Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter. This chapter is a little more serious than the previous ones, but I hope you enjoy it despite the angst.
A big thanks to MadLizzy for editing. And a big thanks to Kryss LaBryn for her help with the mask making.
Read and Review!!
Christine was determined to make the new mask before Erik changed his mind. He almost seemed to cling to the piece of black porcelain, as though he were afraid to let go of the past.
She had no plans to make him get rid of the old mask; no one could ever make Erik do anything. She could only present him with alternatives and then allow him to make the decision. Well…maybe she occasionally prodded him in a certain direction, but it was ultimately still his choice.
Two days after Halloween, Christine sat him down on the sofa so that they could talk about various mask materials. "There's latex," she began. "It's realistic-looking. But I've heard it's kind of uncomfortable…."
Erik grimaced, looking as though he wanted to escape the conversation. She held his hand to keep him in place. "Latex is…never mind." He shrugged. "Do as you wish."
"Latex what?" she asked.
"It…Well, I would say that it makes my skin worse than it already is. But I am not sure that is possible."
"You have an allergy to it?"
"It is a mild irritant…as though little insects are nibbling at my skin." He waved his hand to the side. "I have been through worse, though. Do as you wish."
"Erik." She shook her head. "I'm not going to ask you to wear something that's even more painful. The entire point is to make you something comfortable." She touched one of the healing sores on his face. "If it were up to me, you wouldn't wear one at all."
After mistakenly saying the last sentence, she realized that Erik would either storm off to play the violin for about twenty minutes or mock her. He was in a fairly good mood that day, and so it was the latter.
"That is an excellent way to keep people away," he began. "If I walked down the street without a mask, the entire city would be desolate within five minutes. Small children would wet themselves and become too traumatized to ever speak again. People would dive off bridges and gouge out their eyes to get the image out of their mind. A wonderful idea, my dear! Why did I not think of it sooner?"
She ignored his dramatics and trudged forward. "Maybe plaster would work. It's not too hard to make. It's not completely realistic-looking, but that doesn't matter as much. At night, no one would notice."
"And I will only go out at night," he added.
"Cloth would also be comfortable, I guess. But I don't know how to make a cloth mask realistic at all…"
"I had a cloth mask when I was a child. It looked wretched; I will not wear it again."
"Plaster, then," she replied. "It shouldn't be too uncomfortable. If it is, maybe we can line it with something softer." She could tell the topic was making him edgy, even a little angry, and she didn't want to push it. It was time to change the subject to something less serious. "Hmm. I'm going to buy a whole turkey for Thanksgiving this year. Then we'll have leftovers."
The lines of irritation in Erik's face disappeared, and his lips twitched upward in amusement. "A live turkey?"
"No. A frozen one."
"Ah. I suppose it is easier to consume if you do not have to kill it yourself."
She wrinkled her nose. "I didn't…really want to have to think about that."
"Exactly."
Christine blinked. "Anyway…I'm just…I'm going to buy a turkey and some potatoes and corn and pie."
Erik nodded and thoughtfully added, "Buy chocolate pie. Never pumpkin."
He could have made the mask by himself; it was not an impossible task. But, for whatever reason, he wanted her there. If he had locked himself in a room and created the mask by himself, it would have put him in a dark mood.
Over the next week, she bought plaster bandages, plaster of Paris, along with some ordinary items such as paper towel and a magnifying mirror. She left them in a corner of the kitchen, and he began to stare at the pile of supplies with anxiety. Several times, he considered telling her that he had changed his mind. But the look of disappointment on her face might kill him.
The day finally came.
They were peacefully lying in bed together on a Saturday morning. She was curled up against his chest, and his arms were wrapped around her bare back. During the first nights they had slept within the same bed, in London, he had been terrified of accidentally crushing or suffocating her during sleep. People had a terrible habit of dying when they were near him.
But not his Christine. She was beautifully resilient! If she became uncomfortable, even when sleeping, she'd wriggle. He always allowed her more room to breathe and occasionally checked her pulse. He wanted her to be alive forever.
The bedroom was warm, very dark, and filled with her scent. An airplane was softly buzzing overhead. Christine yawned and stretched her legs. He felt her kiss his neck and shoulders and wondered if she wanted to…take part in morning pleasures for a second time. To his disappointment, she spoke instead. "Can we make your new mask today? I have everything now."
He tensed. "We could wait."
"Why should we wait?" The bed creaked as she sat up. "Can I turn on a light?"
"Give me a moment," he replied, glad that the second question had saved him from answering the first. He threw on his shirt and buttoned it within ten seconds. "You may."
She switched on the lamp and blinked as her eyes adjusted. "Why can't we make it today?" she asked. "I'm off work."
"Perhaps I am busy," he replied.
"Oh. Busy with what?"
Women were so damned curious. "With Erik's music--my music!"
She rested a hand on his shoulder and tilted her head. "Are you okay?"
Are you okay? That meant, Are you sane?
"Yes," he replied, and it was the truth. "I merely…I do not know how this mask will work."
"Oh. Well…if we make mistakes, we'll try again a second time. It's not a big deal."
That wasn't what was bothering him, but he did not know how to describe his fear. Perhaps the feeling was senseless and juvenile. "We will make the mask," he relented. As a reward, he received a long kiss.
"I'm tired of seeing you suffer in the other mask," she declared, her face scrunching up in disdain. "Sometimes…I want to smash it."
"It would be best if you did not do that," he replied. He wasn't sure how he would react.
"I won't. But…Erik! Let's make a new one and see how it turns out." She hopped out of bed and tugged on his hand, perhaps before realizing she was partially unclothed. Christine turned slightly red, threw on an old sweatshirt and jeans, and finally managed to coax him out of bed. He considered tying her down for a day or two, but that would only exacerbate the problem.
They entered the kitchen, and he sat down in the chair nearest to the supplies. Knowing the affair would be messy, he wore only the white shirt with a pair of trousers. Christine wrapped towels around his upper torso. The instructions had suggested wearing a plastic garbage bag, but there was simply no way in hell. He'd throw the shirt away if it became necessary.
He felt more vulnerable than he preferred--a bit of a test subject. Christine was the only one who could get away with putting him in such a position.
"Erik?" Her voice was hesitant.
"Yes?"
"We should probably take our wedding rings off so they don't get ruined."
He had never taken his off; he liked to think that the same was true for her. "It is mine," he stated.
"But we don't want the plaster to dry on them. I'll put them somewhere safe until we're done."
After several seconds, he reluctantly pulled his off, and his finger felt empty. She left with the rings, and he wondered if his sanity would be intact once this process was over. He wondered this even more when Christine returned and said, "Hmm. We need to protect your hair from the plaster."
"As though there is even enough hair to protect," he muttered.
She stroked the dark wisps. "The directions say to put a plastic bag on your head."
"No! No!"
"But--"
"No! We will work around it or not do this at all. There is hardly any hair there. Perhaps we should make me a wig as well, eh?"
She sighed. "All right, Erik. We'll work around it. Maybe I can wet it down." She picked up a kohl pencil. "Where do you want the mask to cover?"
"My face."
"I was thinking that you could be more comfortable if part of your mouth was uncovered."
"My mouth is as horrid as the rest of me, Christine. If need be, we will shape the mask for breathing room. But I will not leave my twisted, bloated excuse for a mouth revealed for all the world to see!" A tension was building between them. His annoyance was growing closer to actual anger, and he feared that he would say something regrettable soon. But it was his face—not hers.
Christine did not reply to his outburst. She began to draw the outline of where the mask would go, making circles near his eyes. Perhaps it would have been wise for him to make sure that she did it correctly, but that would have required the mirror. Only after she had covered his face with the first layer of bandages would he look into a mirror.
She took out a container of Vaseline, and he grimaced. "It's so the plaster won't stick," she explained. Her voice was cautious now, as though she could sense his mood. "Will you let me?"
He inhaled and exhaled. Somewhere in his mind, he knew it was a miracle that she could do this without vomiting…without even paling now. "Yes," he finally replied, tilting his head against the back of the chair.
Dabbing some of it onto her fingers, she coated his face with the oily substance. At first he was still aggravated, but there was something soothing about her fingers rubbing against his dry, brittle corpse skin. His muscles relaxed, and his heartbeat slowed. He closed his eyes.
"Are you okay?" she asked. Her fingers ran up over his cheeks and to his temples.
"You have killed me," he replied.
"Poor Erik."
"Indeed."
The tension faded after that, perhaps because he was able to think of the task as a project rather than a degrading situation. Christine dipped a strip of the two-inch wide plaster bandages into a bowl of cool water. She squeezed off the excess water and then laid the bandage over his face before repeating the process. "When the first layer is finished, give me a mirror," he commanded.
She did so, and he gave her directions as she added five more layers to his face, laying some bandages vertically and some horizontally. Sometimes her hands slightly shook, and he used his own fingers to make sure the bandages stayed smooth and were placed properly. After he deemed it thick enough, they let the mask set. Once Christine tapped her nail against it and determined that the mold had dried enough, she attempted to loosen it from the back. He wriggled his ugly face as much as his distorted muscles would allow, and the blank mask slowly slid off of him.
She laid the mask on newspaper to completely dry and wiped the Vaseline off the plaster. He searched for something with which to cleanse his face until Christine handed him a wet wash cloth.
His hygiene had become part of his daily ritual since living with her. During his revenge spree, he had barely been sane enough to remember to care for his teeth once a week and to wash himself a few times per month. He had no concern for his own wellbeing, save for the need to stay healthy enough to carry out his revenge.
As she began to throw some of the waste into the garbage can, he stared at the white mask. His mind began to envision the features that he might be able to add to it. The perfectionist in him--the one that spent days composing without stop or that murdered ten people in one mansion without leaving a drop of evidence—desired to design a bit of a masterpiece.
He was eternally grateful when, two hours later, Christine asked, "Do you want to put the features on it? I'd help, but I'm not sure what you want."
"I will do it," he replied. He placed a towel on his knee and propped the dried mask on top of it. After mixing the plaster of Paris with cold water, he used the substance to create a nose, cheekbones, and the basic contours of the human face. At some point, he made his wife sit across from him so that he could have a model of a normal (no—perfect!) visage. He sanded the plaster when he needed merely slight effects and grooves.
When he was finished, he stared at the mask and then up at Christine. No, it would never look as good as her face. He'd been foolish for even thinking that was possible. But it would have to do. "I will paint it when it dries," he murmured. He placed the towel and mask on the table and leaned away from them.
A weariness settled over him. Now that the mask was nearly finished, he could not think of it as an impersonal project any longer. The mask was to be his new companion. And he was not very good at allowing others into his life, especially when his black mask seemed so much more familiar.
"It looks great," Christine said, coming up behind him and wrapping an arm around his neck. Both silently stared down at the new mask. "Were you serious about hair? I've found wigs uncomfortable…."
"No. False hair would be repulsive." He paused. "But perhaps…perhaps a hat would do."
"It might keep your head warm this winter. Well, you're never really cold. But I am. Maybe I'll get a hat, too."
"If my wife wishes for a hat, then she shall have one."
To get his mind off other matters, he had her sing for him that afternoon. Her range had returned, and he was thankful that their excursion through London hadn't destroyed her voice. Most of her auditions were over, but a few still remained. He had not been to one yet; they had always been during the daytime on dreadfully bright, sunny days. Without knowing the layouts for the colleges, it would have been difficult to hide himself and to crawl from one place to the next. Someday she would sing at night for him.
Although her voice brought him peace, the mask remained on his mind. He felt a need to finish the damn thing and see what great revelations came with it. Hours later, he returned to the kitchen and touched the plaster with his index finger. It was still not dry, and he would likely have to wait until tomorrow to paint it and to add varnish.
Christine was nearby boiling a beef soup. He noticed that she was wearing her ring again, and he dashed into their bedroom to retrieve his. When he returned with the ring securely on his finger, a bowl of soup was waiting for him on the table. The soup was easier for him to consume than many other dishes because it required less chewing, and she always put extra salt in his for flavor.
Christine was sitting down to eat, and he joined her. As she began to talk about her auditions, his eyes drifted back toward the mask. He shifted. "It is staring at me," he said before he could stop himself.
She stopped speaking, glancing at the mask and then back at him. "Yeah," she said with a little laugh. "Masks do that sometimes." She continued to study him. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes. I believe so." He continued to eat, ignoring the mask. "The soup is very strong."
"Hm. I didn't put in any more salt than I usually do. Do you want another bowl?"
"No. It is fine." The fluorescent kitchen lights hit her at a delightful angle, illuminating her hair and adding a sparkle to her eyes. "You are very beautiful," he said.
She blinked and looked down at her sweatshirt. "All week long, I wear nice outfits to work and put on makeup and everything. And you tell me I look beautiful now?" She laughed. "Thanks, Erik."
He didn't laugh, though. The colors in the room were very bright, the food was extra strong, and she was especially beautiful. He was not sure why. "You are," was all he could say.
Her smile faded, and she stared at him. "Thank you," she softly replied. Christine kept an eye on him for the rest of the evening. He wished that he could explain himself to her, but it took time to sort it all out in his mind.
That night, he remained in bed until she fell asleep. It would likely be a night where sleep did not easily come to him, though. After rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling for an hour or so, he felt the need to get up. Careful not to awaken his wife, he climbed out of bed and went into the kitchen. A few slivers of light from the streetlamps shone through the windows, and ghostly shadows flitted around the kitchen as cars passed.
He sat down at the kitchen table and picked up the new mask. He turned it over in his bony hands before placing it over his face. Yes, it would likely be lighter and more comfortable.
Masks.
They had not allowed him a mask in prison. Not ever. He had begged a prison guard for one at the beginning of his sentence. I need it to stay alive he had said. The guard had ignored him, and he'd been left to cover his face with his hands day after day, staring between the cracks of fingers to make sure no one was getting too close. He had nearly had his neck broken during one attack, only surviving because of basic fighting skills learned in India…and perhaps an unnatural strength that he had possessed since birth.
Sometimes he wondered if his strange abilities had come from Falcon's chemicals. He was not aware of any relatives that possessed his intelligence, speed, or agility. Then again, he'd never heard of any victims of chemical poisoning having his unique talents. Perhaps he was a freak amongst the freaks. Perhaps it didn't matter.
But yes. Masks. He remembered trying to make one out of a sheet and getting beaten over the head with a flashlight for it. What hadn't they given him a goddamned mask! His face had nearly started a prison riot, and he'd been put into solitary confinement and it--Why the hell was he recalling this now?
He hopped up and plucked his black mask off the table in the living room. After returning to the kitchen, he placed his old mask beside his new one and stared down at them. Both masks stared back.
The black mask had transformed him into a shadow, without the ability to feel or care or remember. And even if he was not completely insane now, a part of him still wanted to be the shadow. It was so much easier to be the shadow.
The new mask reeked of clarity and sanity. He had experienced a moment of strong sanity in the kitchen that day, when Christine had never looked more beautiful. Now he was suffering for it with vivid memories. Sanity made him remember.
He heard her footsteps before her voice.
"Erik? What are you doing in here?"
He tensed. "Examining the mask."
"Oh. How is it?"
"Fine. Comfortable." He paused. "You should go back to sleep."
"Are you okay? It's really late."
"Yes. I was merely restless."
"Do you need anything?" she asked.
"No. You should go to bed. I am fine."
"All right," she reluctantly replied. "I hope you can get some sleep, though." She kissed the top of his head and left. "Good night."
He had really wanted her to stay. She should have known that! Why had she left him with his thoughts?
No. No. She wasn't a mind reader. He was simply an idiot. And now he was sitting alone in the dark, remembering wretched things, wishing he were insane so he would not remember them, and knowing that he had to stay sane or risk losing her.
He sat there a long while trying to figure out what he was supposed to do, but he never came up with a good answer. Finally, he stood and went into the bedroom. After a second's hesitation, he climbed into bed and rested his head on her pillow, pressing himself against her warm body and burying his face in her neck.
She jumped and turned on the light. "Erik?"
"I frightened you." He started to move away from her.
"No. I was half-asleep. You just surprised me." She looked into his eyes. "Is everything all right? Tell me what's going on. What's wrong?"
"I wanted to touch you."
"To touch me?"
"Only to be next to you."
He started to turn away and rest on his own pillow, nearly nauseous with shame. A hand grabbed his upper arm. "Come here, Erik." She pulled him toward her, and he was soon wrapped in her arms with his head back on her pillow. Relief and love quickly overcame the humiliation. His muscles relaxed, and the memories were only memories again.
"Is it the mask?" she softly asked into his ear. "If that's what's upsetting you, don't wear it."
"No. I will wear it, Christine. I will."
"Tell me what's wrong," she said, her palms gently rubbing his back.
"Nothing is wrong," he replied. "I love you." He was too tired and comfortable to explain any better than that. The only fact he knew for certain now was that he could not push her away and keep his newly acquired sanity.
If his sanity was a newly planted seed, then Christine was the soil—no…and not fertilizer, either…sunlight seemed cliché but perhaps it fit her best--Ah well. He would think of a better metaphor in the morning.
Christine spent most of the night wondering what in the world was wrong with Erik. He didn't seem violent or crazed or even angry. In fact, he was subdued; maybe that's what disturbed her. He only quietly slept in her arms for the rest of the night, occasionally murmuring in his sleep, and she would have enjoyed the tenderness if she hadn't been worrying over his sanity.
The next morning, she asked, "Do you want me to stay home from work today? I can call in sick." She was nearly too tired to go, anyway.
"No," he replied. "I am fine. I do not need to be monitored like an infant."
"I know. But I won't leave if you're upset…if you want to talk."
"I am perfectly fine." He kissed her forehead. His eyes seemed sane. "Enjoy your work, for you have very few weeks of it left."
She ended up going to work but spent the entire day thinking about him. Finally, she called home. Even though Erik wouldn't answer, she could leave a message telling him to answer the phone when she called a second time. To her dismay, though, the machine didn't pick up, and the phone endlessly rang. She suddenly remembered unplugging the machine to vacuum yesterday. Argh! Stupid, Christine!
He'd acted almost scared last night. What if he was going to hurt himself? What if she'd pushed the new mask on him too suddenly? What if she'd ruined his sanity? What if…?
Before she completely lost her mind, Christine got off work two hours early. Thank God no policemen were out that day, or she would have wound up with a speeding ticket. Hundreds of horrible possibilities raced through her mind, and she berated herself for not staying home that day and taking care of him. Her heart was pounding as she jumped out of her car and flew to the entrance of their apartment. She threw open the front door.
Erik was sitting on the couch with a pen and sheet of paper. "You are early," he said.
She stood there for several seconds, staring at him and panting. "I…there wasn't much to do today," she choked out. Actually, there'd been a lot of work. "I tried to call you, but you didn't answer."
"I dislike the phone." He stood. "Are you well? You are breathing rather heavily, and your face is flushed. If a moron at work gave you a disease, I will introduce him to the Ebola virus."
"No. I'm fine." She stepped forward and hugged him. "What…what did you do today?"
"I put strings on my mask."After releasing her from the embrace, he plucked the new mask off the table and held it up. Two black threads dangled from the sides of it.
She hadn't gotten much sleep, and the last two days had been a little emotional. She'd spent her entire day worrying over what horrible thing Erik was doing, and he'd put strings on his mask. So as soon as he said that, Christine burst into tears and started to laugh.
Erik stared at her in uncharacteristic surprise. He pressed his cold fingers to her forehead. "Are you sure you are well?"
She shook her head and managed to compose herself. "You just acted so strangely yesterday and last night. And you were kind of quiet this morning. I thought…well…."
"You thought I was going mad?" He chuckled. "I suppose it must have appeared…But no. I am fairly sane. A bit too sane sometimes, do you understand? Sanity can be a sadist. But I am far from insanity."
"Good." Her heartbeat slowed, and she held onto him for awhile. "Erik? Could you…If your mind does feel funny, would you tell me? I promise I won't run or anything like that. But if I know, maybe we can work through it early. It would help if you would…let me in a little."
"If someone dies, you will know I have lost my mind." She looked up and gave him a half-hearted glare. Erik sighed. "Yes. I will try to tell you. It does not happen very often. Even when I am angry, I always know who you are…where I am…."
"I'm grateful for that," she murmured. "I always knew you'd be fine."
Erik shifted, always becoming uncomfortable when the conversation became too focused upon him. "Perhaps I should try the mask on now. Unless it is a disaster, I will paint it later. But I wish to see your lovely face while I am doing that." He turned his back toward her and started to hold the new mask up to his face. His hands fumbled with the strings as he attempted to tie them; they were narrower than the previous strings. "Christine?"
"Yes?"
"Assist me."
She reached up to help him tie the new mask, their hands gently brushing against each other in an unanticipated act of trust and intimacy. Even after it was tied, though, he didn't turn around.
"Can I see?" she finally asked.
He slowly faced her. "Is it better?"
Her heart jumped. She reached out and touched the false cheek. "It's better than the black one."
"But it is still a mask," he muttered. "Merely an article of clothing."
"But Erik. That's all it should be. It's only a mask."
He seemed to ponder this for a moment. "The mask is not Erik."
"It's not," she agreed.
"I am Erik."
"You are."
