confidence boosters. And an incentive to do my homework fast :)
Much love,
KnightNight