The reviews on the last chapter were really amazing-so amazing that MadLizzy devoted her review to the reviewers. It's really wonderful to see everyone so involved with the characters.
This vignette has several mature references but nothing graphic. It was a topic that needed to be addressed and is more about healing than sensuality.
Thanks again to everyone who is reading. Thanks to MadLizzy for editing.
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The last month of her first semester was the greatest struggle for him. And, he supposed, for her.
He truly wanted her to be happy. Even in his strongest moments of self-pity and jealousy, the sight of her tears made him ill. But he also feared Christine would climb so high that she would no longer have any use for him. If she ever did become a famous singer, he could already picture the disgustingly handsome admirers that would flock around her, shoving putrid flowers in her face.
He also knew she was tired from schoolwork and that his constant paranoia worsened her stress. Her eyes were strained, and her shoulders always drooped with the weight of her backpack. Her tangled hair fell over her cheeks as she stared at the book with her chin propped up in one hand. Every so often, a small sigh or groan would escape her lips.
Still, she managed to care for him. Every day, before leaving, Christine asked, "Are you okay here? Do you need anything?"
It was not merely a routine question. From the way she gazed at him, he could sense that she cared about his well-being. It made him feel all the more disgusted about the broken plate incident. And perhaps that was why he allowed control to finally slip away from his fingers, horrible as it felt to do so.
On a Tuesday evening in late April, she stood in the entryway to the kitchen holding her backpack. "Erik?" Her tone was cautious yet firm. "I need to meet with a study group."
"When?" he hoarsely asked.
"Now."
"It is late."
"But I need to go. I need to get some notes I missed. I'll be back soon." He stared at her, his fingers curling around the armrest as her eyes pled with him. "Will you be okay here?" she asked.
"It is dark."
"But I need to go. Will you be okay here? If not, maybe you could sit in the car and wait for me or…look at the college library collection or…."
It was that tone again, simultaneously loving and patronizing. He was again confronted with the choice of being an infant or a husband. He tried one more time. "You could call them."
She made a frustrated noise. "I need to see their notes. You can come with me, but I have to go."
"I will stay here," he replied, looking away from her in defeat. If he did go, he would be compelled to watch her the entire time. And, the second some boy smiled at her, his mind would be pushed in a dangerous direction. "I will not go with you."
"Erik, I know you'll be okay here. I'll call you when I get there."
She left, and he sat in the dark, glaring at the shadow-covered wall for at least five minutes. He wanted to smash something; his Christine was gone that night, and something or someone should pay. After jumping up from the couch, he paced through the house. His fingers ached for something to rip apart or crush or shatter.
But Christine would get upset. Ever since the plate incident, he had not broken anything else.
It also dawned upon him that a year had passed since he had last killed someone. It had been almost a year since Falcon collapsed, and he'd murdered a few of the wench's henchmen in a desperate attempt to discover Christine's location. That realization put a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach—a combination of pride and disappointment. He could not kill anyone; he could not break anything.
He finally fell back down on the couch and stared at the two goldfish. They swam back and forth, over and under each other, behind the castle and around the false rocks. "She will be back soon," he informed them. "She would not leave us. I know she will be back soon. She will."
They ignored him in the same way that they ignored Christine, and he appreciated that. The only time he stood that evening was to answer the phone when Christine called; her voice was briefly soothing. Otherwise, he stayed by the fish, gently pressing his fingers against the glass tank. "She will be back," he continuously stated.
Of course, she did return hours later. Christine glanced around the apartment and asked, "Is everything okay?"
"Yes."
"Good," she murmured, briefly touching his shoulder as she passed by him. Christine headed for the bedroom with a frown on her face and her brow knitted. Wondering if he'd done something to upset her (again), he chased after his wife into the room. She was sitting on the edge of their bed and silently crying. He stood there gaping until Christine stared up at him.
"Oh, Erik," she said, her voice muffled by tears. She shook her head. "I felt so stupid. Everyone knew more than me, and I could hardly contribute or understand anything. And I know I'm going to flunk my test. And I'm tired… and my head hurts. And someone honked at me for driving too slow." She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, turning her face away from him as though embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired. I'll be okay."
His mouth closed, and he was grateful that her tears were not his fault. Unsure of what to do in this type of…situation, he sat on the bed and slowly offered an arm to her. She embraced him and rested her head on his shoulder. His wife. Not theirs.
He realized that this could be the opportunity to yank her out of school and keep her away from those wretched, baby faced boys. He could tell her it didn't matter…that perhaps he had been wrong and school was not meant for her. She must not worry as he would find a way to take care of her forever. His fingers caressed her hair as he considered this.
Christine looked up at him, a vulnerable glint in her eyes. And he knew that he could not tear her down as the world had done to him.
He also wanted to strangle and decapitate his conscience.
"What subject…bothers you?" he reluctantly asked.
"It's this stupid chemistry part in my biology class. Chemistry was a prerequisite, but no one told me, and the online system let me register for it by mistake, and I was too stupid to look it up myself…and—"
"Bring me the book," he interrupted. She removed herself from his arms and retrieved the book before flipping to a very wrinkled page. Mr. Khan had possessed a degree in chemistry and had taught him a good deal about it during his youth. The topic was not extremely complex, and she seemed to understand after he had explained for the third time, her eyes lighting up a little.
She studied it for several minutes and then said, "You're so smart." He grunted. "What'd you do while I was gone?" she asked, her eyes dry now.
"Nothing of interest. Observed the fish."
She laughed. "Yeah. They're fun to watch."
"They are…odd," was his only reply. He didn't add that he would likely kill anyone who dared to harass the goldfish.
The following day, she took her examination and received a B, which seemed to please her. Her excitement was short-lived, though, as final exams were approaching. Christine often left the house to study and do research for a paper, and he was left alone with his vile thoughts and the goldfish. She always asked if he would be okay and called him at least once during the day. He still wanted to grab onto her leg to keep her home…or threaten to blow up the campus if she dared leave the house.
He never did, though. He didn't even break any more objects. Instead, he usually stayed beside the fish tank. Some days he was able to stay calm, and the violin provided an outlet for his stress. Other times, he worked himself into a panic as he envisioned worst case scenarios. For example: What if some boy convinced her to tell the police that there was a deformed and murderous freak illegally living in the city? It was a grotesque form of self-pity, but he had only learned so many coping skills in his lifetime.
On one occasion, he became so distraught that he vomited, which forced him into the bathroom where he was closely confronted with the giant mirror. The sight of his face made him sick a second time. At least he managed to crawl back to the couch before she came home. He hoped his breath did not smell like death when she kissed him.
And then, one day, it was all over.
As always, he was sitting beside the fish tank, and she entered the apartment earlier than expected. A few rays of sunlight followed her inside, shining off her hair, but they disappeared when she shut the door. "I'm finished!" she exclaimed.
"Finished with Erik?" He felt as though he had fought a war and was now going to allow her to strike the final blow. In retrospect, perhaps his disturbed emotional state made no sense; she'd never given any real signs that she was about to leave him.
Christine blinked. "Finished with the semester and my classes." She shook her head. "Why would you think…? Oh, Erik. I don't even know…." She looked as though she wished to say more, but a yawn escaped her lips. "Take a nap with me."
"But I am not tired."
She walked to the couch and collapsed beside him. "Then I'll take a nap." Christine rested her head against his shoulder and slept the rest of the afternoon, fingers curled into his shirt. He merely sat with her, not entirely sure what had occurred. Apparently, the world had not fallen apart.
Hours later, she blinked up at him, her hand poking him in the ribs. "I think you've lost weight again."
"It is no matter."
"Yes, it is." She gave him a tired smile. "I think we both need some time to rest."
"And you will stay here?" He needed to hear her say it…again and again…maybe forever.
"Yes, Erik," she replied. "You're going to be with me for so long that you'll get sick of me. Someday, I'll have my grey hair and false teeth, and I'll chase you around the house with my cane."
"You may do that now, if you wish. And I will not get sick of you."
She laughed and then lazily stood up to feed the fish, sprinkling the tiny morsels over the tank with a peaceful expression. There was something so…so…well, no words existed to describe the sight of her feeding those goldfish. A warmth exploded in the center of his heart, a mixture of love and relief.
He sang for her that night. When she first requested to hear his voice—a reward for getting through all her exams, she claimed-he was reluctant. "Whenever I sing," he began, "your eyes become hazy, and I fear you will fall over and bruise your head. Honestly, one would think you would be used to my voice by now."
"Well, I don't hear it enough," she replied. "And who cares if you hypnotize me a little bit? I trust you. It's not like you're going to make me do something I don't already want to do." He started to laugh at the implications, and she turned red and folded her arms. "Erik. You're terrible."
"I know," he replied. "I am in an odd mood."
His singing did lead to other things that evening. Music was always a bit of a…stimulant for them, and perhaps it was his way of reclaiming her as the semester reached its ending.
They spent a few days at home during which Christine rested often, recovering lost sleep. He continued to convalesce after his month-long panic attack as it became more obvious that there had never been any danger of her leaving. His paranoia had blinded him to this truth.
After a week, Christine took a part-time desk job at a bank. He didn't mind, knowing that she always thrived when she could go out into the sunlit world for a few hours. Christine also sang for him often, preparing for the next semester when she could begin focusing on her music. It was possible that she would even have a few performances, and he would be damned if the entire audience did not stand and applaud for her.
Or perhaps the audience would be damned….Ah well. There was plenty of time to dwell on those matters. And the summer was not completely without its own annoyances.
In early June, the phone rang, and Christine answered. She spoke at a low volume and crept into their bedroom, which automatically made him suspicious. As he followed her to listen, he heard her ask, "So who do I need to speak to?" There was a pause, and he heard a pencil scratching against paper. "All right. I got it. Okay. Thank you so much. I'll figure it out. Thank you! Bye!"
"Who was that?" he asked as she emerged.
She hesitated, her face still glowing a little from the conversation. "I'm not sure if you want to know."
"I would not have asked if I did not want to know. Who was it?"
"Well…it's about your music."
He stepped backward. "Perhaps I do not want to know."
It was too late to escape. Christine jubilantly continued speaking, and he wondered if she'd planned this attack. "I got in touch with a publishing agent, and he really liked it. He gave it to someone else, and that person thought it might work for the soundtrack of this independent film. And…I don't know all the details, but it sounded good. And…Erik! They want more from you."
"I do not care."
The excitement faded from her face, and he felt a bit guilty for ruining her mood. "But it's your music," she protested. "I don't understand why you're not happy."
Why wasn't he happy about it? It was rather hard to explain that to her.
He had been an anarchist for some time. He had opposed law and society because equality and justice were blatant lies. Even in a democracy, the rich and powerful would always destroy the weakest. Although his revenge had been driven by the simple desire to watch his enemies writhe in agony while he tortured them, there had always been a vague…feeling that he was fighting against the corrupt social order.
His opinion had not changed even after the end of Falcon. Of course, for Christine's sake and love, he had given up his brutality. Since marriage, he'd been living in the middle, not breaking the law but also making no attempt to be a part of wretched society.
And now, Christine was asking him to do just that.
Not wanting to explain all of that to her, he simply said, "I do not care if anyone likes me or my music. I have no use for them or their acceptance."
She frowned, and he knew his explanation was inadequate. "Well…what do you want me to do? Can they still have your music?"
"You may send them my music," he began. His desire to support her and give her normalcy was more important than all else. "I will write you more. But I will not shake anyone's hand, nor will I dress up for a grandiose meeting or dinner and pretend that the entire room is not staring at me, nor will I…. What is that eloquent expression? Kiss anyone's—"
"All right," she interrupted. "I don't expect you to do those things. But I…I'm proud of you."
He squirmed uncomfortably. "What is this film that requires my music?"
"Mm. I'm not sure. I think it's about a famine."
"Ah." That brightened his mood. "Perhaps they will play my music as people are dying."
Christine made her precious little expression of disgust. He might have gone a bit too far, though, for she solemnly said, "I hope it's not too sad."
All he could do was kiss her forehead and tell her that it didn't really matter when they played his music, so long as he was properly compensated for it.
Her vacation also gave her time to spend with Mr. Lewis and his wife. As long as he was not forced to go with her, he didn't care, and the occasional visits seemed to make her happy. He suspected that Christine also enjoyed the child, mainly because he overheard a telephone conversation between her and Mrs. Lewis.
"She's adorable," said Christine into the receiver. "I can tell she's going to have curly hair." There was a pause, and then she laughed. "No. No. No. Not for a long time. I want to concentrate on my music and school. And I want time with Erik; we need to be by ourselves for awhile." Another pause. "Sure! I could babysit sometimes. I'm so sorry that your sitter passed away."
Outside of that exchange, though, there was no mention of that child-or thankfully any other child.
In some ways, he was relieved when Christine wanted to visit someone her own age rather than the Lewis family. It was best if she was not around children too often.
"I might see a movie with this girl from one of my classes," she began one evening. "She just came back to the city and wanted to do something. I didn't think you'd like the movie. It's…girlie."
"You will go with a female?"
"Yes. Her name is Sarah. She plays the clarinet and the violin."
"Splendid." He did not really care what Sarah did, so long as Sarah was a female.
"Erik?" Christine slowly scooted closer to him; she did that when she wanted to talk about something that would likely disturb him.
"Mm?"
"Do you…." She swallowed. "Do you…um…have friends in this country?"
"Friends? Oh, indeed! Haven't you noticed my constant assortment of dinner parties and galas and other inane social gatherings?" He scoffed. "Where do you get that? Are you mocking me? I have one friend, and she is my wife."
Christine looked down. "No. I'm not mocking you. But I thought that you…um…knew someone here."
"Ah. I had several contacts. Is that what you mean? But they were certainly not friends." They were the reason that people put locks on their doors and kept their children inside. The expression 'who needs enemies' likely applied to them.
"Do they know we're here?" she asked.
"I never made direct contact with them; they were merely pawns when I needed something done."
"So none of them know about us?"
He hesitated and then was honest with her. "There is one man who may know that I am alive. He makes it is his business to know those things. But I doubt he is aware of my precise location."
Christine scooted even closer. "Is he dangerous?"
"Not to us. He has his own odd ethical code and is not particularly vicious. And we ceased communication on good terms." The conversation was tugging on an unpleasant memory at the back of his mind. "He would never harm you, and that is what matters. He has no reason to harm me."
"Oh."
There was…actually a particular reason that he trusted this shady man. Otherwise, he would have considered staying in Europe. It had to do with a conversation that took place over two years ago. Their communication had always occurred over the telephone; they'd never seen each other.
"You received the information, I assume?" asked the man—known in the underground world as 'the Shade.'
"Yes," he'd replied, bloodthirsty and eager. "Lawrence. The younger Chagny. In one convenient city."
"As you can see from the article, there may be a girl involved. His fiancée. You'll have to do some maneuvering to get Raoul Chagny by himself."
There was nothing he hated more than someone putting 'moral' limits on his missions. "They said you enjoyed boring people with details, and they were quite right. I will hang anyone that stands in my way, friend."
The Shade paused. "You're talented enough to do this without knocking off innocent bystanders."
"But sometimes it takes longer than I prefer to spare useless bystanders. I work without complication. And now that I've paid you well, I trust you will stay out of my business."
"Hear me. While I have an appreciation for your cause, I will not assist you any longer if innocent young women start dying during your operations"
"Perhaps I no longer need your assistance." He had cackled and hung up the phone.
Of course, Christine had survived, and, as a result, the shady man had been of service several times afterward for less bloody affairs.
"Are there lots of mysterious people like that in the world?" Christine asked, shattering his memories.
He sharply looked down at her. The fear was gone from her face, and her eyes were lit up with curiosity. He wrapped an arm around her waist as though to protect her from his former self. "A good number," he murmured.
"And I married someone mysterious," she said with a smile and a kiss to his cheek.
"Indeed." After a minute, he excused himself to play the violin, which likely confused her, but it was better than explaining himself. The dear girl asked no questions about his behavior once he joined her in bed.
Instead, she asked for something much worse.
"Our anniversary is next week," Christine began, rolling over to rest a hand on his chest. The lights were still on, and he remained clothed.
"It is," he fondly replied. One year. "I will take you somewhere."
"That would be nice…but there is something else that I really want."
"And what is that?" He was expecting jewelry; perhaps she would like a diamond.
"To see you," she whispered.
"To see me?" He tilted his head to look down at her.
She stared upward, looking him in the eye. "I don't want the room to be dark. I want to see you."
He understood. "No."
"Why?"
"No," he repeated.
She rolled onto her back and folded her arms. "Erik, I'm sorry about how I reacted to your face the first time. I'm still mad at myself over that. But…I won't be like that again. I promise. I just want to see my husband."
"It has nothing to do with you," he evenly stated. "I cannot. If the lights were on, I could only see Erik. I can picture what Erik must look like to you at that…angle. It is like being trapped in a room with myself, and I only wish to get away from Erik."
She sighed. "All right. But, anytime you're ready, I'm ready. I want to see you."
He didn't respond, thinking he would never be ready.
In the end, as with his mask, he was not given a complete choice in the matter. But it was not Christine's fault this time.
Five nights later, a banging crash and dull thud outside the apartment awoke both of them. Within a second, he was beside the door with his lasso in hand, predator blood racing through his veins as he prepared to protect his wife and property. Breathing hard, Christine stood behind him as he peeked out the window. Two figures could be seen quickly walking—no—rolling off into the distance. "It is…morons," he stated. "There is no threat; they are gone."
She came to stand beside him, her shoulders slumping in relief. "It's just some skateboarders," she murmured. "One of them must have fallen or run into the wall. Or maybe they're drunk."
"The idiots were still near my apartment," he growled, continuing to watch the two slouched figures slide down the street.
"It's all right," she murmured. "Let them go." Yawning, she flipped on a lamp. He turned to face her and saw that she was staring at his upper torso with an unreadable, wide-eyed expression. He realized that he was not wearing a shirt; there had been no time in his dash to the door.
Feeling trapped, he started to head for the bedroom.
"Wait!" Christine begged. "Please. Let me see you at least."
He silently stood there, staring at the wall as she walked closer to him. It was all he could do; his muscles were too frozen for him to make any attempt to cover himself. He only flinched once when her hands touched his stomach and back, creeping over the half-grey, half-yellowed flesh that was dotted with purple discolorations and scars. Most of his bones also appeared as though they were ready to pop out of the skin. The most grotesque was near his right shoulder blade. A whitish scar there created the illusion that the bone had torn through the skin. He heard Christine draw in her breath at the sight. She lightly touched the area with one finger.
As she continued her exploration of the mess, he allowed himself to float into a haze—not an insane haze but rather a fog of apathy. If she became ill at the sight, it would not hurt as much.
After she was finished, Christine embraced him, but he was unable to return it. He could only stand there like a rabbit in shock, his body frozen. "Erik? Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Let's go back to bed now." Christine took him by the elbow and pulled him into the bedroom. After he'd taken a seat, she said, "I'm going to get you some water. I'll be back in a second. All right?"
"Yes."
She returned and handed him the glass, continuing to watch him as he drank. "Are you okay?"
The water cleared his mind and loosened his muscles. "Are you still sleeping in this room?"
"Of course!"
"Then I am fine." He settled back onto the pillow, feeling extremely relieved when she finally turned off the vile light and rested beside him. "It is very bad, no?" he asked.
"It's kind of what I expected," she replied.
"I suppose after my face, nothing will ever seem quite as horrific, eh?"
She didn't reply to the statement, only tucking herself into the crook of his arm. After a second, she said, "If that had been a real robber, you would have won."
"That is…likely."
She latched onto him, her protector. And his dignity was returned just as quickly as it had been stripped away from him.
Over the next few weeks, he allowed her to view him for short periods of time. Although she was always gentle, it would take many more months for him to be intimate with the lights shining over his cadaverous body. Unless the room was completely dark, he could only motionlessly lie there while she touched him.
When intimacy did finally occur, it was mercifully brief and ended with him burying his face into her bosom and sobbing like a pathetic infant.
After that incident, he assumed she'd make every attempt to keep the lights off. But she didn't. And, as always, time slowly repaired these matters.
