To my reviewers: You guys are awesome! I can't even thank you enough.

As usual, a huge thanks and a hug for my beta, TouchingTrusting, who is very patient with me and my stupid little errors, and my stoic dislike of commas, and who leaves lovely little notes in blue when I do something right. It's so nice to bounce ideas off someone!

Please read and review, loves.


Chapter Fifteen: June Resolves

Deciding to do something as drastic and mind shattering as taking someone's life was one thing, but actually doing it was another.

'How could I commit such an atrocity?' Christine wondered as she ate alone at the small table. Her hand shook slightly as she tried to maneuver her fork, and water sloshed in her glass as she drank it. She felt like she had no control over her body; her muscles seized up spasmodically, small shaking trembles of weariness and anxiety. 'Could I really? Is it truly the only way?'

He walked into the room just as she finished eating, and as her eyes caught sight of his thin, wasted figure, Christine wished with all of her heart that there was another way.

He began to talk to her, so earnestly, his eyes alight, and she knew with complete certainty that there was not.

"You are shaking," he stated as he folded his long body into one of the small hard-backed chairs. "You need to sleep. Your mind and body are exhausted."

Christine ran a hand through her slick, filthy hair. "I need a shower," she murmured, so weary that she almost didn't know what she was saying.

He nodded. "Sleep and a shower," that soothing voice crooned. "Then you will feel better. Then you will be yourself again." Her eyes drifted closed even at the table, her exhaustion suddenly overwhelming. She felt him brush a lock of hair away from her face. "Then we can begin," he whispered. "Oh, Christine…"

When she woke she was back in her dark room, and she was thirsty, but her body no longer shook, and her mind was clear.

She knew what she had to do.

Christine pushed the thought out of her mind and slid out of the large bed to pad across the cool floor, her socks making no sound on the polished wood. She would think about that later. Now she needed to get clean, to feel human again, to calm her nerves and settle her mind. Later, later, after this respite, after she rested…later she would think about murder.

The bathroom looked glorious when bathed in soft light, the bathtub welcoming and deep, the veined marble sink richly set and gleaming, the mirror bright. It was the only mirror that she had seen in the house, the first time she had seen her reflection in what felt like ages. As she faced it the thin, sallow skinned dirty girl stared back, and Christine barely recognized herself.

She realized with a sudden shock that she hadn't properly gone to the bathroom in days; the sheer mental shock had pushed the idea out of her head completely. She blushed deeply, painfully, when she realized that though her mind had spiraled out of control and forgotten itself, her body had not and had calmly continued with its normal functions.

'Oh God, I have to get out of these clothes, I have to get clean!' Christine felt utterly disgusted with herself. Her stiff clothes smelled, itched, and when she locked the door they were cast aside with only a hint of nervousness. The need to be clean overrode any objections her paranoid mind could come up with, and she twisted the taps in the bath – no longer dry since she had shown herself that first time- until it was filled with warm water.

She didn't linger in the bath, though. She attacked her hair with sweet smelling shampoo, dunked her head under water, and immediately started on her body. Christine scrubbed with a loofa until she almost bled; she felt like the dirt was somehow ingrained into her, staining her, like by cleaning her body she could somehow cleanse herself of all that had happened and all that she was planning to do. She wanted to feel human again, real again…not like a monster that was planning someone else's death.

'Stop it!' she chided herself as she stepped from the bath and wrapped a towel around her thin frame. 'Don't think about it now, don't think about it.'

Her hand went up to her throat in a gesture of agitation and she felt for the first time how sharply her collarbone protruded, how the bones of her chest stood out. She looked once again in the mirror and saw clearly the deep shadows under her eyes, her hollow cheeks, and had to bite back tears.

Christine stared at herself in a lost way for a long time, then wrapped a robe around herself and made her way to the wardrobe.

It was filled with clothes, stuffed to almost overflowing with every type of clothing she could ever need: pants, skirts, summer dresses, exquisitely fancy dresses, tank tops, t-shirts, sweaters, coats. Below the racks were drawers with undergarments, socks, hats, purses, even delicate, expensive looking jewelry. She stared at everything for a moment, open mouthed, and the familiar rush of hot, almost blinding anger overwhelmed her.

Christine wanted to destroy those clothes, those lovely dresses and sparkling jewelry. 'I won't be dressed up like some doll!' She thought, fuming. 'I won't be some pretty thing that he can control.' Hands shaking, she slammed the drawers shut, resisting the urge to throw those shining necklaces and earrings into the garbage.

Almost as suddenly as it had come, the flood of anger passed and Christine sat down at the edge of the bed, exhausted. 'He wants to mold me into something I'm not,' she thought bitterly. 'Some beautiful woman who will belong to him and will sing with him and keep him company. How selfish! And this selfish person has destroyed my life…what was left of it.' She ran a hand through her damp hair, agitated. 'And yet…and yet…he thought he was helping me. He saw how lonely I was, how lonely I am. That life wasn't perfect, God sometimes it was terrible, and I was so alone…but it was still my life. I made my decisions. And there was maybe someone who would have cared for me.'

For the first time in days her thoughts drifted to Raoul, who she suddenly missed with a sharp ache. Would he realize that she was gone? Would he look for her? Would he care?

'This is why I have to get out of here,' Christine thought with new resolve. 'This is why I have to fight. I am not a doll, not a prize, not something to be locked away. I will not be controlled. And he…he has taken all of my other options from me.'

He had stripped away her hope. Now all that was left was resolution.

Christine just hoped that it would be enough.

With a deep, steadying breath she rose and dressed herself in the most plain long sleeved shirt and slacks available, noting almost absentmindedly how frigid the apartment was, though it didn't have the artificial feel of air conditioning. It was as if his mere presence was enough to strip away the warmth of summer.

Shaking her head of the disquieting thought, Christine ran her fingers through her damp hair and summoned her courage before making her way to the door and opening it quickly.

He wasn't there.

Unconsciously she let out a slow sigh of relief, the knot in her chest unwinding, though it almost immediately began to wind again. Where was he, if he was not here?

She was still standing there, hesitating and unsure at the prospect of being alone, when the soft strains of the violin reached her ears. It sounded so far away, almost as it did that day at the graveyard so long ago, though this time she knew who played, and where.

Almost without thinking Christine followed the sound of the haunting music; her feet took her without permission through the far door and into what she deemed the music room. He wasn't there, but she entered anyway, her eyes fixed on the closed door from which the music emanated. The music rose in volume, the violin wailing, anguished, and she felt tears rise into her eyes. Who was this man who could create such beauty out of sadness and yet act so sociopathically? Who was he, really? For the first time she remembered her night music, how it had comforted her and sustained her when she had almost nothing left, and felt the fear dissolve into recognition and, deep in her chest, the dull ache of guilt. He had once created something lovely for her. He had once saved her. And despite all of his crimes he still created beauty and when he did, she listened. Despite everything, that pure and painful sound still soothed something within her, and she missed her blind trust in the angel who made music in her dreams. How could she destroy that?

The sound swirled around her head like a storm. Christine stood with her face buried in her hands, alone and barefoot in the midst of a sea of instruments, and cried until the music stopped.

Then the door of the unknown room was flung open, and he stood there. The violin hung limply from one long white hand, the bow from the other; his breathing was ragged, the mask slightly lopsided as if he had sensed her outside his door and flung it on in a hurry. His feral yellow eyes stared at her wet face wonderingly.

He stepped into the room, never taking his eyes off of her, and placed the violin and bow into their casing with one fluid motion. "Why do you cry?" He asked, approaching her slowly, as if not to spook her.

Christine took a heaving breath. "I just…that was beautiful. Really, it was. But it hurt." She finished in a whisper, murmuring the words almost unconsciously. "It made me think about things that I would rather forget."

"My music has a tendency to do that," he said, his voice wry. He was standing very near to her, and Christine had to tilt her head back to look at his eyes.

"You wrote that?"

"Could you not tell?"

She stared at him a moment longer. "Yes," she said, dropping her eyes to stare at the bottom of his dark pants, at his polished shoes. "Yes, I suppose I could."

She felt his gaze on her face, but she didn't raise her head, and finally he sighed and gestured toward the sitting room. "Why don't we talk, Christine? After all, it is your music that interests me, not mine, and we have much to discuss."

She paused, fidgeting. "What is in that room, Erik?" She asked, aware only after she had spoken that she used his name.

He hesitated. "That is my bedroom," he said finally. "Though I don't sleep very often. Perhaps one day I will show it to you, for it is rather interesting, but not now, I don't think. No, you would not like to see it now."

Christine didn't respond; she turned and left the room and he followed close at her heels, like a shadow, those strange eyes never leaving her. She surveyed the sitting room and chose a squat, squashy black leather chair, pulling her knees up to her chest to make herself as small as possible and disappear into it. He reclined rather elegantly on the couch, his movements more graceful and relaxed than they had been. Christine studied his body language through stricken eyes; she knew he believed that he had proven his point, and that now that she was clean and secure all would be well. He believed.

She did not.

"I have hopes for your future, Christine, great hopes," he said her name carefully, molding each syllable into beauty, as if it were something to be treasured. "It will take time to make your voice truly a sound of the angels. I will have to totally break down all of the mediocre rules that you have been taught; they are only keeping you chained down. We will have to start from scratch." He was speaking almost to himself, his eyes focused on some faraway point. "Yes, we will have to redo everything. We should have almost enough time."

Christine didn't know how to interrupt, to point out that, thank you very much for the generous offer, you genius-tiptoeing-across-the-line-into-madness, but no, singing was not an option. Not at all. To sing would be to give in, to accept fate.

He had trailed off and was staring into the distance with unusual intensity, and the words flew out of her mouth before she even knew that she wanted to say them. "Will you sing for me?"

Christine didn't know why, but she needed to hear that dream voice in person, just once. She wanted to touch that beauty while she was awake; she wanted to forget about her guilt and desperation for one sane moment before this strange dream fell apart.

And perhaps some part of her wanted to make him happy, just for a little while. Just for then.

His eyes widened under the mask and she could tell he was pleased. "Of course," he said graciously, standing once again and gesturing toward the music room. "What would you like me to sing?"

"Something that you wrote," Christine said immediately. "Something beautiful, like the song left at the graveyard. Something that makes you feel."

"So often my music feels too much," he murmured as he led her to the piano. "But I'm sure that I have something suitable."

He sat down at the piano bench and unfolded his long hands onto the keys, his body still and straight and dark, like negative space. Christine sat down on the floor a few feet behind him, like a child, and tried to soothe her scattered thoughts.

His hands flowed over the keys; the music started, but it wasn't until he began to sing that she knew she had made a terrible mistake.

Before his voice had always come to her in her sleep, through means that she didn't understand; it was always hazy, far, hopelessly unreachable, like a voice out of heaven. But here it was tangible, real; he was feet away from her, so wasted and disturbed but capable of producing that heavenly sound.

'I should not have asked this!' Christine thought. It was like looking into the sun, like coming too near to heaven or heat and being burned, like waxen wings dripping off. She felt her resolution crumbling inside of her as the sound swelled in her ears, rich and pure and God she just wanted to wrap that voice around her and never leave.

Heart in her throat, Christine wrenched herself away, covered her ears and ran until she was again in her room and out of earshot.

Erik, so absorbed in his music, which was a love song, a wishful song, never noticed her leave.

Once in her room Christine threw herself on the bed and cried, huge gulping sobs so different from the terrified tears that she had shed in the past days. She cried for everything; she cried for her situation, for her lost chances, for her dark future. She cried for her mother and father, for her once-family that was gone. She cried for him, for Erik, who loved her so much that he had taken her away from everything; for the man who controlled everything but was not alive enough to enjoy it, who sang like the angels but hid himself away in a labyrinthine world that she did not understand. She cried for what she had to do, what she knew had to be done, for her weak resolution that would have crumbled had she listened to his angel's voice any more. She cried because she knew that had she had stayed in that room a moment longer she would have stayed forever; had she stayed in that room she would have lost her mind.

When she stopped crying she slept, and when she awoke the small clock by her bed said that it was two o'clock in the morning. The house was still. Now, now before she could think any more about it, before she could change her mind; now it had to be done.

Shaking and sweating, Christine got up and crossed the room, her footfalls silenced by thick socks. It was pitch dark but she was afraid to turn on a light so she groped in the blackness until her hand felt the same silver candlestick she had so desperately grabbed that first night. It seemed so long ago.

It was the only weapon she could find, and as she lifted it into her hands it felt as cool and as heavy as it did before. Christine stared at it gleaming dully in the darkness, her heart in her throat; she listened to the silence and knew that now was the time to do it. If she could.

But suddenly she wasn't so sure. Suddenly it seemed a horrible crime.