Hi, guys. Sorry for the delay. I've found a job and have moved, and it may take me awhile to settle in and get my life together. Assuming nothing too crazy happens, I'll try to give you a new chapter every two or three weeks. I'm not sure how much more we have to go, but I'd say it's definitely less than ten chapters.
Thank you for all your amazing support. Thanks to MadLizzy for editing.
Read and Review!
"I have a bit of a suspicion," the middle-aged man began, eyeing Christine with a smile that was half-hidden beneath his short beard.
She tensed. "What's that?"
Mr. Richardson held up the composition she had just handed him and waved it at her. "I think this is all really your work, but you're afraid that there's a certain…stigma that comes with being a female composer. You're afraid people won't take you seriously. But let me tell you, Mrs. Ackart, that your work is of such high quality that it wouldn't matter. Every time, you surprise me with something new and fascinating. You're brilliant!"
Christine blinked, wondering how to respond. On the one hand, she could protect Erik's privacy by pretending the music really was hers. On the other hand, she didn't want to dig herself into a hole. What if they asked her technical questions about it?
"I…It's my little secret," she replied. She tried a playful grin, but it probably came off as silly.
He laughed, and the sound was rich and pleasant. Christine wondered if he had ever been a singer. "But this is the type of talent that gets awards and recognition. You should embrace your genius and let the whole world know!" Her eyes started to fill with tears. Mr. Richardson's smiled faded, and he leaned back. "I'm sorry. I'm being a bit forward."
"It's not my work," she stated, looking down. "It really isn't. I can't take credit for it."
"I see. Well…tell Mr. or Ms. Anonymous that he or she is very impressive."
"I will."
"Also tell him or her that I'd be honored to have a meeting with them…him...her?" He chuckled. "You can tell I wasn't an English major."
She softly laughed and looked back up. "It's a him."
"Give him my thanks and praise, then."
"I will. Thank you so much."
Christine left soon afterward. She liked Mr. Edward Richardson. Over the last few years, he had been helpful and supportive, never trying to take advantage of her…or Erik. Still, she could tell it was driving him crazy that he didn't know who Mr. Anonymous was. Mr. Richardson was a very sociable man, and she guessed that he liked having as many connections as possible.
The air was cold and crisp as she stepped outside. It was the March of her last semester in school, and she'd been married for about three and half years. She'd done well enough in college and had the occasional odd job. Her performances continued to improve, and she was hoping to land a few roles in local productions.
Christine had made a few distant friends over the years, but she never allowed anyone to invade her personal life. She'd occasionally go to a movie, shopping, or to a study session at a café. The discussions were limited to school, careers, or impersonal topics like the news. If anyone tried to ask about Erik, she'd give them one warning. I keep my married life private. If they persisted (and most didn't), she'd cut off the friendship without a second glance backward.
She also visited with Gavin every so often. His marriage continued to have its ups and downs, and there was even a month when Gavin left home and lived with a college friend. He and Marisol had made up and stayed together after that, but Christine had the feeling that things were still a little tense between them.
She had once met with Marisol while Gavin was out of town on business. It had been Marisol's suggestion, and Christine had decided that, as long as Marisol didn't get nosey, the meeting would be harmless. They got together at the mall food court. Two-year-old Rose had climbed into Christine's lap and allowed Christine to braid her dark-brown hair. The young girl was smiling and had a stuffed panda tucked beneath one arm. Rose had declared that her daddy was "bye-bye" but "he back soon."
"I don't always understand Gavin," Marisol had said, staring at her drink. "I know he loves me. But he has the hardest time sitting still. I thought…maybe you might understand him."
"I don't see him that often now," Christine had replied. It had been true. Ever since the incident with the serial killer, she'd had limited contact with him. "I'm not sure how well I'd understand."
"There are times that I think about giving up on him," Marisol had quietly continued. "But…I can't. I know he doesn't cheat on me. He provides well. When he is home, Gavin is good to both of us; he plays with Rose all the time. It's just…he can never stay home for very long."
"He likes adventure," Christine agreed. "I don't know. I guess it depends on whether you mind him being away. But…I know he loves you both." She smiled down at Rose.
"Yeah," Marisol had replied with a laugh "Some of my friends complain that they can't get their husbands out of the house. Maybe it's a no-win situation, right?" Christine had smiled until Marisol spoke again. "Your husband stays home a lot, right? He works at home. How's that going?"
Christine had paused. "I'm happy with how we are."
"Doesn't it ever get on your nerves?"
"I'm happy with how we are."
Marisol had appeared momentarily stung. Maybe she'd wanted some company for her misery, but Christine never complained about Erik to other people.
Oh, of course Erik had plenty of faults. While other girls whined that their husbands and boyfriends left their dirty laundry on the floor, Christine could easily add that Erik still occasionally hid his clothing from her. He had some personal rule that his pants only needed to be washed after he'd worn them three days and his shirts after two days. She'd tried to argue that his logic was silly, but Erik continued to conceal his clothes until he thought they should be washed. Christine still didn't get it.
But these were personal matters. She was Erik's only defender, and she was adamant about keeping his privacy and dignity.
The conversation with Marisol had ended soon afterward. Maybe Marisol didn't get what she wanted out of the meeting, but Christine really didn't know how to help. She had stopped blaming herself for Gavin's marital problems; she'd asked Gavin to come to London one time—not to tour the whole world for the rest of his life.
After her meeting with Mr. Richardson, Christine came home to find Erik leaning over his music with his wrinkled white shirt untucked and hanging over his black pants. So long as they weren't outside, he'd learned to relax. Erik enjoyed simple things—music, his bed, the (immortal, ever-growing) goldfish, dessert…lovemaking.
He was still actively composing. People, often producers of independent films, had even started sending movie scenes for which they wanted songs or soundtracks. He viewed the clips and wrote the music, usually grumbling over some aspect of the film. Erik never liked the romances, especially if they were between younger couples.
If someone had a question for him, Erik would write a response. Then, she'd take the letter and make it a little…nicer. For example, if Erik wrote: What kind of idiot doesn't know whether he wants a ballad or a somber staccato piece?
She would change it to: I can see your dilemma in choosing the appropriate song. Might I suggest….
So far, there had been no incidents. He'd also written some pieces that were only meant to be performed and recorded. Erik seemed to enjoy composing those the most.
Christine still worried about his isolation. She could occasionally persuade him to come out on cloudy days and take walks down the dirt trails at the forest parks. Whenever the sun poked out from behind a cloud, though, he'd grumble and moan that someone would see him. If that didn't get her attention, he'd claim that the sun was eating his skin. And if that didn't work, he'd sit on the ground and declare that he was going to die.
Thinking of this, Christine giggled. Erik sharply looked away from his music and up at her. "What is so humorous?"
"Nothing," she stated. "How are you?"
"I am well. How was your meeting?"
"Great! Mr. Richardson is as impressed with you as ever. He thinks you're brilliant."
"Hmph."
She leaned down and kissed his forehead. His eyes told her that something was on his mind. "Anything interesting happen today?"
"No," he replied, his voice a little cold.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Are you really sure?"
He paused. "Chagny." Erik practically had to spit the words out.
She glanced up and blinked. They hadn't spoken of Raoul in ages, and she'd intended to keep it that way. "What about him?"
"He is wed."
"Really?" She kept her voice calm. "How do you know?"
"It was in the news on the computer. A…Melanie." Erik stared at her, likely awaiting her reaction.
"Wow," she murmured. "I'm glad he finally found someone."
The last time she'd heard anything about Raoul was when he'd made a statement in a major newspaper right after Leonie's death. That had been a strange moment. Oddly, Christine hadn't felt happy, satisfied, or even angry that Leonie hadn't been forced to live in prison longer. It was more of an ambivalent feeling. When Erik had seen the news, he'd only twitched and glanced at the ground. They'd gone on with their lives, not allowing the horrible woman to haunt them any longer.
Christine sat on the couch and pondered the news of Raoul's wedding. A gentle nostalgia overcame her. There were no regrets, only a realization of how quickly her life had changed over the past several years. Her time with Raoul seemed so long ago…like a different lifetime almost.
Erik was still staring at her, and she decided to change the subject before his old insecurities returned. "I've been thinking," she began. This seemed to make Erik even more nervous. "That after this semester is over, we could find a new place to live. We've talked about it before, and now seems like a good time. We're a little cramped here."
He nodded; Erik had always been eager to get out of the city.
"I'll start looking, and we'll try to move in after I graduate," she continued. "I'm not sure we're ready for a house yet; where we end up permanently settling down kind of depends on where I find work. And I'm still not crazy about the weather here. But maybe I can find something less crowded. Hm." Christine stopped rambling and glanced up with a smile. "Do you want to help me pick out our new home?"
"No. I trust my wife to find somewhere suitable."
She scoffed. "You just want me to do all the work."
From the way his mouth twitched, she could tell he was hiding a smile. "I trust my wife."
"I'm going to decorate everything in pink and yellow," she threatened. "Bright, happy pink and yellow."
"You would not do that to Erik."
She grumbled, knowing full well that Erik wouldn't come out during the daytime to look at residences with her. But Christine wanted him to know that she did want him with her. And she enjoyed the amused glint in his eye that came whenever he won an argument. He was more relaxed and content and…well….
More whole.
He attended her college graduation even though it occurred during a disgustingly sunny day, remaining behind a set of wooden bleachers. A white poodle barked at him, but he hissed at it, sending the silly creature back to its owner. Although he was rather bored as the other students' names were called, his heart expanded as he watched his wife receive her diploma. Perhaps the college degree was a sign that he hadn't ruined her.
After saying goodbye to a few females, Christine found him after the ceremony and slipped her hand into his.
"You will not socialize with the others?" he enquired, unable to hide his delight at the fact that he would not have to find his own way back home. Then again, she had become a bit more reclusive over the years, spending many Friday nights and weekends watching him compose or curled up with a book.
"No. I want to go see our new home. I'm so excited; I hope you like it!" Christine tugged on his hand.
He had not accompanied her to pick out their new living quarters. It was entirely her choice, and she was the one who liked to decorate and buy furniture. Christine had been unable to find a suitable house to rent and had finally chosen a duplex, meaning they only had one irritating neighbor. Their new home contained two bedrooms and a basement. She declared that the second bedroom would be his music room. He asked for the basement instead; the second room could be hers.
"What will I do with the room?" she asked.
"You could fill it with little female trinkets. Porcelain dolls and knickknacks. Perhaps some comfy chairs and frilly pillows?" he suggested. His wife raised an eyebrow. "Or you may do as you wish with it."
They did not have too many possessions to bring with them. His violin and the computer were of high priority, along with the items that Christine had owned since her youth. He was most concerned with transporting the fish. They had survived for this long with proper care, and he was determined to ensure that they lived through this trip.
Before they left, he gave the apartment a lingering glance.
"It was our first," she said, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I'll miss it."
"Indeed." Despite having a home for several years, though, he was still a bit detached from physical locations. He was only attached to Christine and followed wherever she went without a second glance backward.
Christine placed the fish bag in his narrow lap and then drove to their new home on the outside of the city. He kept a careful eye on the orange creatures, ensuring that they were never jostled. Romeo and Juliet survived the ride; they were much more competent than their namesakes.
Upon arriving in the new neighborhood, he noticed with delight that the duplexes were spread far apart, and that there was just enough shrubbery for him to hide behind in case…oh…who knew? Like a spider, he simply liked having places to hide.
The duplex was a bit more upscale than their previous home. And much more private. He did not feel as though some idiot would suddenly pop out of the bushes and point at him. The carpeted basement was about the size of a small bedroom and fittingly dark; he would enjoy playing the violin down there. And carrying Christine down there…with some bulky pillows and champagne and….
"Do you like it?" she asked with a grin.
"It is ours," he stated. "Yes. It is fine."
"We can afford it because my husband is a brilliant composer."
"I do not earn that much," he protested. Actually, he didn't even know how much he made. He never wanted to see the checks.
"You are doing very well," she murmured. "Except…"
"What?"
She dramatically sighed. "Everyone is so curious about you…who you are. There's a woman and a man that are actually in love with you just because of your music."
He cringed.
"I had to resist writing back and telling them that you were mine," she teased.
"I am sure that after one glance at me, they would change their minds," he grimly replied.
Christine quickly brightened his mood by suggesting that there was plenty of room for a grand piano in the home. She also spoke of buying him electronic and computerized equipment for composing; he was a bit more hesitant about allowing too much of the modern world to touch his music.
They moved in during the evening and devoted their first night to celebrating the new home. Throughout his marriage, he never took physical affection for granted, even after it became a routine part of life. And he loved the other quirks of the bedroom as well. For example, when Christine became cold while sleeping, she would scoot closer to him. Of course, his skin was frigid, and she would continue to wiggle and futilely press against him in search of warmth. After being elbowed in the ribs several times, he would eventually wrap her in a blanket before she knocked them both off the bed. It was rather precious.
All in all, their time at the new residence began on a delightful note.
Of course, it was inevitable that they would eventually meet their neighbor. Or at least Christine met him; he merely caught a glimpse of the man while hiding behind a bush. Justin McKenzie. Mr. McKenzie was perhaps in his mid to late thirties and vilely handsome. At least he wasn't an idiot boy. Then again, what if Christine preferred older men? There was that obvious possibility considering….
Well…hopefully she preferred older, uglier men.
Christine once mentioned that Mr. McKenzie "looked kind of troubled" and "never really smiled."
"Is he wed?" he enquired.
"I…he wears a ring," she said. "But I haven't ever seen his wife. I don't think she lives there."
"Mm." It annoyed him whenever other people attempted to be mysterious.
One night, as he stepped outside for a solitary evening stroll, he saw Mr. McKenzie with a dark-haired female. They were slowly walking toward their front door. Mr. McKenzie's hand was placed tentatively on her upper back, and her shoulders were slightly slouched. The woman was very thin-thinner than Christine. Not as skeletal as him, of course, but still bordering on sickly. There was clearly a wedding ring on her finger. He shrugged and left, only briefly mentioning the sighting to Christine.
The next night, the same woman (Mrs. McKenzie, he supposed) was sitting on her front porch step smoking a cigarette. Her long black hair and yellow sundress made her appear even frailer. She briefly glanced at him, but the shadows were too thick for her to obtain a good view of his cadaverous physique. Mrs. McKenzie turned back around and stared forward again, ignoring him. He ignored her as well and went for his walk.
Every time he went out after that, the damned woman was sitting on her porch. Sometimes she smoked, and sometimes she merely leaned back on her palms and stared at the street. Or she had a glass of ice tea with a lemon and was sipping it at an irritatingly slow pace. It was utterly ridiculous. He considered going out the back entrance, but their small yard was surrounded by a concrete wall. Although he would have attempted to scale it during an emergency, it was not something he wished to do every night—not over a silly female…and not when there were mud puddles on the other side. Damned woman.
On one occasion, she was standing and peeking around the corner of the duplex. Sensing him behind her, she said, "There was a dog out here. A Dalmatian. It's gone now, I guess." Her voice was soft and scratchy.
He grunted and departed.
And then several nights later: "Did your electricity go out today?"
He started to walk away without answering her, but the question seemed simple enough. "It did," he stated.
"Oh. Ours did, too." She paused, squinting up at him in the dim lighting. "You have a…really nice voice, ya know? It's weirdly nice."
"Mm." He walked away from her.
If there was anything positive about the encounters, it was that he did not feel quite as freakish around her. Of course, she usually couldn't see him in all his hideous glory, especially with the realistic mask. But it was also the fact that she seemed… damaged, somehow. For once, he didn't feel like the most dysfunctional one there.
One evening, he heard a conversation between her and her husband.
"I just want you to tell me if you need anything," said Mr. McKenzie.
"I'm fine!" she exclaimed. "Leave me alone. You're always bugging me. I'm fine."
"How the hell am I supposed to know if you're fine? You never say anything. You're like a ghost half the time."
"I'm thinking about things. I'm getting it all together. I don't need you treating me like I'm three."
"Fine," Mr. McKenzie muttered, his voice becoming more distant. "Do what you want."
Over the next few weeks, Christine went on a few evening walks with him. Of course, the woman was on her porch. Mrs. McKenzie always muttered an indiscernible greeting after Christine said, "Hello. How are you?" The woman actually seemed more eager to talk to him, which perhaps should have been the first sign that she was completely mad.
"I think something's wrong with Katherine," Christine had said to him in the privacy of their home. Apparently, the woman had a name. "Maybe she's sick. Justin never says anything, though."
"There is something wrong with everyone," had been his annoyed reply. "Except you."
It all came to a wretched climax about three weeks later as he was stepping out for another solo walk. Used to seeing the woman there, he ignored her and began his journey forward. One of his newest compositions was on his mind, and he was in deep concentration.
"Hi!" He was vaguely aware of Mrs. McKenzie calling out to him. He turned to stare at her as she walked…no, stumbled toward him. Fingers curled, he watched her in morbid fascination, wondering what in the hell she was doing. The woman was smiling, but her eyes were bizarre-distant and wild. She grabbed onto his suit jacket, laughing. "Hi there. You're so thin. Your wife…she doesn't feed ya, huh? Let's go inside, and I'll…I've got ham. It's the sugary kind of ham. Do you like it?"
He nearly twisted her wrist and hurled her away from him, but a warning bell in his mind told him not to injure her. Her body was frailer than Christine's, and he had always been aware of how easy it would be to hurt his beloved wife. And he did not want to have to flee the country because of this idiot woman.
"Release me!" he rasped, barely able to mentally grasp the situation. She was touching him. No one touched him but Christine! Ever!
"C'mon. Don't be shy." She pulled on his suit. "You and I should eat together. Everyone tells me I need to eat more…."
"I will kill you if you do not release me!" The threat had no effect on her. She continued to tug at his clothing, eyes hazy in the dim porch lights.
Arms raised, he did the only thing he could do in the situation. "Christine! Christine!"
"What? Erik!" Christine ran out the door, dressed in her white nightgown and a purple robe. Her eyes widened, and she rushed over to them with outstretched hands. "Oh! Stop it! Let go of him!" She gently but firmly unhooked the wretched woman's fingers from his clothing. Mrs. McKenzie stumbled several times before blankly staring at Christine.
Once free, he started to run back into his house and cleanse himself. Christine's safety suddenly came to mind, and he paused in his steps. Who knew what the insane woman would do? Christine led Mrs. McKenzie back into her own home. The woman continued to mutter beneath her breath as Christine helped her sit down on an expensive leather sofa. He stayed to the side of a grandfather clock, observing the situation from the shadows.
Within a few moments, he heard Christine speaking on the telephone. "You need to come home," she said, obviously talking to Mr. McKenzie. "No. You need to come home now." Another pause. "She's just sitting on the couch, but I don't think she's well. What? No…you need to come home…." Christine sighed. "No. This is not my responsibility. You need to be here…What? No!"
Frustrated, he walked over to his wife and grabbed the phone. "You will come home now and fix this!" he snarled into the receiver. "Now! Or I will find you and drag you here in several pieces, you idiot!"
There was a long pause. And then Mr. McKenzie nearly whispered, "All right. I'm coming home." The man hung up with a dull click.
Christine fetched the woman a drink of water and helped her recline on the sofa. He stayed to the side with his arms folded, impatiently waiting for Mr. McKenzie to return and handle his own damned life.
"Your husband is funny," said Mrs. McKenzie to Christine, still staring into space. "Like a…giant…black… bat." The woman softly giggled. "Batman." Her smile faded. "But he's kinda majestic, isn't he? You should feed him more."
He scoffed.
Christine didn't reply, only rubbing her temples and attempting to keep the woman calm. As soon as Mr. McKenzie returned twenty minutes later, he darted out the back door. Keeping an ear to the glass, he listened to ensure that Christine was safe.
His beloved wife came out soon afterward with circles around her eyes, frowning and shaking her head. They walked home together, and, after closing the door, Christine instantly embraced him and kept her face buried in his shirt for nearly a minute. Noticing her shaking shoulders, he realized that she was laughing. "What?" he asked.
"It's just…her…grabbing onto you like that…I wasn't sure whether to be jealous or…." Christine continued to giggle, and he harrumphed. "But you were great."
"That was horrid," was all he could say. "Was she drunk or mad?"
"Both, I think," Christine whispered. "I think she was in some sort of crisis center. Or maybe a mental hospital…or rehab? I don't know. Her husband isn't specific about it." She sighed. "Do you want to find somewhere else to live?"
He considered this. "No. Not until we buy some home far away from everyone else. Otherwise, we will run into other problems. Loud children. Vile teenage boys. Nosey morons who want to see my face. At least these individuals will not dare enquire about us. They have their own set of closet skeletons, no?"
"Good point," she murmured, kissing his cheek. "We'll stay, then."
They climbed into bed together and lay there quietly. Every so often, there was faint shouting on the other side of the wall.
"Erik?"
"Mm?"
"This place allows pets."
"Yes," he agreed. "The fish were permitted to stay."
"Yeah." She shifted. "Um…Erik?"
"Yes?"
"Can we get a cat?" Her eyes were slowly lighting up.
"It will try to get into our bed and take you."
"I won't let it," she promised. "Our bedroom will be off limits."
"It will eat our fish."
"I won't let it do that. We'll keep the fish safe."
Her eyes looked so hopeful that it was difficult to resist her. And he knew that she'd wanted a feline for some time now. "I am putting the fish tank in the basement," he stated. "The cat cannot go down there."
She smiled. "Okay! So we can get one?" He made a noise. "Thank you!" She started to kiss him.
"But you will still check upon the fish?" He disliked the idea of her abandoning them.
Christine drew back and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I will never forget the fish. I'll check on them every day."
He trusted her words and leaned back to continue their affections.
By the next day, Christine saw Mrs. McKenzie leave her house with a suitcase and enter an awaiting car. Mr. McKenzie merely stated that she had gone to stay with her mother for a few months. Christine said that he appeared depressed and tired.
He wasn't quite sure what to make of any of it; human interaction was still bizarre to him.
After that week, though, he felt particularly…sane.
And whenever he had any accidental encounters with Mr. McKenzie, Mr. McKenzie was always the first one to break eye contact and quickly walk away.
