In frightened, dawdling tears, Christine had been determined to remain alert the entire night as to not become vulnerable to her monster of a husband. She had rolled onto her right side after his sudden outburst, angered by both her lack of remembrance and the cruelty with which she had been treated. If she had so much as felt his fingertips stroking her hair…
Her shoulders had been taut, her toes curled, and her hands coiled into fists as her eyes had begrudgingly stayed open. Ragged breathing had emanated from both.
It had been a single melody that had been her undoing. The notes had been velvety, heavenly, and filled with rich cinnamon undertones. How was it that someone with a demonic persona could emulate the voice of an archangel? It had caressed her ears and enticed a yawn from her lips. Her eyelids had suddenly bore an additional weight, and they struggled to remain open. It was as if the lullaby had held a position of great import in the life she could not remember… as if it were an angel singing instead of a man…
She gasped when she woke the next morning, tangled within the sheets, and then tensed as she felt no presence beside her. In vain, her eyes frantically scoured the room for any trace of her husband in the darkness. Not a single lit candle breached the shadows.
In her fright, she abruptly felt attuned to the sounds within the room: the ticking clock in the corner, her breathing, her thudding heart.
Suddenly claustrophobic in the darkness, she struggled to navigate through the room, tripping on the hem of her nightgown. She whimpered as she grasped her scraped knees before feeling along the sides of the stony wall, blindly searching for a handle. When at last she found it, she threw the door open, relieved to find it unlocked, and blinked into the sudden intensity of light.
After her sight adjusted, she glanced back into the room, eyes swiveling in search of a figure. Finding none, she sighed in relief before noticing a finely printed note on her husband's side of the bed.
Tentatively, she walked back into the room to pick up the heavy stationary. The inscribed red script was hardly decipherable:
Dearest Christine,
How can I apologize for last night's occurrences? Your dear husband is having trouble adjusting to your new condition, but that does not justify his abominable actions. I know I scarcely have the right to ask, but could you forgive your husband his abhorred rashness?
Yours,
Erik
Then, scribbled as if in afterthought: I have travelled to the marketplace this morning. I shall return by noontime. Your breakfast is in the dining room.
Several sentences had been blotted out with his scarlet ink, and she was left to aimlessly ponder what the note had said in its entirety. Questions ran through her mind in an angry swarm: could she forgive- and trust- her supposed husband? She wanted to remember, that was all! Wanted to remember the life she once had! She shut her eyes in concentration, her entire face contorting at the intensity.
Her only memory was bright and warm. The sun ensconced her skin as the sand between her toes scorched her feet. But it was a familiar warmth, and was welcomed with the cool foam that rolled up the shoreline. The wind caused wispy tendrils of her hair to dance behind her. A body was pressed close to hers. It was a figure she recognized: her father. He was hunched in concentration, gnarled hands grasping the bow with gentle reverence. She had long since forgotten the tune, but recalled the splendor quite clearly. At the reluctant end of the song, his mouth opened to laugh, and she remembered it to be a deep, melodic one that shook his entire body. When she hugged him, she could feel the reverberations in her own. Then he whispered in her ear, "Remember, little one, that I love you." The memory ended with his hand clasping her tiny one.
No other memories slipped into her thoughts. Lowering shakily to the ground, eyes closed, lips curved downwards, and hands grasped fiercely at the ground, she thought, who else can I turn to? Is there anyone else? What is this lightless place? Hell?
In despair, she felt she needed see the sun. To be reminded of its comforting, secure, constant warmth. Where was the front door…? She stood in a sudden flurry of fabric. Spotting the grand oak door, she ran as briskly as her nightgown would allow towards it, and then turned the handle once, twice, three times… to no avail. With a whimper, she sunk the floor once more. Another tear slipped down the familiar path of her cheek.
Above ground, Erik stole through the avenues of Paris, hidden in the shadowed alleys that separated les magasins. The sun hung low in the sky—a mere sliver above the horizon. Nestled in the alleys through which Erik slunk were the beggars and homeless. With nonchalance and dexterity, he would occasionally drop spare change while remaining unseen. More fortunate men and women were scattered across the city preparing for market day by filling their stalls with the week's crops, animals, and trinkets.
Erik had ventured out for a singular purpose that morning: to acquire the basic necessities. He was adept at the art of crime, and was easily able to filch the items he required with great poise and speed. This morning, however, his ever-wandering eyes caught bright petals in their peripheries. A peculiar conversation resounded in his mind:
"Ah, Angel, to smell the wildflowers!" She dreamed wistfully, "They exude such fragrant blossoms at the marketplace. But I'll bet it doesn't hold a candle to how they smell in the wild. If I had the luxury of visiting the country," she sighed, "that should be the very first thing I would do."
Surely the procuring of her favorite flower could not hurt his chances of forgiveness.
He returned that afternoon to the cellars, packages securely in place beneath his arms. He found his beloved seated in his grandiose velvet-lined chair that was situated by the hearth. The small fire he had started that morning had become but dying embers. Her hands were folded neatly on her lap, and the smart dress she wore was now tattered at the hem. She gazed at the spitting ashes, wrapped in morose musings.
Even upon his arrival, she continued to be absorbed in her thoughts.
"My dear?" he called, "Would you care to join me in the kitchen?"
Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head.
"Please, dearest?" he called again, voice strained. She offered no response.
"You will come into the kitchen!" he shouted, jarring her. She stood immediately, and reluctantly tore herself away from the flames.
Her eyes were distrustful and her arms crossed as she approached him.
When she stopped a distance of several feet from him, he neared her- much to her disdain- and conjured a magic trick, reaching behind her ear to brandish the wildflowers in a colorful swoop and sleight of hand.
She startled before lowering her crossed arms to wonderingly reach out and trail her index finger down one of the gently sloping yellow petals, "This is my favorite flower," she stated confidently. Erik nodded.
As she glanced downwards, he noticed her shabby appearance and red-rimmed eyes with a start, "Christine!" he cried, "Is my bride upset?" now with a sheen of tears over his eyes as well, "Oh, Christine, Erik should have never done as he did last night! His conduct was monstrous!" he kneeled to the ground in despair, kissing the tail of her gown, "Please forgive him! It will never happen again! Erik will be a good husband!"
Her eyes widened at his acutely abrupt change in character. And as the sobs grew louder, she began to feel a sharp stab of pity for the man before her, despite her anger. She couldn't bring herself to answer his desperate pleas, but, feeling a potent mixture of affection and fright, sunk to the ground and brought her hand to brush away the strands of his hair that had fallen over the edges of the mask.
The mask, she remembered as she saw his idiosyncrasy, What is beneath it...? She wasn't given much time to ponder the thought, however, as the tormented cries immediately concluded, leaving naught but broken breaths and a heaving, skeletal body in its wake.
Erik spoke again, voice shaking, "Will you… sing?"
"I do not know how," she answered, "My voice was never trained…" she trailed off, again reliving her single memory.
He gasped, "But, my dear child, it was! Your angel of music brought you under his tutelage!" he replied, desperate for the stability of their music.
"Angel of music?" she asked uneasily.
"I shall tell you of the story later," he stated as he stood to his full height before reaching out to assist her, "For now, sing."
She nodded apprehensively as he stalked to another room in the house, "I—I suppose I can try."
A/N: A huge thank you to all my reviewers/alerters/favoriters! :) They keep my muse musing. This is mostly a 'calm-before-the-storm' chapter, but the next chapter will really heat up!