Like Sands Through The Hourglass
So are the days of our lives...
Not a day went by in the next four months where Christine did not cry. Her torture and her shame were unbearable, even more so, they were intolerable to watch. Her slow deterioration into a girl that the Masked Man did not yet come to know, was his weakness. He was willing to do anything and everything, just to get her to smile, once more.
"Are you feeling alright, Christine?" A silent nod from the curly headed ballet dancer shot into Erik's peripheral as he continued slathering the piece of wheat bread in crunchy peanut butter. As far as he knew, she was the only one who liked crunchy peanut butter; the only one he cared about liking crunchy peanut butter, as opposed to creamy peanut butter. "Your sandwich is almost ready."
"Okay." Christine exhaled, leaning the weight of the world onto her left hand, while she leaned forward on the kitchen table. Her eyes were dry, yet the tears did not stop. "Can you cut off the crust this time?" Erik smiled obligingly, turning the sandwich in a circle to get all the corners, tainted with the taste of crust.
"What would you like to drink, Christine?" The curly headed girl once again sighed, shrugging her shoulders in a simultaneous effort. "Milk or water? Tea, maybe?" Christine pondered for a moment on the thought of some lemon tea, but the thing growing inside of her, absolutely detested the idea as she cringed in horror.
"Hot chocolate... Do you think you could make me some hot chocolate?" The Composer's face expanded practically ten sizes in the next moments. His smile was bigger than Christine had ever seen before, his excitement for a simple cup of hot chocolate, overwhelming. "What? Why are you smiling like that, Erik?" The former ballet dancer crooned her head to the side, furrowing her full eyebrows towards the center of her face.
"I... I... It's nothing, Christine. How are you feeling, Christine?" Squinting her eyes the way most skeptics do, Christine sat up and moved her empty plate aside.
"You already asked me how I was feeling, Erik." With the pout like a four year old, Christine folded her tiny arms over her equally as tiny chest. "Tell me, I want to know why you were so happy all of a sudden." Erik smiled slightly again, raising his gaze towards his fiancée.
"I was..." Erik paused to pour the milk into the pot, slowly stirring it as it heated on the stove. "I was smiling, because the last time we had hot chocolate, we stayed up all night talking about our favorite movies, playing with your cat..." Erik trailed off into incoherent speech, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand.
"We stayed up all night many times, Erik." With a monotone timbre, Christine sighed. "Why won't you tell me why you were smiling? I know it's not, because of the hot chocolate. If it was because of the hot chocolate, you would have already told me why you were smiling, but... I know you better than you think that I do and I know that asking you for hot chocolate, made that smart brain think of something else. Now, are you going to tell me what you thought of or am I going to have to force it out of you?" Erik let out a small laugh at the thought of Christine trying to torture him for information.
"I was smiling... Because that was the first time in a long time that you actually asked me for something. Usually when I offer to make something, you remain silent... Or you shrug your shoulders... It was just nice to hear your voice again."
The Next Day
"Erik, do you believe in the after life?" Christine's voice broke the silence as he put down his pencil, turning towards the tiny dancer. "I mean, do you believe in heaven and hell?" Erik motioned for Christine to sit beside him, but the barely twenty year old chose the seat across from his piano, instead.
"I do believe there is some sort of afterlife. No matter how dark or light it may be, I believe that one's soul... Never truly dies." Christine nodded along, placing her small hand over the small bump, arising from her abdomen.
"I want to move, Erik. I don't want to live here anymore... I don't like it here anymore..." Erik's eyes widened at the statement, while he rose from his piano bench. "There are too many horrible memories here, Erik. I don't wart to live here..." Erik took a deep breath, exhaling as he sat down in the seat across from her. His mind was racing.
"Where were you thinking of moving, Christine?" She shrugged. "I mean, moving is quite a big step and I don't think you should be moving houses while pregnant. That could cause extreme stress to you and the baby. Christine... Christine..." The Composer leaned forward, wiping the sweat off of the palm of his hands.
"That's the thing though... I wouldn't be moving houses," Christine began, her voice quiet and reserved, only sparking The Composer's curiosity even more.
"I would be moving out of the state... This house is hardly a home for a child and..." The former ballet dancer felt too guilty to continue her sentence.
"Out of the state... Why... Why are you planning on moving out of the state? How long have you been thinking about this, Christine? Why are you suddenly leaving? What don't I Know, Christine?" Erik's questions were firing more rapidly than he could process. "Why... Why are you leaving me, again...?"
Christine paused, her eyes blinking rapidly in hopes of an answer. To her dismay, she did not find an answer to his question.
She feared she would never find an answer to his question.
As Christine's heart palpitated in her shallow caverns of her chest, deep below the bloodied cage in which it was held, the tiny ballerina could only muster up a meek sound from her chapped lips. Such a sound was inaudible to The Composer, who was surely used to grandiose productions of noise by the ripe age of three, but still, he heard nothing. She spoke nothing. Christine could only find herself to part her dry lips ever so, in order for the smallest exhalation of air to escape them. In truth, Christine had forgotten the question in which she was seeking the answer to, but she was violently reminded by her vision becoming clear once more.
Erik's masked face was centimeters - if that - from hers, his lips parted, just as hers were. The black of his mask shimmered beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the kitchen and his good eye, glared into hers with a force she could not handle on her own.
Luckily, she was not alone.
"I don't want to leave you, Erik." Christine finally answered, her breath inches from his.
"I don't understand, Christine. You just told me that you wanted to move out of the state and now, you are telling me that you don't?" Erik leaned back, his mind racing for plausible responses. Unfortunately, he had none.
"No... Erik... Please... Listen to me, please." Christine's voice hushed to a whisper; a frightened, quiet, and intimated whisper. Her fingers intertwined with each other, creating a complex web of confusion, unable to be explained. Her head dropped between her shoulders, her gaze shifted to the floor.
And in that moment, he knew.
"Oh... Oh... Oh, no... Oh no, Christine." Erik rushed to the scene of his crime, his heart beating faster than he remembered it ever could. Slowly, he encased the tiny five foot three ballerina onto his lap, her head buried in his chest and mildly, he breathed out and swallowed deeply, trying to calm himself. "Christine?" His voice was shaky, Christine immediately could tell that he was nervous. With a brave soul, she grabbed his right hand and pressed their palms together, her left hand looking quite minuscule to his.
"Don't be scared." Erik began to tremble, his hand was clear evidence of that. In honesty, since Christine had returned from the hospital, he had been working on his rage. Sometimes though, his thoughts get ahead of his reason and in the end, they team up and both get ahead of his heart.
"I'm not scared. I can't ever be scared with you."
Erik closed his fingers gently down, capturing Christine's left hand in his. Bringing their hands down onto her thigh, Erik looked intently onto the engagement ring that sat proudly on her finger.
"Christine?" The ballerina nodded in reassurance that she was indeed, still awake and with another deep breath, Erik began something he knew whole-heartedly, he was going to regret.
"If you insist on moving out of the state, Christine... I'm moving with you."
4:19 in The Morning
"Erik, I feel funny." Christine's tiny voice pierced the bedroom, which was barely lit by the candle in the corner. "Erik, are you there?" Christine sat up, moving her thick chocolate curls to her right shoulder. Immediately, The Composer was kneeling beside her, with her little hand in his, grasped tightly - never to let go of ever again.
"What's wrong, Angel?" Erik was unmasked, which left Christine un-phased. Truthfully, she hadn't even noticed that Erik bore no sort of covering and when she did, she admired his scars and the way they all came together in a vast array of strength and courage. "Where do you feel pain, Christine?" Erik on the other hand, was and is always going to be more than surprised that he is one, sharing a home with the woman he loves so dearly and two, is sharing a home with the woman he loves so dearly and yet, she does not seem to mind to look upon the hideous disease, thrust upon what would have been his face.
"It's not a pain, Erik... It's not painful..." Christine pulled the blankets off of her and pushed them to the side. Erik took a quick look up and down her legs, nodding approvingly of his mental diagnosis. There was no apparent bruising or nothing that would be alarming for a pregnant woman. Erik simply fluffed Christine's favorite pillow and filled her glass yet again, with lemon-infused water.
"What's wrong, then? Why do you feel funny? Is it the baby? Your head? Your back? What's wrong? Should I call a doctor or-"
"No, Erik. It's none of those. The baby is fine, my head is great. My back hurts, but that's only because I'm pregnant and no, you should not call a doctor." Christine smiled softly, setting the glass of water down on the bedside table, looking at the man who knelt before her. With a deep breath in, she smiled again and took his hands in hers.
"What is it then?"
Christine very well knew that waking up in the middle of the night and calling Erik over was no problem, seeing that The Great Composer, never actually sleeps. Christine figured it out while they were dating; while she was still his student and while he was still her professor. He would lay in bed with her for about an hour, laying completely still of course. He would move about if she did, being sure that her comfort was in the utmost of importance. Soon enough though, Christine would doze off and he would gently set her aside to the middle of the bed, making certain that she had plenty of room to roll around. Erik would meander about the apartment for about five minutes before getting bored and soon enough, he would spend the whole rest of the night and into the morning - sometimes far past sunrise - writing music, symphonies even, while Christine lay sound asleep in the very next room.
Christine liked it, though. Every so often she would wake up from a lighter REM Cycle and would hear Erik humming part of his newest piece, trying to put it together without putting it together. In order for Erik to truly create music, he needed a piano, thousands of pieces of blank sheet music and of course, his organ. He was quite limited to what kind of music he could create when he stayed the night at Christine's in her old apartment, but as the years went by and she laid in bed upstairs and he in the lair far below the ground, he was free to create whatever his soul desired.
"I had a dream, Erik... About you."