The knock on the door signaled the end. It was the end for her.
"Christine. Your time is up."
With a trembling gasp, she looked over to the untouched garment bag on the bed, and then she pulled herself to her feet, grabbed the bag, and hurried over to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it behind her. Not ten seconds later, there was a knock on the bathroom door.
"Christine. Come out of there."
Swallowing back tears and trying to control her shaky hands, she started to unzip the bag, calling out, "I'm not dressed yet!"
"I have given you fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes have gone by. Are you having trouble? Do you need assistance?"
The material was smooth, soft, elegant beneath her fingers. She choked as she held it out. It was beautiful. It looked expensive.
"No—no, I'm fine. I'm just—I'm…" It was uncomfortable to undress with just a door between them. He stood behind a simple piece of wood as she stood there, shivering in her mismatched underwear, looking at the dress and trying to gather the willpower to slip it on.
"What are you doing? I will open this door by force if I have to."
"No!" Her cry was strangled, and she stepped into the dress, the tears coming back as she pulled it up and pushed her arms through the lace sleeves. "I'm almost ready. Please…"
The dress fit, just as she knew it would, and she looked down after she had finished awkwardly fastening it up. The soft white material mocked her, and she gripped it tightly, wondering what he would do if she ripped it. Another knock came.
Now she had to open the door. She stared at the handle, unable to move, tears dripping from her chin and onto her chest. He would be upset that she was staining the white fabric, but she didn't move to wipe them away.
There was yet another knock, this one the loudest. He was pounding on the door with his fist. She flinched and wrapped her arms around herself, shrinking into the corner, squeezing her eyes shut.
"Now! Christine! Open the door!"
Shaking her head, she whispered, "I can't. Erik—please, I can't…"
The doorknob rattled. She gave a whimper and pressed her hand over her mouth. A few seconds later, the door was flung open. He took two steps into the bathroom, cornering her, and she gave a cry and flung her hands out in front of her, as if that would stop him. However, he stopped short himself, staring, and a long pause followed.
"Oh," he said after another moment. "Oh. Christine." To her terror, he stepped even closer, reaching a shaking hand out toward her. "You are so beautiful. You are divine. I knew…"
No matter how much she pressed herself into the wall behind her, it didn't give way, and his long fingers carefully brushed against her arm, trailing a pattern of lace. Soon he was skimming bare skin, and she pulled her arm away, hiding it behind her back.
"I have flowers," he said hoarsely. "For your lovely hair. Come with me."
Without giving her a chance to protest, he grabbed her and pulled, and she stumbled a little on the extra fabric around her legs as she was forced to follow him out of the bathroom, out of the bedroom, and into the main room. He released her arm, and she stood there, shivering despite the moderate temperature of the apartment.
On the low table by the sofa was a large bundle of beautiful flowers. He extracted a few and turned to her. She wanted to run back into the bathroom and hide. Instead she silently allowed him to approach and thread several flowers through her curls. She could only imagine how she looked; frizzy-haired and red-faced, with swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks. But he was looking at her as if he had never seen anything more beautiful. Normally, she might have been touched, flattered. Now she was sick to think that she had ever felt that way at all.
"Oh," he said again softly, stepping back to look her up and down. "Christine. My darling. I could stand here and gaze at you forever."
Comparatively, the idea was perhaps not as terrible as the other options that were before her. At least then she wouldn't be forced to follow through with this farce. But it was merely wishful thinking. He pressed his hands together for a moment, long and thin, and then reached for her again. Immediately, she took a step back.
"No, you mustn't do that," he said. "I will not hurt you. I've never hurt you, have I? It is time to go now, and you cannot see well in the darkness. I will lead you. You must simply take my hand."
The sight of his outstretched fingers made her shudder. "I can't do this," she repeated quietly. "I can't."
"But of course you can. You have done so before. Simply reach over and take my hand."
He was blatantly ignoring what she was talking about. It felt mocking, somehow, like he wasn't taking this seriously. This was as serious a thing as she could ever imagine. It was all a game to him, just as Mr. Khan had said.
Nadir. Hurt somewhere, because of her. Could she really sacrifice this for him? For Raoul? Christine took a breath. This was for them. And it was for herself. Because if she did this, if she took his hand, if she followed him, it would show that she was trustworthy. He would let her go to rehearsals, away from him and the underground house. Then she would never come back.
Still, knowing this didn't make it any easier to reach out and limply put her fingers on his. His eyes brightened as his hand curled around hers, and she let him tug her forward a few steps. Before they reached the front door, she stopped suddenly.
"I don't have any shoes on," she said vaguely, the floor cool underneath her bare feet.
Erik stepped away and went to the room by the piano, disappearing momentarily and then reappearing with white flats. They were surprisingly plain, but she said nothing as he placed them before her.
"Forgive me for forgetting," he said as he watched her struggle with the dress to put them on. "It seems they slipped my mind."
"It's fine," she said quietly. Without asking, he took her hand and opened the door.
"We must take care not to dirty your dress," he then said, leaning down, and she felt him gather the hem up. There was some kind of gathering fabric underneath the skirt, and he pulled it up past her ankles. The hem now hung just below her knees, off of the filthy floor, and he handed her what felt like a smooth, thin ribbon to hold. Then he took a hold of her other hand and stepped out of the house.
She followed him into the darkness, her heart sinking as realization continued to dawn on her. This was happening. It was happening. Panic came back, and she felt her breath quicken again.
It seemed to come in waves—intense panic, uncertainty, fear, followed by an attempt to calm herself and be rational, telling herself that this was going to be over within a few days. What he was doing wouldn't hold her to anything. He would have no claim on her in any way.
As they walked, she started questioning that last thought. Erik had taken care of her for months. He had found her father, had paid all the medical bills, had rented an apartment for her, had given her money and provided for her in every way possible. Was there a law about repayment in these kinds of circumstances? He had never made her sign any kind of contract. She didn't have any money, even if he did want it all back.
Maybe he saw this as her repayment. With a catch in her throat, she looked up into the darkness. Was it too late to bargain? He could have anything but this—he could make her sign a contract stating she would take voice lessons from him forever, he could take every paycheck she ever earned from now until she died, he could tell her where and when and how to sing. He could take anything he wanted. She opened her mouth to offer all of this to him, and then the words died on her lips. She knew better than that at this point; it was all futile. This was what he had wanted all along.
The shoes were slightly uncomfortable—just a pinch too narrow. The dress felt heavy and claustrophobic, and some curls were sticking to her damp face. There was no way she looked like the bride she had always wanted to be. His hand was grasping hers tightly, pulling, and she stumbled and followed him through the tunnels, never wanting the walk to end but feeling horror creep over her as she could make out pinpricks of light. The doorway to the alley was getting closer. More insane scenarios ran through her mind; pretending to faint, trying to push him down and run, screaming as soon as she was outside, throwing herself out of the car, pounding on the windows to get the attention of a random passerby.
He stopped her just short of the door, and she could faintly see his mask in the dim light. He was looking at her closely, his eyes glowing. She shivered again.
"It brings me no pleasure to resort to this," he said after a moment. "But because of your erratic behavior over the past few days, I'm left with limited options. I will be civil and simply ask that you do not cause a scene. You know exactly what that means. Again, I will be civil and simply ask you, because I don't want to hurt you. You know I only want to care for you."
She had dropped her gaze to the ground, staring at the scuffed, old concrete floor, his words echoing in her mind, and she felt sick.
"Am I understood, my dear?"
Swallowing, she nodded. There was a pause, and he said, "I must ask you to say it. Say that you understand me."
"I understand." Her voice cracked.
"Good." He took her hand again and opened the door. The evening sun was bright and hot, and Christine felt her eyes burn as she stepped out of the building. Without even allowing her a chance to linger and look around, Erik tugged her over to the car and pushed her into it. It took a moment to manage sitting with her dress, and it bunched up on the floor of the car, scratchy against her bare legs.
Erik slid in next to her, and a moment later, the car drove out of the alley and turned onto the busy street. Christine stared up at the Opera House, the rooftop glinting.
"It will be yours soon." His voice came slithering from the other side of the car, and Christine glanced over at him, unable to help herself. He was watching her closely. "You will be the most celebrated, sought-after coloratura in history. I know it."
It used to encourage and embolden (and frighten) her when he talked like that. But hearing his words while riding in the cool car, dressed in white and sick to her stomach, she wanted to scream.
To her dismay, she saw his hand reach out across the seat, and she quickly pulled her hands away. His fingertips brushed her arm before he dropped his hand. Thankfully, he seemed to understand and did not reach for her again.
The familiar city felt ominous as they drove through, tall buildings and hurrying people ignorant of the horror that was happening just beside them. The shadows lengthened as the sun slipped farther beneath the horizon. Christine's mouth was dry. She gazed out of the window with a sick hopelessness, wanting to escape the car but never wanting the ride to end. Because at the end of the ride…
She didn't ask him where they were going, and she didn't know if not knowing would be worse than knowing. Although she knew what would eventually happen—even though she still couldn't seem to admit it to herself as a conscious thought—she didn't know where the physical location would be, and she felt as if every turn in the road, every corner, every building they passed could be the location.
It was itchy in the dress, especially against her legs. She was sure some sort of nylon or pantyhose and a slip should have been worn under the layers of scratchy material, and she resisted the urge to pull the skirt up. Although the temperature in the car was pleasant, she felt hot and cold at the same time. Her forehead prickled with perspiration, yet she continued to shiver.
They were heading down to the east side. The city grew run down and dilapidated, and she looked around at the dirty streets and boarded-up windows, wondering how she had survived in such a place for so long. If Erik hadn't entered her life, she would still be here, scrounging as best she could to survive, completely alone. Perhaps…
Christine quickly shook her head, not letting herself think that. Not letting herself think it could be worse. Because it could be worse. But that didn't make the situation she was in any better.
"Do you recognize the area?" Erik asked quietly. "Your old apartment is only a block away." They sat in silence. After several more seconds, he said, "You will never be so degraded again. I promise. You will want for nothing."
She didn't give any indication she had heard him. He would let her ignore him for only so long before he said something or forced her to speak, but for now he let her continue to stare out of the window.
The car stopped less than ten minutes later, outside an abandoned church she had seen several times in years past but had always been too scared to go into. It was falling apart, panes of glass missing, the brick crumbling in places, paint stripped from the doors, the miniscule garden overgrown with weeds. She knew it was a haven for teenagers looking for a place to get high and experiment. Christine curled back into herself, swallowing hard against an oncoming wave of tears.
"I understand it is not what you had envisioned," Erik said, seeing her reaction. "But it was such short notice and this was the only edifice that could accommodate us. I know religion is important to you, which is why I made an effort to secure this in the first place. We are perfectly safe, don't worry. And in the end, does your god truly care which church, so long as it is a church?"
He left the car and walked around to open her door, and then he reached out to offer her his hand. She stared. It was almost dark now, only faint wisps of sun lingering. There was a dim light on in the church. She could see it through one of the broken windows. Her heart began to race, and she tried one last time.
"Erik…" Tears came once again, dripping down her cheeks, but he did not appear moved by them. He continued to stand, his hand waiting for her. She shook her head.
"I can't," she whispered. "I can't. Please. Please."
After another moment, his hand curled into a fist. For a horrible moment, she wondered if he would hit her, but he simply brought it to his side. Then he bent at the waist and leaned over to look at her. Her heart dropped to her stomach.
"I've had enough," he said, his voice soft and dangerous. "I have been very patient given the circumstances, but now it has reached its limit. I don't want to manhandle you—especially not when you look so lovely in that dress—but if you continue to act like this, then I will have no other choice."
The tears were blurring her vision, and she hurriedly swallowed back an oncoming sob. Using every ounce of resolve and energy she felt she had, she reached over, grabbed the edge of the car, and pulled herself out and stood next to him. The night air was warm and bizarrely quiet, as if the whole world had disappeared around them.
Seemingly of their own accord, her legs moved, following Erik silently as he took the few steps across the cracked sidewalk and up the stairs into the church. Her dress was dragging, as she had let go of the ribbon that had held up the hemline, and she wondered if he would become angry when he saw how she had dirtied it.
But it was unavoidable, as the church itself was filthy beyond belief and in complete disrepair, the carpeting worn down and streaked with dust and debris. Broken bottles littered the floor. She looked around, the pews chipped and sagging, the windows either broken out or boarded up, the walls missing chunks of plaster and sprayed with graffiti. The light came from what appeared to be a few kerosene lamps, sitting up near the front of the church. There was slight movement, and her heart jumped as she quickly stepped behind Erik, peering around nervously as he paused.
A man was at the front of the church, leaning against a grimy pillar, picking at his nails. Christine couldn't help herself—she shuffled closer to Erik.
"It is the minister," Erik murmured, turning to look at her, his mask darker and the sharp features less distinguishable in the poor light. "No reason to be afraid."
After she gave a small nod, she followed him the rest of the way up the aisle, her stomach rolling. The man straightened when they approached. He was middle-aged, balding, with a protruding gut and heavy bags under red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. His grayish, old-fashioned, ill-fitting suit was dusty and wrinkled. He swayed slightly, appearing completely unperturbed by the scene in front of him.
Erik stopped in front of him and made a subtle motion with his right hand, indicating she should stand next to him. When she did so, her knees trembling beneath her skirts, Erik looked up to the man in front of them and then gave a slight nod.
The man pulled out a small book from a pocket in his suit jacket, thumbed to the appropriate page, and began to recite a wedding ceremony, his voice dull and uninterested. Christine watched him, praying that he would look up and see her face, see the terror plainly written there and stop the entire thing. She silently begged God to stop it somehow—that anything would happen to make it stop—but the man continued to drone on, slurred and sluggish. An unpleasant smell drifted to her.
It was nothing like she had envisioned. There was no one there, no family or friends, and the weak light from the lamps created flickering, ominous shadows. No hymns were sung, no readings, no processions or prayers. She resisted the urge to look up at Erik and try to discern his expression through his eyes. He couldn't have wanted this outcome, could he? This could not have been what he had wanted for them. Then again, perhaps he didn't care either way. If he got what he wanted in the end, maybe it didn't matter to him how it was done. It didn't matter how badly she was hurt, as long as he got this.
There was no exchange of rings, as Christine was already wearing the gold band. Erik's hands remained hidden beneath the gloves. Her head spun as it grew closer to the end of the already-shortened ceremony. There would be an invitation to kiss the bride. She fought down a wave of horror at the thought and stared straight in front of her as the minister (she couldn't help but wonder if he really was a minister at all) continued to speak. Soon his voice was slurring so heavily that she was having a difficult time understanding him.
When the minister asked the question to Erik, he nodded. The minister then blearily turned to look at her as he asked the same question, one she couldn't answer. A long pause followed, and she could feel her lip trembling. The minister continued to blink at her, seemingly oblivious to the time it was taking her to answer, but Erik was not. He shifted slightly next to her and cleared his throat ever so softly.
She nodded.
The last few phrases were said, and then the invitation came. That she could understand. You may now kiss the bride. To her horror, Erik turned toward her and reached out. Her eyes shut quickly, and a small whimper escaped as he grasped her hands. There was a long pause, and it seemed as if he wanted to say something. After a moment of silence, he simply let go.
She opened her eyes and looked up to him, but he was turning away, and she stood confused for a few moments before stumbling down the few crumbling steps to follow him. The minister was still standing there, his eyes half-closed, impassive about what had just transpired. She had to tell herself that he would not help her—no matter how much she wished for it. There was no choice but to turn around and go back to the awaiting car with Erik.
As they drove away from the church, she felt a bubble of guilt in her chest. She had not tried to fight in any way. She had meekly protested, but that was it. She was too weak to stop it, as she always had been.
They were silent. Her fingers felt clammy and swollen, and she twisted the ring around. She was married now. Wasn't she? She didn't feel any different. Risking a glance at Erik, she saw that he, too, seemed lost in thought, for once not staring at her, his eyes focused ahead of him but his mind obviously somewhere else. Was he laughing at her in his head?
Her tears had stopped by then, and she sat there with a resolute horror, sickened and hurt. Again, to keep herself from breaking down at the thought, she remembered that she would be going to dress rehearsals, and then it would all be over.
The seedy, dirty city gradually transformed as the car drove west, and soon they were back in the familiar areas, shops and restaurants still open and brightly lit. The streets were busy and the sidewalks bustling with people, out for a warm evening with friends and family. Christine searched their faces but saw no one familiar.
After another moment, she looked around. "Where are we going?" she asked softly, timidly.
"You said you wanted to go for a drive," he replied, his own voice flat, monotone.
"Oh, yeah."
The car circled the usual blocks, around and around, and Christine leaned her forehead against the window, watching as stores and restaurants eventually began to close for the evening. The crowds gradually disappeared, the traffic went away, and soon it felt like the only thing that was happening in the city was the black car, driving aimlessly. Erik did not speak to her, did not make any move to touch her. Her eyes started to feel heavy, but she didn't want to ask to go back.
She dozed, slumped against the seat and door, uncomfortable in her dress and shoes. The car turned, and she tipped over, bumping her head against the window and waking herself up. She rubbed the sore spot, blinking blearily into the night.
"We will return now," Erik said, his voice making her skin prickle. "It's late."
Time sped up. One moment she was sitting in the car, and the next she was walking into the alleyway entrance of the Opera House, giving one lingering look up to the warm summer night sky. She had a feeling she might never see it again, though she quickly told herself that that was a ridiculous thought. The walk down to the underground apartment went by faster than it ever had before, and soon she was blinking in the main room, her eyes aching from tears, exhaustion, and the bright lights. Erik stood to the side near the piano, watching her. Her heart skipped several beats as she stood there, waiting, wondering.
"You should rest," he said after another few moments. "You look exhausted."
She took a few steps over to the door and then hesitated. If he asked...if he said what she feared…
But he could tell. "I won't disturb you," he said, his hands flexing a few times. "You may sleep in complete peace."
Feeling lightheaded, she put a hand on the doorknob and twisted. Should she wish him a goodnight as she stood there in the wedding dress, completely spent and still terrified?
He watched her closely. After several seconds, he spoke, his voice quiet, "Will you not let me give you everything?"
It was pointless. Useless. She opened the door, gave him one last glance, and stepped inside, shutting it behind her and plunging herself into the darkness of the bedroom.