"Just when I think I'm winning
When I've broken every door
The ghosts of my life blow wilder than before
Just when I thought I could not be stopped
When my chance came to be king
The ghosts of my life blew wilder than the wind"
-Ghosts, by Japan
The floodgates opened after that day in the cemetery. Erik and Christine began to grow increasingly close once he opened to her.
He had given Christine more than he had ever given another person–not even Nadir. He had submitted himself to her rejection when he declared his love and exposed some part of him that had been long unseen–the raw insides of himself that had long grown pale and gray from lack of light, but somewhere at its core still just as pink and tender as it had been in his feeble youth. After he had escorted her home, they had sat a long while together and he finally revealed the tales of his life, each one colored a various shade of tragic or banal. There was little he wished to say of his childhood, but she asked him probing questions and he was loath to refuse her. He skirted around the details of his mother. The sketch he had offered of her was sufficient, it seemed–beautiful, resentful, cold–for Christine did not press for more.
He went into the terrible event of the night he killed for the first time, while just on the cusp of manhood, how he found it both thrilling and revolting in the same turn–how he had done the deed and then rushed into a bush to empty his stomach. It seemed important that she knew this moment in such clarity as it was in his own mind, because that act had tipped his life from the existence of a petty cutpurse to a man of dangerous means. He needed her to see that the child was still there, hidden so long ago by a barricade of villainous acts. It had never been his intention to become this thing he had become–morally bankrupt and devoid of kindness. Fear and insecurity had taken full reign of his every waking behavior.
But it wasn't all bloodshed and despair. Like any good stained glass window, there must be bright colors intertwined with the dark to offer contrast. He had his music, his illusions, his many hilarious hijinks and adventures–many of those which he had not thought quite so funny at the time. He offered her those to see as well–and lord help him, she laughed! She laughed and laughed and she looked at him with such awe and humor that he was certain he was plummeting to the bottom of some great chasm of bliss never to climb out again. And, of course, he spoke of Nadir and the day he saw the man exiting a carriage on the Rue Scribe, the darkness he felt knowing his heart's keeper was just in reach but just as far away–for who would want Erik as he was then–broken, addicted, sick with violence and cruelty? His mind and heart had become as withered and black as grapes kept on the vine far past their season. There was nothing he could have offered the man at that time besides disappointment.
"I think that too," she said softly. The words came out like a holy confession, faint and brittle in their construction while somehow smoothed by the presence of some long past resigned acceptance. "I've loved Raoul forever, but I don't know what I could ever give him. He doesn't love me like that anyway, not the way I have."
He held his tongue, though the words burned in his larynx. It would be so easy to put her insecurities at ease, to simply tell her that he had read the good man's soul and saw his devotion matched her own while wrapped in its own cocoon of insecurities–after all, the man who appeared to have everything harbored his own doubts about what to offer. Instead, he sat there and let her suffer like a wounded bird he could offer mercy.
Was omission the same as lying? Yes. Yes, it was. He knew this in his heart, and yet, he ignored that warning flare of burning in his soul. This was a transgression of the terms. He was knowingly harming another and he knew it would only be a matter of time before he felt the effects of this sin. He knew it would be less mild than other crimes he had committed in the past, but he would feel it all the same.
The sun was setting and she was clearly tired, so he quietly bit her a good night. She hugged him! She pulled him into a reluctant embrace and hugged him! The contact allowed him to feel more of her soul, and there it was, a new feeling she had garnered by him–safety and companionship. He didn't deserve it–he knew he didn't.
He gently pulled away–ripe with guilt and burning inside–to quickly flee the apartment like a criminal, taking the secret of the boy's love with him.
Several days passed and the situation with her father had not improved. He tried to distract her the best he could with more stories or little jaunts to spots across the world that he had featured in his tales. Each place had changed to become almost unrecognizable. Whole systems of government had fallen and risen, buildings now cluttered spaces that once were rural, streets ran through the landscape like angry veins, and advertisement had gotten completely out of hand it, seemed–the Palais Garnier was not the only building that had to suffer the tacky burden of a billboard. The only thing that seemed to have stayed constant for years was Erik's damned suit. The thing was nearly falling off him at the seams–borderline transparent in direct sunlight.
He needed to change this.
He had given Christine all the instructions for selling the small collection of tokens from his past. Her face was quite pale as the girl exited the doors of a Sotheby's office. For hours he sat outside on the marble steps of the building waiting for her, while the items were most likely examined and authenticated. During that wait, on two separate occasions, pedestrians stopped before him to offer him a dollar bill which he scowled at before waving the flabbergasted good samaritans away.
Christine eventually emerged, face pale and drained of blood, the preliminary price for three of the selected items was more than she must have ever expected to see in her lifetime. She gave the number in a faint whisper–as if solidifying the words would make them less believable and he gave a pleased nod. It seemed his little prizes had grown in value over the years. There would be a bit of a wait, nearly a month, until the items would be authenticated and placed on auction and any payment would be issued by mail.
Another item, a sapphire the size of a cherry which he had once pilfered one day in a fit of boredom from the Shah of Persia himself, was taken to a skilled, yet skeptical jeweler who quickly grew wide-eyed with wonder when he realized the authenticity of the impressive cut stone before him. He laid out a price that was below what the thing was worth, but within the range he had previously told Christine to accept, so she left the shop with a check in hand.
"It's your's, Christine," he said, as she tried to shove the valuable financial document into his hand. "I've no use for it. I only ask for one thing."
A day later, when the check had been deposited, Erik had Chrsitine take him to a men's attire shop. It was quite a look on the poor sales clerk's face as he took in Erik, crumbling suit and bright floral covid mask—Christine had insisted he take one of her face coverings when one ear strap had come undone only two days prior. He knew he looked completely ridiculous. He had caught his reflection in the shiny surface of windows a handful of times. It was with great discomfort that he allowed the equally uncomfortable tailor to take his measurements and direct him to a few items that would work with this uniquely lanky build. An hour later, once alterations had been made to the two garments, Erik stepped into a brightly lit fitting room to adorn one of the new suits. Of course, he had to lower the absurd mask, brightly decorated with yellow daisies, to look at his face–a ruined, desolate landscape of sinew and caverns. His visage was still a disaster, but the cut of the jacket and the tailoring of the pants was impeccable. Thank whatever deity reigned for modern fashion, because he had managed to endure some of the unbearable clothing of past decades–the 1970's and 80's he found the most distasteful.
With one last glance, he reattached the silly mask to his face and stepped from the fitting room.
Was it his imagination, or did he feel attraction coming from Christine as she took him in fully? Yes. It was strong enough for him to catch a small taste of it as it lapped gently against him–but every man looked good in a suit that fit his measurements, he had known this long ago. Doors could be opened to anyone who looked as though they had the money to buy them.
"You look," she said, her words hushed and airy in nature, "different."
"A good difference,I hope," he replied carefully, lest he startle this new feeling she had developed away.
She nodded demurely while her eyes darted away from his with shy embarrassment.
For a moment, he felt some level of vindication, as if he had risen one rung on the ladder towards reaching the same impossible level as that boy.
It was all too exciting for him that knew a celebration was in order.
Suddenly overcome with a spontaneously grand idea, he convinced her to join him on a trip to a market. They walked through the aisles, bright and colorful with their neatly stocked packages and fresh produce items. He quietly explained to Christine how much he missed the loud, packed bazaars of Persia, with animals and people mingling in one space. In a sea of chaos he felt invisible and he often used the crush of a crowd to lift a purse of an unsuspecting nobel.
"What do you need here?" Christine asked as he tested the ripe flesh of a peach before gently placing three in the plastic store shopping basket he had hooked on his elbow.
"We're going to have a picnic, Christine," he said, "There's a little patch of wilderness I would like to show you. I think it's the perfect place for one."
"I'm worried about leaving," she replied, but he knew this before she said anything. "The last time we left the city the doctor called and I missed it. I don't want that to happen again."
He turned to her.
"That isn't the entirety of the issue here," he said softly. "I know all about your struggle, Christine. I know you're in the arms of another relapse."
She sighed.
"It's just–" she stuttered.
"It isn't control, Christine. It's the illusion of control," he offered a sad, knowing ghost of a smile, "Trust me, I've a history of similar illusions myself."
The subject was dropped as they went down a few more aisles. He carefully selected little jars of pickled vegetables and little jams. A baguette was tossed in with the items as they passed through the bakery and a couple varieties of soft cheeses.
Together they entered the checkout, but a brightly colored packaging caught his eye. Orange and angry, but inviting all the same, a jungle cat with a wicked grin sporting dark shades inhabited a hellish landscape of flames on the bag.
"Iris has instructed me to try these," he said by way of explanation as he plucked the bag from the shelf.
She gave him a beatific smile, but eyed the bag like it was a venomous snake.
"My father never let me eat stuff like that," she replied. "He always said it's terrible for your health. And then—well, after—well, I mean, I just never ate any of that."
"Bad for the health?" he asked with interest.
"Yeah, it's full of salt and chemicals."
"Ah, well, in that case," he plucked another bag from the shelf, "I suppose I'll need more."
He decided it would be best to take their little afternoon to a more local setting, to assuage Christine's concerns about missing contact from her father's medical team. Together they settled on a large, dry rock overlooking a quiet expanse of a pebbled beach a hundred miles outside of the city. It was near high tide, and the waves were vocal as they hit the blanket of small stones and shells that carpeted the ground. Little, hardy marine succulents dotted the landscape. He had come to this place when he first arrived in this part of the world. When last he was here, he had considered walking into the ocean and never coming back out. He wondered what it would be like to exist in that aquatic world, only to be pulled out from time to time when he was called to claim a soul. Would he emerge, a mass of seaweed and a mosaic of muscles and barnacles?
"It would have been an improvement, I think," he murmured as he removed the mask from his face and took a deep breath of brine filled air and looked over at Christine who looked incandescent in the sunlight—like she was light itself.
"What?" Christine asked.
"Nothing," he chuckled as he peeled open the bag of spice covered cheese sticks with the voracious cartoon cheetah. "I was just remembering how much I pitied myself, and in many ways, still do. It's ingrained in me, I suppose. But also—it occurred to me how lovely you look."
The blush bloomed heavy on her cheeks. And he was so in love!
"What did you mean earlier when you said you had a history with similar illusions?"
"I had quite the romance with the needle. Christine, I thought that I controlled it, but it controlled me. I see that now," he spoke honestly. "But let's not talk about that now, I would much rather not sully this evening with thoughts of a past that can't be changed. The present is far too enticing."
And there was that blush again! He could practically feel the rosy warmth of it.
He reached into his bag and pulled out one of the crunchy little morsels. The color of it was certainly not naturally derived, but he tossed it into his mouth either way. He laughed. It came out of him like a lion who had finally discovered his roar.
"I see why Iris misses these so much," he said, while Christine looked at him with a strange sort of amusement. "They really are sublime, you must try one," he added as he popped two more into his mouth.
She eyed the bag several times before reaching in and pulling one out.
After she ate it she smiled in return. It was such a strange and tender moment they shared and he wondered what it would be like if he was simply bold enough to lean over and kiss her. Would she recoil from him? But he didn't have to wonder, for she was leaning in on her own, her lips plump and inviting, kissed by so few people before.
Saved for that damned boy—no but he wouldn't think of that now—because it was happening. Oh my god, it was happening and his heart was jackrabbiting its way out of his chest. He closed his eyes just as their lips made that holy contact and then he felt it–
His eyes shot open.
"No," he murmured with despair against her lip as he struggled to feel her soul, he needed to know what she felt! "Please, not now."
But it was useless. It was a painful, agonizing pull that he was helpless to deny. It blocked him from connecting with her as it started to play the slideshow of horrible images from the soul of his next victim.
"Christine," he cried, disappointed and terrified in the same measure. "I'm being summoned."
He could manage only to open a portal to her apartment, for which to hurry her through lest she be deserted, before the call finally gripped him entirely and forced him through space itself to the soul he was to claim.
The picnic was left behind on that quiet beach—a romantic evening that was interrupted before it could begin.
Thank you so much for reading! Please leave me your thoughts. I love to hear from you anytime, regardless of how new or old the fic is! :)