I'm back, after a long absence, to thank everyone for sticking with me and letting me know that you are still reading this story. Thank you everyone who has reviewed, and everyone who is reading. I will finish this story, I promise.

Please review, as we get darker and the end is almost in sight...


Chapter Thirty: November Hurts

The only time when Christine was wholly and completely happy was when she was singing. She would stand by Erik's piano in his dim, dead house, close her eyes and sing, and everything that she feared seemed to melt away within the music. Erik himself was less frightening at these times, his fingers moving smoothly over the black and white keys, his eyes trained on her face, on her posture. He barely had to critique her anymore; she sang like it was breathing, like it was her heart beating: natural, flawless.

One cold day in late November he closed the piano lid and asked, very politely, if she would like to stay for lunch. It was a Saturday, and Christine had only an empty apartment to go back to, so she agreed.

They had been doing this dance for a long time now, avoiding stepping on each other's toes. He wanted to make her happy, and she wanted to keep her freedom, so it worked, even if it was hard sometimes.

She watched Erik make a sandwich, amazed at how even this simple action was graceful on him. His back was to her so she let herself stare, watching his thin chest move as he breathed; she liked these little reassurances that he was indeed alive, and not some phantasm.

"You are doing so well," he said as he placed the plate on the table. "I think that you are ready now for any stage in the world, though for the moment you will have to content yourself with the University theater."

Christine sighed as she sat and nibbled on her sandwich. "I don't know about that."

"Oh?" His tone was surprised, and guarded. "You aren't saying that you don't want to sing?"

"Oh, no!" She said, waving the idea away with one hand. "It's just that…well, with everything that has happened with the theater department at the University, I don't think that it would be a good idea for me to try out there again."

"Why not?" He sat down across from her, as usual not eating.

"Well first of all, after acting the way I did last year I'm a bit ashamed to show my face again. And really, after everything that you did, as well. I would be worried that if I was cast it would only be because they were afraid of you. Or, if not cast, it would only be because they wanted to snub me as a show of power to you."

"These are all very childish doubts to have, my dear, if you'll forgive me saying so," Erik said in a patronizing tone. He drummed his long fingers lightly on the dark table, an elegant and restless movement.

Christine shifted in her chair, feeling like a child who had just been told off. "What do you mean?"

"I won't even address this nonsense about you being ashamed to go back. Ashamed, with a voice like yours? You could act like a diva and still return with your head held high. Other people should never bring you down.

"As for your second and third worries, they are nonsense because you will be cast. Whether silly little men with no taste or real understanding of music, who run the department on a basis of favoritism, want you to be cast is irrelevant. You have the voice to be cast, and so you will. Your talent is what matters."

Christine frowned at him slightly. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

He sighed, a quiet, mournful sound. "I mean that if they choose not to cast you because of me, then they will find themselves forced to cast you because of me."

"No," she said simply, putting down her sandwich. "No, I don't want you to do that."

"Christine," he said, in a slightly clipped tone, "it does not make a difference. If you deny yourself to the world for the sake of a few worthless men then all of my training will have been for nothing. Do you want that?"

"I won't have you interfering on my behalf," Christine stated, and he frowned.

"You have to understand how the world works, Christine. It is a harsh place; it is not just about talent. The people in charge are in it for the money, not the love of the art. It is a bad way for the world to be, which is why the truly accomplished have found a way around it. They know someone, they pay someone off, they do whatever it takes to get the part. You are lucky: you have me." His tone grew darker. "Most artists would give anything for influence like mine."

"Then cater to them!" Christine said, standing up, her sandwich forgotten. "I won't have it, I don't want it." She paused for a moment, thinking. "Here is my compromise," she said at last. "I will try out for the University production if you promise not to interfere with the casting. Agreed? Be honest with me, Erik. Can you do that?"

He thought about it. "No," he said gravely. "No, I can not stand back and watch your voice be ignored by those pompous fools."

"Then I won't audition," she said simply, crossing her arms. "I refuse."

He stood as well, his shoulders tensed and dangerous. "You refuse?"

"I do," she said, her voice faltering a little. "I don't care if everyone else in the world would do it, I can't. It goes against everything that I've worked for, everything I believe in. I've worked so that my talent would be good enough to be noticed by the people in charge, not just by you."

"I am the people in charge!" he said, raising his voice. "Haven't you learned that yet? Do you think that there is a single major theater in this country that isn't in some way subservient to me?"

Christine was silent for a moment, shocked. She supposed that she should of thought of this eventuality, but the idea that she would not even be free from him in the theater world had never crossed her mind. "I see," she said slowly, sadly. "So I'll never get the chance to just showcase my talent. No one anywhere will ever see just me; it will always be me….and you. I see." She paused for a moment, infinitely sad. "Silly me," she murmured. "To think that I could go through the world as a normal person."

"But you are not a normal person," Erik said, suddenly peaceful. He walked to her side of the table and traced the air around her face as he often did when he was emotional, his fingers so close but not touching her pale skin. "You are far from normal; you deserve a life that is better than normal. You deserve fame and adulation."

"Not like this!" She whispered. "I never wanted my success to be like this."

"This is the way the world works, dear," he said, and she knew what he meant even though he didn't say it: get used to it.

"I want to do this on my own," she pleaded. "I need to do this without your interference. I need some part of my life to be mine! Without you…"

"Without me you are nothing!" He hissed, suddenly angry, but then his tone softened into something cold and hollow. "I've heard enough of this. You will collect your things and we will return to your apartment, and you will audition for the musical at the University. You will do these things and we will not speak of this again."

He moved as if to leave the room, his shoulders knotted, but Christine slammed her hands down on the table, a furious sound in the silence.

"No!" She yelled, her face flushed. "No, that's not what is going to happen! No, Erik, I won't do it! This is my life!"

He swung back around to face her, his hands curled into fists at his sides. "You say that so often," he said, his voice still ice cold and calm. "But what you fail to remember is that you had no life before me. You were miserable, and alone, and on the verge of suicide when I found you."

"I never…" she started, but he cut her off.

"Oh, you thought about it, Christine, don't lie to me. I know everything about you. You were dying; I lifted you up, I brought you back to life, you need me."

She was crying now, her hands on her head in frustration and anger. "No, Erik, you need me. This is all about you, everything is about you! You think I'm the one with issues? You have so much power but you're alone, all alone, so you drag me down with you, you control me, and my voice, and my future, and say it's all for me…"

"It is," he said in a low voice, but for the first time she cut him off.

"No it's NOT!" She screamed. "No, no it's not! How many times do I have to say it? I want my own life, I don't need this and I don't need you!"

She had been holding it in for so long that the words burst from her without her permission, an explosion of pent up anger and sadness that had been building since the day she overhead the directors whispering about her in their office. She couldn't control those hurtful words, and she knew as soon as they had left her mouth that she had made a horrible mistake.

The room had gone silent after her last outburst, and the very air in the kitchen seemed colder, the room darker. Christine covered her mouth with her hands and tried, desperately, to right what was so very wrong.

"Oh God, Erik, I'm sorry…" she whispered, but he turned his back on her, his emaciated shoulders shaking either from tears or from rage.

After another long moment, in which Christine could hear only her own breath and heartbeat, he turned and looked at her. Slowly, like a predator stalking prey, he approached her, his footfalls silent and yellow eyes mad; he put his ice hands on her shoulders and shoved her against the wall, hard.

"You're right," he whispered, his voice deadly soft and deeply frightening. "Perhaps you don't need me, but I thought that I had made this clear a long time ago: I need you, and you are never, never going to leave me. You are never going to push me aside." He bent his masked head to her ear and said, so quietly, "I will do whatever I have to do to keep you. Don't ever think that you can get away from me, and don't ever think that you are anything else but mine."

He let her go and made to walk from the room, but paused in the doorway. "It is a pity that you had to spoil such a pleasant day," he said, his lovely voice odd and disconnected. "Now get your things together and get ready to leave. Be thankful, my dear, that I'm letting you go home at all."

The moment he left the room her legs gave out; with a little wobbling jerk she slid to the floor, hands over her face, sobbing. Reality hit her hard, like a punch to the gut, leaving her breathless: how, how could she have been so stupid? What had she been thinking these past several months? She had let herself slide into naïve, peaceful acceptance because it was easier than fighting; she had accepted this farce as her life and let herself believe that it could work out, that because he treated her kindly they were equals. But she had always been a prisoner, just with a different cage, a blindfold wrapped around her eyes for so long that she forgot the possibility of light.

In that moment Christine saw all of her flaws and weaknesses; she saw how pathetic and beaten she had become, and she felt, for the first time, a desperate, painful determination rise like fire in her chest.

She had to get away. Even if it failed, even if she had to leave everything behind, even if she died, she had to get away, before this twisted game that was her life got any worse. Running was her only hope.

Suddenly, as if she had always known but just forgotten, she knew what to do, and who could help her.