A/N: To my beautiful readers and lurkers; thank you for sticking with me, even if there are large periods where I don't update. This is a problem I will continually try to get better at, even with University sucking out my soul like a Dementor. Anyways, I think you will love this next chapter. Let me know your thoughts!

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Bewildered Child

Suddenly her arms and legs felt leaden, and she no longer had the strength to continue treading water. She sank down underneath the surface, cursing herself a thousand times over as she let her body drop down and scrape the bottom of the pool. Using the last bit of energy in her bony legs, she pushed off the bottom and swam toward the side, her head breaking through the water as she gasped for breath. Her fingers curled around the smooth edge of the pool, and her naked body clung to the wall, hopeless with a foreign sense of desperation, searching for what she might say to the man that had caught her red-handed…

Christine stayed there, resting her chin on her hands, slowly raising her eyes to look at him again. He was like a cold, dark statue…with eyes that seemed to devour her. She began to feel small and pathetic underneath his discerning gaze, opening her mouth to perhaps explain, or even to lie…but something told her he would not fall for any of her devious little tricks. And why didn't he speak to her? Why did he simply stand there fashionably, his hands clasped neatly in front of him, staring at her as if she were the most disgusting thing he had ever seen?

Christine swore under her breath, biting the inside of her cheek. The moment seemed to stretch on into eternity – she had to break this terrible silence, she had to say something, anything, to this man…this strange, handsome shadow that wore a half-white mask.

"You're bleeding." His voice cut through the thick worries of her mind, instantly relieving her – yet his expression remained the same. His eyes did not sweep over her in attraction, like most of the men she had walked past or met…no. He looked at her disdainfully, as if she had ruined his otherwise pleasant evening. She froze against his words, the harsh rasp of his deep voice, looking down with horror to see that indeed, she was bleeding everywhere…bright red patches of color were draining from every ounce of her skin. Christine realized that she had probably ripped open several wounds by landing in the rose bush…and her high had been so great that she hadn't even noticed the pain.

"I…I'm sorry," she choked out, averting her gaze to stare at his polished shoes. She noticed that the ends came to a slight point, glinting in the floodlight with a metallic sheen. "I…I didn't realize…I wouldn't have gotten in if I'd known…" Her words seemed like a burden – no, she felt like a burden…all of her feigned confidence seemed to be flooding out of her, just like the blood that rushed into flurries underneath the water's surface. "My clothes, they're…they're by the statue…" She was afraid to look him in the eyes again. Did he know how high she was?

The man let out a long, exasperated sigh. "Get out of the water. Now. I'll bring you a towel." He turned swiftly upon his heels, walking back through the outdoor kitchen, disappearing inside the wide double doors. The dog followed him earnestly, and she sighed when they were both gone, feeling a prickle of tears upon the edges of her vision.

"God damn it," she whispered to herself, pulling her body up with what little strength she had left. She settled herself on the edge of the pool, not bothering to cover herself up – but instead began to inspect every inch of her bleeding skin – oh, there were so many little prick marks. She supposed she deserved each and every one of them, as falling into the safety of the rose bush had felt too good to be true…

Just like everything in her life.

Hunched over like a feral animal, she waited with a pounding heart for his return. The pool was swirled with dark pinks and light reds…her blood floated around in delicate clouds, that might have been pretty if not for the look of irritation in his eyes.

Did he hate her? Could he see how bad everything was, as she curled upon the cement like a half-formed child, bleeding out of tiny cuts that filled the empty spaces of her flesh? The crown of thorns was even lost to her sight; another misstep that now added to her embarrassment. For how could she see it sitting at the bottom, when the scarlet color of her blood now filled his beautiful pool to the brim?

Christine turned her head slowly as she heard his footsteps return. She bit her lip harder, hoping to hide the tears that threatened to fall. I'm so miserable. I'm so fucking miserable. And he can see it. He sees right through me.

A dark towel was tossed next to her, and she wrapped it around herself quickly, keeping her eyes pinned upon his shoes. He did not make any movement to come nearer to her. But he still stood there, quietly, and she could feel his eyes upon her again. She ducked her head under the towel, hiding her crumpled expression from his eyes that seemed to see everything. Christine felt as though she was plummeting downwards, into a depth that screamed her name, that called out every word, every bad name she had given herself…every swearword that she used to curse her cumbersome existence.

She could not move. Every fiber of her being was dying right there, next to the bloody pool, ashamed of herself…horrified of the emotions that wrapped around her throat like mighty chains. I need to get out, I need to get out…I need…

Suddenly, she began to sob.

She tried to hold as much of it in as she could, but there were too many wounds, too many places where emotions could be set free. She bit her tongue angrily as she tried to even out her breathing, but breathing seemed damn near impossible, for her sobs wracked her body into violent shivering, and the dark towel could only hide so much…

Christine felt a hand grip her shoulder, and she whipped her head around wildly, looking straight into the face of the man. He knelt next to her on one knee, and his eyes had softened considerably. "Can you stand?" he asked gently, his mouth still pressed into a thin line. Christine shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut against the sharp features of his face – against the beauty of his eyes and skin, and the cold white color of the mask.

She felt him move against her with ease, gripping her through the towel by her waist, hoisting her up onto her feet. As she swayed and stumbled, he caught her, bending down to swing her up into his arms.

She kept her eyes shut as the episode continued – the hysteric, lost feeling…the barrage of never-ending, angry tears…and the sadness that seemed so unbearable, she wanted to die right there in his arms. Would he set her outside the front of the house like an abandoned animal, leaving her to snivel and sob in the darkness, alone? Where would he take a gangly, disgusting, bleeding little girl that had trespassed upon his property, filling his flawless pool with the stains from her wounds?

Christine felt him set her down onto a plush surface – through her misery, she figured it was perhaps a couch – but she dare not look at him now; he would see her self destruction. Her mind screamed at her over and over, calling her names that she didn't want to hear…and her violent, aching shudders started all over again.

She felt him leave her. Her crying deepened, wanting to call out to him, to apologize, to do anything, say anything that would excuse her hysteria. But her throat had been kissed by a delectable serpent, stealing her voice and tucking it away behind a forked tongue.

She felt a cool sensation upon her burning forehead; he was back, sitting next to her, lifting her head up to settle it upon a pillow. Then he pressed a cloth to her forehead again, and she leaned into its biting chill – the cold was a relief to her sore filled skin. She attempted again to stifle her sobbing, but the wave of depression was too great to bear, too heavy and hollow to push away. And there was no cocaine waiting to expel this disease – only a strange man that continuously pressed a wet cloth to her forehead.

The episode began to worsen, to her horrified dismay, as panic seeped through her mind like an insidious black snake. She could not stop the thoughts that tumbled forth, and she began to whimper, to beg God – yes, God, to stop this uncontrollable pain. But he hated her, he must have, for he let the panic take over her mind, and her anxiety called forth a racing, bitter heart…

All of a sudden, the man began to sing.

It was a gentle wave that crashed over her; dissipating thoughts of suicide and hatred, changing the narrative that her mind had carved into the recesses of her heart. Between pats of the cold cloth, the man stroked a thumb over the skin of her forehead, his soft lullaby cooling the dark spirit inside of her, whisking her mind away to a place that was warm, a place that was lush and ripe with the opening of flowers…of a place where her father smiled at her.

He sang of summer.

It was the only memory she kept from herself, locked away inside of a rotting wooden box. His love. Her father. His dreams that he had dreamt for her. Her very first time singing upon a stage. His face beamed at her from the front row. He had been the first to stand up, clapping with enormous joy, his blue eyes shimmering with tears…

Christine felt her heart-rate slowing down, and she began to breathe with him, at the end of every phrase where he would take a slow breath. His voice was like the sun in her memory, shining upon every dark corner, lighting up the tiny flame in her heart that had went out when her father had died. When she had stopped caring about herself. When she had started to drink until she could not remember the pain anymore.

The serpent began to fade, its skin curling and dissipating like smoke in the light of the sun, in the memory of summer that he sang about. His voice carried her then, cradling her like a bewildered child, lost inside the dangers of addiction and wounds that refused to heal. She could breath clearly, again…but her body ached with the thousand stings of the rosebush…she could feel pain in every slight movement, but the panic drained from her thoughts, scared by the bright light of a summer morning, not wanting to live in such a beautiful shard of memory. Not able to continue it's darkened growth in a place that warmed her, that comforted her…and it shrank back, terrified, swirling up into the high ceilings, disappearing into the night.

Christine opened her eyes.

He looked down at her, the lullaby dying upon his lips. "Breathe," he instructed softly, and she breathed in deeply, her eyes fixated upon his. "It will pass. Just breathe."

The tears had finally stopped, as well as her shaking and sobbing. She could do nothing but stare up at him, upside down, watching a stray tendril of his dark hair fall into his eyes.

"I need to clean your wounds," the man added, keeping the cloth pressed to her forehead. "I will bring you clothing –"

"No," she whispered, closing her eyes against the feel of his hand through the cloth. "It's okay."

He cleared his throat, falling silent for a moment. "You're naked," he stated blandly, "And I do not…well, I do not think it proper to…" he cleared his throat again. "I'll bring you clothes."

He spoke so respectfully, like a prince out of a book. Something within her suddenly agreed with him – that she did not want him to see her naked, not after what had happened, not after he'd seen her in hysterics…while normally she could care less about who saw her body…easily, she would stalk naked around whomever she pleased, but…

This man who had sang to her through a crippling anxiety attack, seemed very different from anyone that she'd ever met. And her heart winced slightly at the feeling of wanting to hide from him, to cover herself responsibly from his light hazel eyes that struck her with an almost golden hue in the dim light of the room.

He left her, then. The cold cloth was still resting on her forehead, and she allowed herself to open her eyes, staring up at the vaulted ceiling where pretty little glass baubles hung in the shape of a small chandelier. She watched them drift back and forth, waiting for his footsteps to return. The house was entirely silent, but she sank back gratefully in the absence of noise, finally ridding herself of the distant roaring that echoed faintly in her ears. She heard another sigh sound from very near to her, and she turned her head to the side, glimpsing the Dalmatian resting underneath the clear coffee table, staring directly at her.

Christine turned her head back toward the ceiling. She had a feeling the beast absolutely despised her. She tried to remain still as she heard his footsteps returning, and she sat up slowly, holding the large towel around her like a cloak. The man returned to her but did not sit down; instead, he handed her a small folded pile of dark colored garments.

"I will turn around," he told her impassively, sitting a few feet away from her while turning his back. Christine stared down at the clothes, then let her eyes drift to the powerful muscles that pulled at the back of his shirt.

"Will you close your eyes?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," he responded, bowing his head slightly. Christine let the towel fall, pulling a soft black T-shirt over her head, and a matching pair of baggy sweatpants. "Okay," she whispered, "I'm ready."

The man stood up and turned around, coming very close to where she sat. He set a bright red box onto the coffee table, flipping it open to reveal a first aid kit loaded with supplies. He leaned forward and began to disperse alcohol onto another compress, his fingers dexterous and smooth with the precision of a surgeon. He turned toward her, taking one of her wrists in his large palm, and began to press upon the scalding wounds on her arm.

He did not speak, but concentrated upon cleaning her cuts instead; yet all the while, she could not take her eyes off of him. She noticed the lines of the white mask imitated the lines on the bare side of his face, and she began to wonder why he would cover half of such a handsome spread of features.

"I'm sorry about your pool," she forced out, biting the inside of her cheek to brace for his reaction. But the man gave none, not even a flicker of the eyes. "It's all right," he murmured, reaching over to the box and pulling out a strip of small bandages. "Your skin is covered in these. Best not to fall into another rose bush."

Christine felt a hot wave of shame roll over her, until she saw the corner of his mouth turn slightly upward. She sighed loudly, and he looked up at her finally, with a hint of mischief behind his eyes. "I also would not advise you to climb another eight foot wall."

Christine suppressed a small giggle as he pressed small bandages to the sores. "It…it was a dare," she admitted, shaking her head at herself. "I…I shouldn't have done it. I really am sorry…"

"Do you normally apologize this much?"

"Only when I've trespassed and have been caught," she looked at him through wide, innocent eyes. The man's mouth curved a bit more, into a semblance of a small smile.

"What is your name?" he asked gently as he worked on her other arm, repeating the same process as before, discarding blood filled cloths onto the coffee table.

Christine blinked, wondering if he truly did not know who she was. He did not seem like a man who went to concerts – he seemed like he might sit in the front row of a theatre, writing notes down as to correct any deficiencies that he saw. "I'm Christine," she responded slowly, relief washing over her that he in fact had no idea as to what her career was – and as of late, it was an emotional tantrum straight into the microphone, studded with tripping and falling and laughing – feeling none of the pain of the falls, as the screams of the crowd rippled over her, through her…

She was grateful that he perhaps lived under a rock.

"Well, Christine…hm, such a lovely name," he said to himself, keeping busy with the amount of pricks and holes in her skin. "You will sleep here, tonight…I don't want you ripping off these bandages with extended movement."

"Are you some sort of doctor?" she asked as he moved onto one of her legs, pushing the fabric of the sweatpants up with a lithe hand. He shook his head, his eyes flickering back to hers.

"No," he quipped, his mouth forming into a thin line again. "I just have common sense."

She smiled at him, but he immediately broke eye contact, focusing back to his work on her leg. "Meaning to say that I have none?" she asked, a sadness creeping into her voice.

"I never said that."

"It was implied," she sighed, her eyelids drooping with sudden exhaustion. "I can't, I have to…have to go back…"

"No." He said firmly, pressing a bandage to her leg with a finger. "You'll reopen everything I've done."

Christine suddenly felt very small. "I need to…to take something. Otherwise I'll get withdrawals," she said in a quiet voice. The man looked up at her, his eyebrow raising slightly. "What is it?"

"Just a little bit of cocaine…and perhaps some liquor for the pain."

The man shook his head, tucking a stray tendril of hair behind his ear. "I can give you some morphine. You won't feel the pain of the sores – and you desperately need some sleep."

"Okay," Christine nodded, relieved that he did not question her further. He moved onto her other leg, and she bit her lip, wanting to know more about him…wanting to know who he was, and why he was caring for her. Why he sang for her. Why he didn't call the police on her naked form that turned his pool water into black blood.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he stood up abruptly, turning his back upon her. "I'll get the morphine so that you can sleep. I'll carry you to the guest room; I don't want you moving at all."

He walked away from her swiftly, and her heart sank, wishing he wouldn't keep leaving her alone. She waited patiently for him to return, using the discarded towel to dry the ends of her hair.

When he returned, he held a short rubber tie, and a syringe that was already filled. "Lay on your back," he instructed, and she hesitated for a moment, wanting to memorize him standing there, with a few buttons undone on his shirt, revealing his dark chest hair. She laid back onto the couch, ignoring the soft growl of the dog. The man must have corrected the beast, for it went silent just as quickly as it had emitted its displeasure for her being there. As he tied the rubber around her arm, she took a deep breath and asked the question that she had been wondering all night.

"What…what is your name?" She asked shyly, feeling the poke of the needle in her vein. He was precise yet tender, and she did not want his hands to leave her arm. Christine felt a slow, beautiful high caress her, and her eyelids began to flicker. She felt him lift her up again, and she laid her head against his chest, savoring the warm scent of his skin in her mind.

"Erik," he murmured, and she smiled at the name; how fitting it was for him. "Erik…" she whispered, her eyelids falling shut as she fell deep into sleep…

And she dreamt of golden eyes and black hair, with his hands pressing upon her skin softly…telling her simply to breathe, all night long.

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A/N: Well, what do we think? Are we already in love with Erik? Any thoughts or comments are so very appreciated by me. And as always, thank you for reading. Love, L.