Disclaimer: NOTHING!! Nothing, darn it!!
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The rest of the day passed by in a flurry of sound so angelic I didn't think a being other than God Himself could be its creator.
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My father had been the most brilliant musician I ever knew.
I was ashamed to say I started thinking of that in the past tense.
"Had been."
--
I began to cross myself frequently in Erik's presence. He was not God; that I was assured of. Which only left Satan able to entrance me with such harmonies. I was prepared to do anything if only that his music would continues. Murder- torture- kidnap- anything. All Erik (Satan? God?) would have had to do was snap his fingers and I would have become his servant: a mindless, eager drone.
I crossed myself once more. Surely God—merciful God—would not abandon me in this trial.
Once again did my fingers find their way to each point: forehead, heart, side, side, repeat...
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I began to feverishly peer about. Where were his wings? An angel would have wings. Where were they?
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Erik put his hand on the small of my back.
"Lift your head more, girl," he muttered. "Good—good. So, we've got the bit—the basic tune—constructed, wouldn't you say?"
I nodded dumbly. That—that elaborate, heavenly melody was basic?
Erik stood up from the piano bench; I followed him from my collapsible lawn chair we had borrowed (begged for; stolen; extorted) from Carlotta. He dragged a couch aside to reveal a harp, shining and pristine. "We could do this—" his fingers plucked out an ethereal melody from the taut strings—"or this." The long, spindly, calloused digits repositioned themselves on those strings and poured out a different melody. When he stopped, I felt my eyes dampen from awe at the beauty and sorrow at the ending. "We could do either one in the second half of the composition. I..." he paused, studying me intently. I barely noticed the corner of his mask slipping. "I am trying..." he started again, "to determine which would compliment your voice more."
And so the music started again.
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I had never sung so much since my poor father died.
I briefly explored singing as a career before falling into the arms of Madame Giry.
I was fifteen.
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Poor Father.
The doctors couldn't do anything for him, in the end; they propped him up with pillows and filled his ears with the utterly nonmusical shrill beeps of the various monitors engulfing him.
They had to lop off his hand; they thought it would keep the infection from spreading. Then, afterwards, they only told us "how sorry" they were, filling his ears with more useless sound.
And his voice was gone, too; hidden by the plastic tube shoved in his throat and the steady growling hiss of the respirator.
He lost his ears; his hands; his voice...
He couldn't even tell me goodbye.
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Erik alternated between the harp and the piano for the rest of the first day.
I was harmonizing with the blissfully pungent notes reverberating off the harp when he added his own voice smoothly. I was aware of nothing except an inexplicable heightened state of musical euphoria for about three minutes.
Then I stopped.
Then he stopped.
Irritated.
I cried.
"Please, please!" I wept. "Don't stop singing—oh, please! Pl—"
The rest of my cries were drowned out in his comforting voice.
It had an aura unlike anything quite like I had ever heard before. A property that I couldn't even begin to describe coherently; while he sang I was his puppet. I would like to say that somewhere in the back of my mind I was aware that his voice would be like a drug, a drug of t he best (worst) kind. But I couldn't say that, couldn't say that I knew that, because it wasn't true. Every corner of my existence was filled with Erik's voice.
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After a while in this fashion he instructed me to continue singing by myself. I looked up at him filled with despair and then saw the look he awarded me; no one could disobey that look.
He had me try more complex vocalizations now; arpeggios so fast they left me breathless, and crescendos so intense I saw spots. But he wasn't satisfied; and I had to please my angel; so I sang until I could sing no more.
And then I took a deep breath, and continued singing.
--
I was in the middle of a long, drawn-out, airy note when he beckoned for me to fall silent.
"Hush," he said. "Sit down." He motioned to the polished piano bench. I sat, and watched him go to his miniscule kitchen. A squeak, and I heard water pouring out into a glass. A slam of a cupboard door, another squeak, and he returned to me with a glass of water. I anxiously took it from him and started to gulp it down.
"Not so fast," Erik said warningly. I slowed down. "Save some." I stopped drinking. He laughed. "So obedient."
He sat down across from me on the cluttered couch. I frowned. "Aren't we—aren't we going to keep going?"
The corners of his mouth turned down just the slightest bit. "In a while, Christine. You need to rest your voice. What a pretty position we would be in if you lost your voice." I nodded slowly, seeing the truth of this. A blotch of discolored skin was peeping out on his forehead. I narrowed my eyes in concentration and stared hard. His eyes turned crimson and he hiked his mask up.
We were silent for several moments.
"Aren't you going to drink any water?" I asked hesitantly.
"No," he said shortly. "I don't need any."
--
We sat like that for about twenty minutes.
There was no sound.
No music.
No music.
--
While I continued to sit in silence, faintly sipping my water, Erik began scratching music notes feverishly onto a piece of paper. His hand was a flurry, dashing from one side of the page to another faster than I had ever seen another human being do.
Gulping down a mouthful of water, I crossed myself.
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For several hours, the only sound in the room was the scritch of Erik's mechanical pencil across paper. I fidgeted lazily, waiting for the moment when we could begin creating harmonies once more.
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I feel asleep.
I dreamt of my father.
Father's fingers, bloody and ashen, plucked at a lyre until his figure exploded into dust and blades of grass. I tried to run to him, but hands, strong hands, grasped at me, holding me back; ripping off my clothes and through it all sang an angel's voice.
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"What key?" he asked suddenly.
I looked up, confused.
"What key?" he asked again, a note of childish, pleading desperation bleeding into his voice.
I told him my recommendation, and he nodded fervently before scratching it down.
--
Erik stopped abruptly. He checked his watch. I stared at him sleepily.
"Oh," he murmured softly. "You're tired, aren't you?" I managed to roll my head in confirmation once. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Wait here for one more moment, Christine." He disappeared down the hallway and into a room, and I heard a quick rustling sound before he darted back out, tossing a bundle of sheets in his arms on the floor. He took my arm gently and helped me into his bedroom.
"I changed the sheets for you," he said softly. "You can sleep in this." He handed me a button-front shirt delicately. "I'll, er—" He started to turn away. I didn't care. I sleepily took off my clothes and put on the shirt he offered me, and there was a minute when I was only in my undergarments. I could tell he was staring at me, even though I wasn't looking at him. I didn't care. It wasn't something I wasn't used to.
I got into bed gingerly. Erik helped me pull the covers up to my neck, and they brushed against my bruises.
"Goodnight," I mumbled tiredly.
"Goodnight, Christine." He started to leave, to turn out the lights.
"Wait," I said. "Will you sing me a lullaby?"
A pause.
"Not tonight."
The light switched off and the door closed.
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A/N: I... am... so... sorry. That wait was CRIMINAL, it was so long. I hope y'all (hahaha, "y'all"... I feel all rustic now XD) aren't too peeved at me for that wait... if it's any consolation, the next few chapters are in the works. I hope to get chapters four, five, and perhaps six written this weekend, and then typed up during the week. I PROMISE you guys you shall not wait that long for a chapter again if I can help it!
Regardless, did you enjoy this chapter? I wrote it in a bit of a different style on purpose, what did you think? Please review!