Thank you all for your reviews! I've been more of an action/suspense writer, and so it's been a little challenging to do domestic scenes. I hope that they continue to be interesting.
I want to apologize to those who thought Christine was pregnant in the last chapter. Many of you got that impression, which shows that I should have worded the section differently. E/C is a very, very long way from that, but I am sorry if I disappointed those who wanted to see it happen.
Thanks again to all those who continue to read. Thanks to MadLizzy for her help with editing.
Read and Review!
When Erik came home that night holding a handful of flowers, she wasn't sure what to expect. A few darker possibilities passed through her mind (flowers for a funeral, my love!), but she shoved them away in shame. "Erik," she began, wanting to tell him that they wouldn't take the money, not if it upset him this much. She hoped the stupid money hadn't already caused a catastrophe. "We won't take the-"
Erik interrupted her, seemingly calm. "My Christine. We will accept the funds. Or we will ensure that they are secure and then take them." He handed her the small bouquet.
"Are you sure?" she asked, briefly wondering why the flowers still had dirt covering the bottoms of the stems. "You're okay with it?"
"Yes," he replied. "Yes. And there will be no more discussion."
"Where did you go?"
A pause. "I paid a visit to Mr. Lewis."
Christine's heart jumped. "You went to Gavin? What did you…say to him?"
"He assured me that the money was secure. But still make sure it goes through Mr. Lewis. If it is a trap of some sort, he will suffer for it. Not us."
She waited for more and hoped that poor Gavin wasn't scared out of his mind.
"I wonder if Mr. Lewis survived," Erik added after a few seconds.
"Erik!"
His eyes glimmered, and she knew he was toying with her. "I did nothing," he continued. "But his wife could have killed him. You are a much better wife. She will not be silent."
"Did she see you?"
"Of course not."
Christine relaxed. "That's probably good." She filled a plastic glass with cold water, set the flowers inside, and placed it in the center of the coffee table. The flowers bobbed up and down until the stems settled at the bottom. Erik slowly removed his mask and massaged his temples. Now that he didn't wear it as often, the heavy porcelain mask seemed to bother him more.
Even if she didn't know the details, Christine sensed that it had been a difficult decision."Thank you, Erik," she murmured, walking forward and kissing his jaw. "I think the money really might help us if we're careful with it."
"It is for you only."
"No. It's for both of us. After everything you went through, you deserve something. Nothing can ever make up for all that…."
"Your flowers." Erik changed the subject. "I have never retrieved them for anyone. But I was informed that females like them."
"Females do," she agreed with a soft laugh. "I like them."
"Good. You will have more."
They shared a tranquil night together with no more talk of the money. Whatever happened with Gavin seemed to have a positive effect on her husband's mind; he was calm and lucid.
Erik did, however, react more quickly to their new fortune than she would have preferred.
The next morning, she readied for work as always, slipping on a pair of heavier grey slacks and a white blouse. It was probably time to pull out the autumn jacket as well. In a couple of months, she would need the heavy winter coat. Maybe Erik would like a long, black, wool one. She'd seen some at the department stores a week ago, and-
"You do not need to go now," Erik stated from the doorway, interrupting her thoughts. "You can stay here. We do not need their petty salary." He distastefully pulled at the blouse with his thumb and index finger, as though trying to get it off of her.
Christine took his hand before he tore a hole in her clothes. "Well, I want to keep working until we decide what to do. It can't hurt to have money."
"Why would you want to go there?"
"I like to get out during the day," she admitted. "To do something useful…get some sun…."
"You need sunlight," he agreed. "The Iranian once said so."
"It doesn't hurt. You should probably get some, too."
He ignored her last statement. "But you must pursue other things now. Your music and schooling and such. Not this waste of time taking commands from ignorant halfwits."
She shrugged. The thought of resuming school and a musical career was a little overwhelming. "Oh. Maybe. I don't know if I'll go back."
"But you must. It is your destiny."
"Oh, Erik. That's silly."
His eyes narrowed, and he gripped her hand as he directly faced her. His voice took on a more demanding tone. "Either you quit that wretched job and pursue your music, or we will live in isolation and you will never have sunlight. I will not have my wife doing this day after day forever. She will either shine for the world to worship or be mine alone. She will not work at the whims of others."
"You can't tell me what to do." Her statement came out weaker than she would have liked. "Maybe I like my job right now."
"Yes, I can see how much you like it. I have seen men take more joy out of being tortured to death than you take out of that job."
She put on a disgusted face. In reality, Erik's comments were becoming less and less shocking to her. "That's not true."
"It is," he replied. After releasing her hand and darting behind her, he wrapped an arm around her waist. She couldn't see his face, which likely emboldened him. "Perhaps we should use the funds to build a small home…far, far away from everyone else and everything…and you will do nothing but keep house and sing for me. Unless you wish to reconsider, my wife." A touch of humor seeped into his voice as he spoke directly into her ear.
Christine did consider it—not because she necessarily believed his threat but because Erik's suggestion wasn't exactly a bad one. Not wanting to completely reject the proposal or easily give into his forceful demands, she offered him a bargain. "I'll apply to schools if you let me show someone your music."
Erik was silent for several seconds. "Only if it is under your name."
"But I don't want people thinking I'm a brilliant composer. What if they want me to play something?"
Erik released her, and she turned around to face him. "There are two things that would destroy my sanity," he began. "One of them is people near me. I do not want to be known or bothered or noticed. I do not want them; they would not want me."
She sighed. "You could be anonymous, then."
"That is truly the only possibility."
"What's the other thing?" she asked.
"The other what?"
"The other thing that would destroy your…." She didn't even have to finish the sentence; the answer was in his eyes. "Never mind. Your sanity is going to be fine. Better than fine." She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the temple. Now that she was facing him, he was less bold. "I'll think about it. And we'll do…something good for ourselves." He seemed content with the answer and allowed her to go to work.
She considered returning to college over the next week, knowing that spring deadlines were quickly approaching. It was unlikely that Erik could ever get a formal education unless he pursued a degree over the Internet. As of now, she didn't think he'd want to be bothered with it. Erik was still against much of legitimate society, and he hated the institutions that had rejected him when he was younger.
That meant that she needed to take a step forward for both of their futures, even if it was a little terrifying. She'd always meant to get some sort of music degree; her father and Erik had taken priority over her education, though, and it had never worked out. Maybe now was the time to try again.
So Erik got his way.
"Will you help me prepare for the auditions?" Christine later asked as she filled out her applications. She'd only applied to schools within or nearby the city so that they didn't have to disrupt their lives (not to mention Erik's sanity) with another move. Some of the applications were for general colleges, and others were specifically for the arts. She wondered if having her name in the news over the last year would help or hurt her.
"We will not rest until you are perfect," he replied. "They will fall upon their knees and weep at the sound of your voice. Or they had better if they know what is good for them."
She stared at the applications, wondering if she'd actually get through college in the third round…or even if she'd be accepted this time. Old insecurities crept up on her and twisted her stomach into a knot. "I might not get in, Erik." She didn't want to disappoint him.
He touched her hair. "That is ridiculous. You will."
"I might not."
"You will. And if not, the colleges do not deserve you. And I will burn them to the ground for their insolence. How is that?"
With the exception of the arson threat, it was exactly what she needed to hear. Even if she failed, Erik would always be on her side.
By setting up the fund for Christine and her…husband, Raoul was able to take a needed step forward. He slept a little easier at night knowing that she was doing well. If Gavin had given any sign that Christine was in danger, Raoul would have taken an overnight flight to Boston. As long as she was safe, though, he would ensure her financial stability and then let it go.
Even if he felt better about Christine, though, Raoul was still stuck in his solitude. He'd had a few dates that didn't work out. His house on the outskirts of Chicago was too large and empty for one person. He also returned to his old offices and helped with some of the matters involving the liquidation and lawsuit settlements for Falcon. The building was three-fourths empty, and those who were there didn't seem happy to see him.
While they were standing in the elevator, one guy wearing a crooked red tie finally spoke to him. "Why the hell didn't you just leave it alone?"
Raoul had glanced up. "Didn't you see the news? Why do you think I didn't leave it alone?"
The guy rolled his eyes. "So a few people in some screwed up third-world country blamed the company for all their problems? And now we all lose our jobs? But I'm sure you've got a hell of a fortune saved away. No problem for you to decide what was ethical, and screw everyone else!"
"You have no idea what you're talking about," Raoul replied as the elevator opened, keeping an even tone. "Actually people like you were most of the problem." He left the guy standing there uttering a string of curses. By the end of the week, the guy had been fired-not that it mattered much now. There was no use trying to explain to some people. The media didn't help either. Yesterday, he'd heard about some international feminist organization announcing that Leonie was nothing but a scapegoat. Raoul had nearly hurled the remote control at the television.
Over the last several weeks, his upper back and shoulders had started to ache. A chiropractor told him that it was likely caused by stress and that he probably needed a vacation.
"I just took a vacation," he replied.
The older woman shrugged and said, "Try changing mattresses and pillows, then."
More to get out of the house than anything else, he visited a store that sold a variety of novelty products. There were specially made pillows and mattresses that conformed to the body, outdoor equipment, expensive office supplies, pool tables, arcade games, fitness equipment, and furniture that gave massages. All in all, it was a place where people with disposable income could come and play.
A twenty-something curly-haired brunette helped him find more comfortable pillows and a mattress. He also picked up a handheld video game to help pass the long hours. He could see the girl watching him out of the corner of his eye and guessed that she knew who he was. Her ankle-length, patchwork skirt and longer hair gave her the appearance of a hippy. She probably hated him over all the environmental stuff. At least she was helpful, though, and he left in an okay mood.
He returned to the store two days later to buy a hammock. The same girl was there reading a book on her break, and a grey-haired, gruff woman who constantly muttered under her breath helped him at the register. Raoul left the store in a slightly worse mood and decided not to come back.
"Mr. Chagny!"
Raoul cringed in the middle of the parking lot as his name was called out, praying it wasn't a reporter. Every so often, they still crawled out from under the rocks. The brunette from the store was waving outside the entrance. He stopped, and she quickly walked toward him. "Yeah?" he asked.
"You left your credit card on the counter." She held it out, and he took it. "My grandma was convinced you wanted us to have it, but I managed to pry it out of her hands."
"Oh. Thanks! Yeah. That was stupid of me."
"No problem. Have a good weekend. And come back next week for our sales." She turned and walked back to the store, her sandals clicking against the pavement.
The girl's mention of her grandmother put an idea into his head, and Raoul was surprised that he hadn't thought of it before. He didn't have to be completely alone. After making some phone calls, he drove to his great aunt's house in Wisconsin for the weekend. Auntie Ellen, a former elementary school teacher, had been his mother's favorite aunt.
As with many families, his mother's side had never been crazy about his father. Although they were fairly wealthy, his mom's family was also more traditional and saw his dad as an uptight European aristocrat who took their daughter away from her home. The last time he'd seen any of them was at Phillip's funeral. He hadn't seen some of his cousins in years.
Raoul received a giant bear hug after he arrived and rang the musical doorbell.
"I've heard about everything!" his great aunt exclaimed. "There were so many times that I wanted to reach you, but I didn't want to put everyone here under the spotlight. I didn't even know how to reach you most of the time. Heavens. I didn't even know what was going on half the time. You can't trust the news anymore."
"It's all right," he replied. "There's not much anyone could have done. It was better that you stayed out of it."
"What a mess it was!"
"Yep. It was."
Aunt Ellen shook her head and guided him inside the two-story brick home by the shoulder. "You know, your mother never liked some of those people. I remember her coming here after she returned from her honeymoon in Paris. I asked her how the wedding was. She said, 'Oh, auntie! The wedding was lovely. And Louis was wonderful. But this pretty blonde girl, one of Louis' partners, whispered that I looked like a mouse. Do I really look like a mouse?' I don't think your mother was always happy about what went on. But she wanted to stand by your father."
Raoul swallowed, bitterly wishing for a moment that someone would have stood by him. "He was a good man."
"That may be. I always thought he worked too much."
"He did," Raoul reluctantly agreed, hoping the conversation would head in a different direction. Thankfully, they were soon greeted by his great uncle and some cousins who slapped him on the back and took him into the living room to eat chips and watch a college football game.
Over the next few autumn days, he played touch football in the backyard, ate home-cooked meals, and enjoyed the season. He even allowed his younger cousins to pour fallen leaves on him, and then he helped them rake the leaves into a pumpkin-shaped bag. He'd always liked kids; sometimes he missed being one himself. To his relief, no one ever mentioned Christine.
Raoul wanted to stay longer but knew he was avoiding his problems at work. He did vow to visit more often and intended to stick to that promise. His relatives all wished him the best and gave him leftovers to take back with him.
After he got home, he visited the novelty store again to buy a flexible lamp for his office. This time the brunette was entering the store to begin work, wearing jeans and a navy blue t-shirt. She was carrying the long skirt and sandals under her arm. Maybe she only changed into the outfit for work to add to the relaxed atmosphere.
"Glad to see you back," she said, holding open the door for him.
"Thanks. I didn't bring my credit card this time."
"Good thing grandma isn't here, or she'd be disappointed." She gave him a half-smile. "How can I help you today?"
"I want a lamp." He paused. "Maybe a new grill, too. I don't like the one I have now."
Raoul shopped there five more times before he finally asked her out on a date. "Just for coffee or something," he said.
She looked a little hesitant but said, "Yes, I'll go have coffee." She used a tone of voice that said she would only have coffee. Raoul guessed that she must have seen a few of the tabloid headlines. To his shame, some of them were true. He'd lost his head in London for a few months. It wasn't a surprise that she was a little wary.
That was okay, though. He was wary, too.
Ever since Mr. Lewis' call regarding the funds, the ringing of the phone always made him cringe. Usually it was a telemarketer or a pollster or someone from Christine's horrid job. Still, he was always nervous that something would intrude into his home. Christine always told him to relax.
But that was difficult when he had a mother who had snapped at him at least ten times a day…or when he never knew just who would enter his prison cell…or when he flew from place to place to avoid capture for his gruesome offenses.
The phone rang in mid-October, and Christine answered. When she gave a little squeal, he ran to her and nearly pulled out the lasso, ready to destroy whatever had caused her to make such a noise. She saw him and mouthed, "Gavin and Marisol had their baby!"
"Oh." He sat back down and awkwardly listened to her congratulate Mr. Lewis about fifty times. It was a topic he preferred to avoid.
He had never killed a child. Even in his moments of dark madness, it had simply never served a purpose. There were points where he'd come across children during his raids of homes. But he'd allowed them to run away screaming as he searched for his main targets. Children were supposed to be innocent and helpless-his antithesis. And so he ignored them completely.
Christine was his, and he would not allow an infant to take her away.
Fortunately, after hanging up, she said nothing except, "I'm glad it went well for them." She kissed the top of his head and nuzzled his death's cheek with her nose. He made a noise that was somewhere between a grunt and a purr.
The event did put her in a strangely festive sort of mood. A ceramic white ghost found its way onto their coffee table, and paper bats were suddenly taped on their front windows. He knew he was in trouble when she came home from work carrying two giant, orange, round things.
"Why?" he managed to ask as he stared at the objects, his arms limp at his sides.
"They're pumpkins," she said with a grin. "I bought two to carve." She nearly dropped one as she set them on the kitchen table.
He glared at the objects. Of all the holidays, this particular one both irritated and intrigued him the most. Many idiots decorated themselves to be as hideous as possible. They took pleasure in hanging skeletons, fake blood and organs, and the concept of death in general.
Why take pleasure in it only one day of the year? he wanted to ask. But, of course, none of it was real to them. If they had seen an actual eyeball hanging from its socket, they would not have found a fake one so damned amusing, he was sure. And if they had truly possessed a face that looked like a rotting skull, they would not have eagerly purchased one from a costume store.
He attempted to push his darker contemplations out of his mind and allow his wife to enjoy her festivities. Her youth was showing itself after a long absence, and he had missed the innocent sparkle in her eyes. Plus, he enjoyed watching her do her activities. His wife in his house doing wifely things. It sent a little thrill through him.
To put it kindly, though, his wife was not skilled at the task of carving her orange fruit, even while using a paper pattern. A little over a week later, he heard her make noises of frustration as she dug the jagged utensils into the orange flesh.
At some point, she dropped the tool and stared with dismay at what was meant to be a cat in a witch's hat. "I should have done the triangle eyes and nose face. This is awful."
"It is…perhaps you should sing," he replied, stroking her hair. "That is your forte. This is useless nonsense."
"But I wanted it to look nice." She looked up at him with a frown. "Erik? Will you carve the other one?"
"No. I do not wish to."
"Please?" Her eyes got wider. "I want to see what yours looks like."
"No."
"Please, Erik?"
"I hate it." He realized that he sounded like a five-year-old. But why must she ask such things of him?
"Fine." She folded her arms. After a second, she stood and began to pull the intestinal seeds out from the inside. "I'm going to cook them," Christine indignantly declared.
Of course, he finally sat down and carved the vile thing for her. He felt he was somehow ruining her holiday if he did not. And he had made her sing for many hours over the past few weeks in preparation for auditions. And she had rescued him from his own personal hell.
He found the most disturbing pattern he could find of a skeleton hanging from a bare-branched dead tree. She turned and watched him as he worked, her lips twitching upwards with delight.
He pretended the object was something other than a stupid fruit. The knife made a nice half-thudding, half-squishing sound as it entered the pumpkin's irritatingly bright skin. Squish, thud, squish, thud….
Once upon a time, there had been a particularly vile prison guard with a particularly nasty laugh. And well…in the end, the guard had been left without eyes, a nose, ears, and a tongue. So carving into the fruit was not new territory. He did not inform Christine of this, though.
"Erik. It's wonderful," she said when he was done. Christine sighed with a mixture of admiration and lighthearted jealousy. "It looks even better than the pattern. It's perfect."
"It is…nothing to be proud of." He rose and washed his hands of the sticky juice in disgust.
"You always do everything so well, without even trying." She picked up the fruit. "Have you done it before?"
"Of course not." He watched her leave with the orange thing. "What in the devil's name are you doing with it?"
"Putting it out front for everyone to see. I'm going to put a candle inside."
"Why?"
"Because I want them to see it. If you're not going to let anyone hear your music, I'm at least going to show them your pumpkin."
He was helpless to do anything by that point. Well, he could have smashed the thing, but Christine would have cried.
He stayed in the bedroom while Christine answered the door for the rest of the evening, confining himself to a wooden chair in a dark corner. Earlier, he had told her that she could participate in the ritual as long as he did not have to do so. Even if it was a holiday where his grotesque appearance might actually be appreciated, he did not want to be gawked at by children. He also kept his mask on in case someone entered their home. And the lasso was always nearby.
Although he attempted to concentrate on his composition, the voices and laughter at the front door interrupted his thoughts. He cringed at every compliment that was directed at the carved fruit.
"Oh!" A woman's voice rang out. "What a great pumpkin design. All that detail. And so scary! I wish I could carve mine that well."
Idiot.
He did enjoy the happy tone in his Christine's voice. "Hi there!" she greeted the loud intruders. "You must be a vampire. And you're a princess. And you're…um…."
"A salamander," came the high-pitched reply of a boy. (A small boy-not an older, vile one.)
"Oh. I see," Christine replied with a light laugh. "That's unique. Do you want chocolate or bubble gum?"
Although he liked her laughter, he looked forward to the moment when he would receive her full attention again. And that moment came within the next thirty minutes.
"Did you enjoy yourself?" he asked when she entered the room carrying an empty plastic bowl.
"Yes. It was fun. I ran out of candy, but I'm too tired to go buy more."
"Ah. Well, they do not need more." I need you.
She tilted her head and stared at him. "You kept your mask on all this time?"
"It seemed wise." He fidgeted, knowing that he must look pathetic, hunched over in the dark corner by himself.
She reached down to remove the mask, gently touched the places where it had rubbed his skin raw, and sighed. "I didn't want you to be miserable tonight. I always…this time of year was always fun when I was younger. My dad…Well, never mind. Sometimes I get caught up in something and…and I'm so sorry, Erik. It was probably too soon for all this. Next year, we'll keep the lights off."
He desperately searched for the right words, to say what needed to be said. "Christine." That was always the easiest word.
"Yes?" She stood above him, waiting.
"Christine." He knew how to threaten and mock. He knew how to compliment her, and he'd been learning to turn his morbid sarcasm into more innocuous humor that made her laugh. But it was still difficult to explain himself; he didn't even understand himself. "Chris…tine. I have…never participated…in celebrations…. And this particular day…." He grimaced. "But you should enjoy it if it pleases you."
Before he could react, she was suddenly sitting in his lap. "We'll find a happy medium for the holidays," she stated, resting her head on his shoulder and trying to get comfortable on his skeletal legs. "Some of them are less hectic than others."
"What occurs on the next one?" he asked, ignoring the pain of her leaning against his ribcage.
"We eat," she replied. "Well, I'll cook, and you can eat."
"That is all?"
"Yes," she replied. "The women slave away in the kitchen, and the men eat everything."
"Then I will do so to please you."
"Thanks, Erik," she replied, obviously amused. Christine looked up at his face long enough to make him uncomfortable. "We still need to get you a more comfortable mask for when you go out."
"No one would be able to design it," he stated. "One glance at my face and they would scream, faint, or attempt to find the lavatory. No. I will not do that. Someone would die."
"We could make it, though. Some of the people tonight had really great homemade costumes."
"I do not know. It might be a disaster."
"Why'd you choose this one anyway?" she asked, picking up the black object. She held it up to her cheek and nearly shuddered. "It's so heavy and hard…and cold."
"I found it soon after escaping, and it was perfect at the time. It concealed me in the dark and made certain…tasks much easier." In other words, he hadn't wanted his victims to see him until the last horrifying second.
"Oh. Well…you can keep your old mask, if you want. But you should have another skin-colored one for when we go out together."
"I will consider it." His current one was starting to make his face ache. The downside of sanity was increased sensitivity, whether it be to smell, taste, or pain.
"I'll get the materials."
He could tell she was already making big plans. "And I will have a hand in it, Christine. I do not want my mask to end up resembling your…holiday carving."
"That was mean," she replied with a scoff, trying to stand up and walk away.
"Indeed it was." He grabbed her with both arms so she was unable to escape; she would never escape. Christine struggled before finally giving up. "You have a horrible husband, no?"
She grunted in agreement. Within a minute, she had started to doze against his shoulder, perhaps tired from dealing with the irritating intruders. Thankfully, unlike him, his wife never held a grudge for very long.
He never learned to enjoy the holidays as much as she did. They simply had no part in his past; there was never reason for celebration in his childhood. But, over time, he learned to tolerate them and make them nice for her. And even if he despised most of the inane rituals that went along with them—he would light a fire if a bearded, rotund man ever attempted to enter his home through a chimney-at least he now had something to forever celebrate.
