Hello everyone,
I'm sorry I took so long, but I got a review today from Allison that finally knocked me off my ass and made me update. Life has been...stressful, to say the least, but that's no excuse for letting this sit here idle. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, they all mean so much to me.
PS: this chapter is unbeta'd, because I just felt like I waited too long to post to wait even more, and I hadn't even gotten around to sending it to my beta. I'm sorry, TT! So if there are any spelling or grammatical errors, they're all me.
Please review!
Chapter Twenty Six: Unwanted
He closed the piano lid softly, his long fingers stark white against the rich polished wood. He sat there for a moment, head bowed, hands spread spider-like across the lid, his dark figure so still, as if hearing something that she could not hear.
Christine stared at him, curious but unwilling to break the silence. They had sung for over an hour, his voice rising with hers in the air. She was shocked and breathless at how wonderful they sounded together; his smooth tenor wrapped around her soaring soprano, like the earth meeting the sky. Then suddenly he had stopped and closed the lid, his hands flat atop it and muscles clenched like he was holding it down or holding some great emotion in.
"Is everything okay?" she finally asked, taking a step toward him. He turned to face her, his eyes downcast.
"I am unused to experiencing such beauty, such…" he took a deep breath that wavered slightly in the air. "…happiness."
As usual he struck Christine speechless so easily. He spoke with a simple, humble eloquence that resonated deep within her long after he finished speaking, like ripples spreading outward in deep water.
She wanted to respond with something kind or profound; she wanted to tell him that she wanted him to be happy, or that his voice was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard, especially when overcome with emotion. Christine opened her mouth and said, intelligently, "Oh."
He raised his feral eyes to hers and smiled then, as if understanding her bottled emotion. "There is something that I wish to discuss with you," he said, rising from the piano bench and turning in one graceful motion. "Will you join me in the other room?"
Mutely she nodded and followed him. 'Why can't I speak my mind around him?' she thought, frustrated. 'Sometimes when he speaks, my mind goes blank, and any gentle response that I might have gets lost in my head. I'm so vocal in fear and anger….and mute when I am faced with the beauty he creates. There are times…'
She didn't let herself finish that thought; it was too dangerous. Instead she seated herself in her usual chair and watched him sink onto the couch. He steepled his fingers together as if in deep thought, and was silent for so long that she thought he wasn't going to speak. She felt her eyes start to close, heavy, her body exhausted after a long day.
"I want to do something for you," he said suddenly, snapping Christine awake. He was moving his fingers restlessly along the leather of the couch, as he always did when he was nervous. "Something to make your life easier. I have a gift for you."
Christine blinked and sat up straight in her chair, alert, unsure whether to be excited or hesitant over this information. "You do?"
He seemed to smile then, perhaps mistaking her nerves for enthusiasm. "I'd like to show it to you. But we need to leave the apartment."
There was a strange, hidden question in his statement, as if he was hoping that she would choose to stay, but she shook her head in a furious nod and stood. "Are we going now?"
He sighed at her response, softly, almost inaudibly, before rising. "If you wish."
They left the apartment in silence, arm in arm as had become their habit, like a gentleman and a lady, a courting couple of the past. When he took her arm she felt his hand brush hers and one long finger touch the ring, as if he wanted to reassure himself that it was there.
They exited through the back entrance and walked the short distance to his car, where he opened the door for her before sliding into the driver's seat. He seemed oddly in his element in the dark car, his back straight, hands gripping the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead, totally in control. Not for the first time, Christine thought that he could crash the car if he wanted to, drive it off of a bridge, or less dramatically into a tree. Kill them both in one quick, smooth motion. Driving this car, he was in control of death, and that thought unnerved her deeply.
She snapped back to reality when he spoke. "I hope that your absence over the summer did not cause any problems for you. I'm sure it was difficult: questions, interacting with others….readjusting."
Christine wasn't sure how to respond. Of course it was difficult, she wanted to shout. Dodging questions, lying, lying through your teeth when all you want to do is fall down and cry and beg someone to keep you safe. Waiting every minute for that phone call or message that will pull you back into the darkness, into the stifling control of that god damned apartment with its dead smell, into a world without day, without time, only him and the music and the waiting. Having to explain, lie to your friends why you've suddenly started to get up every morning to see the sunrise, why you cry at the sight of the sun, at your old dingy apartment, why you're suddenly scared of the dark. Why you've lost so much weight, and have trouble sleeping. Why you talk to people as if you might not ever see them again, when you talk at all. Why you seem always afraid, tired, weak, like a broken doll, all helpless limbs and paper thin flesh.
"No," she said dully, staring out the window. "It was fine. I was able to get by."
"You're not a terribly apt liar, my dear," he said, and she looked at him.
"Yes, but what else can I say?" She said softly, her voice cracking, and he didn't answer. After a moment he turned a dial and soothing classical music filled the car, and they drove the rest of the short ride in silence.
As the car slowed to a stop Christine realized that they were near her apartment, probably only a few blocks away in the nicer section near the campus. The apartments were bigger here, as were the cars, and Christine felt a slow roil of apprehension and curiosity as he opened the car door for her.
"We're here," he said needlessly, and she raised an eyebrow at him.
"What is it?" She asked, and he seemed to smile.
"Here, I'll give you the tour." Gingerly he took her arm, as if he was still afraid that she would brush him off, and walked her into the shadow of one of the apartment complexes and then, surprisingly, through a back door. They took the steps, up four floors, and stopped at a freshly painted white door with the number 42 on the front of it. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and ushered her inside, closing the door behind her. She stood in the dark, furnished apartment, which was larger than anywhere she had ever lived, and stared at him with large eyes.
"What is this?" She whispered.
Casually he turned a switch and soft light flickered throughout the crème colored room. "It's for you," he said. He seemed somewhat diminished in the light, strange and wraithlike surrounded by tapioca walls and paintings of flowers, like she could blink and he would vanish.
She blinked, hard. He was still there.
"What do you mean?" She asked, disbelief in her voice. She knew it was the wrong thing to say but she blurted it out anyway: "Please, please tell me that you did not buy me an apartment."
He tilted his head at her quizzically, as if he could not understand her sudden short fuse anger. "Where you lived before was miserable, sharing that tiny room with another girl, sleeping with too many blankets because the heat didn't work, eating in that dilapidated kitchen. You need someplace better if you are to be on your own."
He said the last few words oddly and she knew that 'on her own' meant 'without him': living outside of that deathly house. Anger rose to the surface and flushed her face but she stamped it down and forced herself to speak calmly. Even after all of this time she did not want to risk yelling at him, angering him, crossing that line like they were equals.
"Why," she said through clenched teeth, though she tried to keep her voice even. "Why can't you talk to me about these things before you just do them? Why can't I make my own decisions ever? What if I don't want an apartment?"
He tilted his head in the other direction like some strange dark bird. "Why would you not want an apartment?"
"Because it's control, Erik, it's more control and I can't handle it anymore." Her voice was beginning to crack.
His voice was calm, as if he were making a logical point that she refused to see. "You're misinterpreting me, my dear. I did this for you, as a gift for you. I though that it would make you happy."
His calm was maddening and she felt words slip out of her mouth unbidden; she was getting reckless. "No Erik, it makes you happy. Everything you do is to make you happy. Don't you see that? You say you didn't want me in my apartment because it is small, and old, and cheap, right? Well here's what I think. I think that may be part of the reason, but what you're not saying is that you don't like me living with someone because you can't come and go as you please. I think that being alone in this apartment will separate me from my friends and maybe that's just what you want. I think that maybe this apartment has better access for you, maybe you even have cameras hidden in places so that you can watch my life like some fucking reality TV show. I think…"
"It is a gift," he interrupted, his voice tight, and she lost it. Every repressed, frenzied urge that had been bubbling inside of her for months escaped, purged out of her mouth like it was poison.
"What if I don't want your gift?" She yelled, and then, louder, more hysterical, "what if I don't want it?!"
There was silence immediately after her statement and her hands flew to her mouth as Christine realized how far beyond the line of safety she was. He was staring at her coldly through the slits in the mask, and another realization hit her. Rejecting his offers was rejecting him. Rejecting him was signing away her freedom.
Realizing the need to change the situation, she took her hands from her mouth and said in a small, apologetic voice, "Erik…"
"You will stay here," he said shortly, his voice frigid. "I will have your things sent over tomorrow. I will visit you whenever I wish to." His voice dropped slightly, sadly. "There are no cameras. I will not invade your privacy."
She opened her mouth to speak again but he turned away, his shoulders knotted and tense. "I will be back tomorrow. You'll find toiletries for tonight in the bathroom, and food in the refrigerator. Sleep," he paused suddenly, as if the breath had been knocked out of him. "Sleep well."
He walked toward the door and she wanted to say something, to call out or even to chase after him but her voice and legs wouldn't work. He left, dropping the keys on the counter and closing the door firmly behind him, leaving her all alone in the huge empty apartment.
She stared at the closed door for a long moment before her legs gave out and she sunk to the floor, crying weakly into her hands. She cried and cried, her tears disappearing into the soft unblemished carpet, though she wasn't sure if she was crying for herself or for him.
