A/N: Hello my darlings! Again, Act 2 is going to have a lot of disturbing content, and deal with situations of sexual violence, coercion and rape. Please read all of the tags before reading!

Now where were we?

Christine must decide what to do with what Julius has offered...

This chapter is written in a fragmented fashion – mirroring her mental state/distress...especially her feelings toward herself, which are now laid bare because Raoul is seemingly "gone"...

Drop a comment if you're enjoying this story – I can't stress how much each one means to me, even if it's just a couple of words...

Let's dive in.

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Idols of the flesh

She stood on the cement steps for so long, her legs grew numb from the restless autumn wind, and she finally looked down at her feet, realizing she was still wearing her pointe shoes. Ballerinas fully dressed in woolen coats and winter boots passed her on the stairs, but no one stopped to ask if she was okay.

Could they see? Could they tell where she had just been touched? Did they know what Julius had done?

Paranoia crept into her heart as fast as drink could numb the senses, and Christine bent down quickly, tearing the pink ribbons from her ankles, shoving her feet into her boots. She threw her long coat over her leotard, and forced herself to move down the stairs, almost running by the time her shoes hit the pavement of the street. She ducked through the meager crowds, pushing through holes in the throngs of couples that held each other's hands; each act love that she witnessed was a strike against her heart – her now shattered humanity.

She ran until her lungs were raw with cold wind that ran rampant throughout the city, and even though she was surrounded by people on either side, she had never felt more alone.

His voice echoed inside of her head; smooth, sensual, prodding her gently. Everything he did had been gentle – was that what messed with her mind? The fact that the unwanted and unwarranted touches had been soft, like summer rain? Did it make what he had done any less of a sin?

Christine slowed down to a walk when she reached the edge of Central Park. She buttoned up her coat tight, and pulled a few pins from her hair, wanting her visage to look different, for maybe if she changed something – anything – she wouldn't be the woman who had allowed such a thing to happen.

As she walked, leaves swirled around her; God was pointing out her failures, her trauma, the bruises that still lived inside of her. And how could he not? Wasn't it his job? Yet wasn't he also the one who was supposed to bring deliverance? Safety, to those who believed?

She felt sick. She felt abandoned.

And she felt weak. Meager. A slave to this man who had promised her something that she wanted so badly to refuse – but knew that she couldn't.

Christine needed to be somebody. She needed some semblance of an ego, a piece of identity that had been stolen away from her during childhood. She wanted that piece back.

She'd always been the white swan. For as long as she could remember.

Now, the story sickened her. Of the seduction that the black swan willingly gave to the prince.

The prince with the white hair who wore a silver crucifix around his neck.

He'd crucified her! He'd done it with long, white fingers and blue veins. With smooth and sultry words that fell from full lips. Lips that she could kiss, if she wanted to...

Christine made her way to a bench that was unoccupied. She settled herself down, wondering if she should find a telephone to call Bruce. Or maybe she'd wait awhile. Maybe she needed more time to figure out what to do.

Was she in or was she out?

Suddenly, Christine needed a numbness to fill the inside of her, to cure the desolation that was spreading through her; a paralysis of the heart...she needed more numbness than even the fall wind could give. She needed this feeling to go away. Maybe then, she could face Erik. Perhaps he wouldn't notice what was wrong if she drank a little.

But what would she say to him?

Erik, there's a new ballet master. And he noticed me, out of all the girls...he noticed me! It made me feel important, just like the way you make me feel. He promised me the role – not one, but both, just the way it should be. But he wants to touch me. He wants ownership of my body. He wants to relax me with his fingers. He wants to smell the arousal from in between my legs...

She stiffened at the thought.

No. She hadn't wanted it. Not any of it.

His green eyes glittered from inside of her mind. Fighting against all of her senses. Snarling quietly at her morality, at her dying dream to remain monogamous with a man who had saved her from a life of abuse. That old life that had become so heavy, she thought she'd be crushed beneath it; suffocated. But Erik had breathed into her, like God breathing into clay to make man.

A breath of life. And if she agreed to Julius's terms, she'd be morphing that breath into something evil. Something dark that still twisted inside of her. Something that had been born inside of her heart even before Raoul had come along.

A white swan sleeping on a white cot.

The girl named Beastie running to the edge of a pond, just to glimpse the fluttering of wings. The swans that would eventually fly away, and leave her alone with her newly shaved head.

Tears began to prickle at the edges of her eyes. Christine wiped them with the back of her hand angrily and stood up from the bench, now determined to find a place that was warm and held the promise of endless wine. Something sweet that would take away the pain of living, the pain of a choice that she wished she didn't have to make.

Her bag thumped against her legs with every step that she took, reminding her of the hollow pink pointe shoes inside, and what had happened when she'd been in them.

Let me see your darkness. Let me see the black twin.

Christine could not run from him like she'd run from Raoul. He would be there every day, even if she refused the part. He would know that she'd let him touch her, and would instead touch another in her place. Did the thought make her jealous? Did it make her sad and wistful at the same time?

She pushed open the heavy glass door of the first bar she came across. It was dimly lit with frosted sconces on the walls, with tables draped in red velvet, and surreal paintings like dreams covering all of the empty spaces. Relieved within the warmth of the air, Christine seated herself at the bar, quickly ordering a glass of dry red wine. She finished it within a few minutes of sitting there, ordering another the moment her glass was emptied.

She smiled slowly, touching her face to ensure it felt numb.

No. Not numb enough. She sighed, allowing her mind to traverse the unthinkable.

Could she agree to his terms? All while keeping it secret from Erik?

After all, it was merely a business transaction. Julius's "relaxation" techniques for the security of the role. A role that might thrust her into stardom, into becoming somebody. A role that could prove everyone who had ever abused her, wrong. The Headmistress, the girls in the orphanage, Raoul...but especially herself. She wanted to know she was good enough. To know that she held a place in this starved and miserable world.

To understand that even the smallest of children could become something large; something massive, all-consuming, and infinite.

Christine took another large mouthful of wine.

The white swan was so full of fear. She was scared of hurting Erik, whom she loved – at least she believed that she loved him, and that he loved her in return. What would he do if he found out? Would he hurt her – no, never! He was her protector, her guardian, her archangel. Just like the statues he'd shown her, perched on the roof of the Opera House.

And just when she thought that she'd decided against Julius's orders – because she refused to betray the man who had been her savior – a blossom entered her mind, a picture of what could be...

She saw herself in pale white tights, with ebony makeup smeared upon both eyes, and a towering, jeweled crown upon her head. The whites of her eyes were the color of blood, and she moved across the space of stage like a machination, seducing the prince with every feather that grew out from her flesh. Dancing had now become flying, and she captivated every audience member with each pirouette, spinning faster and faster until she soared up high enough to reach the chandelier, and she swung upon its brassy exterior like a madwoman; released from the prison of a man, of a household, of a white cot that smelled of urine and mildew.

Death. All of it together meant death.

And fame within her craft...would it not make her and Erik happier? Would he not be proud to see her soar? To direct the orchestra that she would bend to with every uninhibited emotion; uninhibited because of the practices of a ballet master massaging her clitoris...

The thought of it frightened her. Yet the fear of it, the familiar fear made her feel alive. It fought against the death of every piece of herself that she'd tried to give to the world. And all it had done was spit back in her face.

Blood.

She would be trapped all her life if she refused.

And yet, she wanted to. She wanted to have the strength to understand things beyond ballet. Beyond the cigarette burns, the hair pulling, the verbal abuse that sent her emotions spinning into endless cycles of self-hatred. Beyond the scope of a savior.

Beyond the process of healing, of love.

Why did life refuse her gentle glances? Why did it ignore her so?

When would she stop being a nobody – a battered and bruised woman that was powerless?

Christine emptied her glass with a careless toss of her head, pulling the rest of the pins out of her bun so that her hair fell down her shoulders and back. One more glass of wine and...

She would do it.

She swallowed a lump in her throat. There was so much fear inside of her. Fear of what would happen if she agreed. Fear of what would happen if she refused.

Another glass of wine and she would go back to him; the snakelike, venomous, white-haired man.

She would agree to his terms...even though she didn't fully understand the extent of them. But surely she could have some sort of say? Tell him when he was making her uncomfortable? Let him know what he could and couldn't do?

But he did not seem like a man that took orders, especially from a ballerina who desperately wanted the crown of prima...

Christine accepted a third glass of wine. She couldn't face him sober – Julius, nor Erik. As she drank, she tried blocking out the voice that screamed inside of her heart, into what now seemed like an endless void. The voice wanted her to run. It wanted her to tell Erik everything. That somehow he could save every part of her. But sadly, she knew that there were parts he couldn't reach. Things that were not within his grasp to give.

There was undoubtedly a harrowing, haunting feeling that Julius could give her the world.

Christine took another large swig of the wine. The bar had stayed quiet, with very few people sitting at tables, some reading newspapers and others chatting softly amongst themselves.

What did they see when they saw her? A gangly thing in an oversized woolen coat? A pale little girl with straightened hair, and reddened lips burned with the brand of wine, a poor wretch drinking in the early hours of the morning?

After dumping the rest of the glass down her throat, Christine made her way to the lavatory, quickly bolting the door behind her. She made her way to the mirror and gripped the cold edges, staring at the bone structure and brown eyes that she had always hated.

Or had she been taught to hate them? When in reality they might be beautiful?

Beauty. Beauty was what she desired. Being picked out from the crowd. Standing apart from the people that surrounded her.

She'd always wanted to be special.

And Julius would make it so.

She didn't dare stick fingers down her own throat – she needed the courage that three glasses of wine would give her. Splashing a bit of water onto her face, she pulled out a small cosmetic case from her bag and applied some red lipstick, smearing a bit of it onto her cheeks for a dash of blush. Her hair fell around her face in dark, gentle waves, and for a moment she felt dangerous, powerful, and magnificent.

She turned away from the mirror, at last silencing – or numbing – the little voice inside that warned her against what she was about to do.

In time, Erik would understand.

He had to.

As Christine left the bar, her bag slung over her shoulder, she walked with a newfound confidence; she imagined Christmases with Erik in the future, their children running about, as she explained the situation to him over several glasses of whiskey – their favorite. Many of his wounds would be gone, by then, and she dreamt that he no longer wore his mask, and that their children adored giving him kisses upon his scarred-up cheeks.

While walking the pathway that she had run away from a mere two hours ago, she smiled at the moment when she would tell him. She would ensure him that she'd never stopped loving him. That the reason she agreed to Julius's plan was to find her own place in the world. To make her inner child happy, for her soul had been grieving its own death long before she'd ever seen Erik through the skylight of his penthouse ceiling.

He would understand. He would nod, and he would put a finger under the edge of her chin; he would tell her how much he loved her, how much he trusted her. How the distant past did not matter anymore, and all that mattered was that the both of them had healed.

And therefore could love each other unconditionally.

And love their children unconditionally.

Christine sighed blissfully as she reached the cement stairs of the conservatory. Everything would be all right in the end. She would get what she needed. And Erik would accept the truth long after it had happened. She would tell him, but it would be so distant and vague, that both of them would barely even care to go into the details of it.

They'd be too happy listening to the delighted sounds of their children opening presents.

And her agreement with Julius would then be a scar, a scar so faded that it was barely a mark, anymore. Christine pushed open the double doors, hurrying down the hallway in a haze, praying that Julius had not yet left...

She pushed against the studio doors, and they opened soundlessly, revealing the brightly lit yet empty space. Her eyes surveyed the massive wooden flooring, the mirrors that covered every wall, and...

There he sat in a folding chair pushed into the corner; his leg crossed over his knee. He had been reading a book, she noticed – was it a bible that he held open? His eyes snapped up as he saw her enter the space.

His space.

"I want the part," she announced, trying desperately not to waver. Julius stood up slowly, placing the bible carefully onto the chair. He lingered there for a moment, tapping his long white fingers against the cover, as if he questioned for a moment why she had returned.

He finally began to walk toward her, and she lifted her chin defiantly. "I do have something that I – "

"You'll have none of your own terms. Only mine." He began to pace around her in a wide circle. She continuously turned her body to face him, and began to feel slightly dizzy.

"But don't fret, Christine," Julius stopped in front of her, towering over her, reaching out a pale hand to brush the ends of her long, wavy hair. "Nothing vaginal. Only anal, as I spoke of before. We can't have an accidental pregnancy. I need you thin, I need you loose...but tight at the same time." He took a finger and pressed it against her lips, willing it into her mouth.

"Suck," he demanded quietly, and she closed her lips around it, shutting her eyes. She could not look back into his gaze – it was far too intense – and she heard him let out a small sigh. He pulled his finger out of her mouth sharply, wiping it on the front of his dark trousers.

He walked away from her then, crouching down to gather something from his bag. Christine's body hummed with sensation, and in her mind she'd imagined he had been Erik – there, with his finger in her mouth.

Think of Erik, think of Erik, think of...

Julius crossed the room again with ease. He presented her with a small card, and she took it from him carefully, glancing down at the perfect cursive that was scrawled onto a piece of paper with clipped edges.

His address.

"We will start tonight at five o' clock. Please don't be late, I very much dislike my time being wasted. And wear a darker leotard, one to mirror the darker twin," his voice dripped like poison, like wine that burned the throat but pleased the stomach. All she could do was tuck the piece of paper into her coat, and nod slowly in response to his command. She prayed that he couldn't smell the alcohol seeping from her pores, stagnant upon her breath.

Julius made his way back to his chair, picking up his bible, and settling himself back into a relaxed position. "Now go," he added softly, opening the book to a place that was marked.

"I'm reading first kings. Would you like me to read you a verse, before you go?"

Christine bit the inside of her cheek. "I...I..." her voice was dry, and the piece of paper seemed heavy in her pocket, weighing her down, tying her spirit to the earth, forever.

Julius cleared his throat. "You have done more evil than all who lived before you. You have made for yourself other gods, idols of metal; you have aroused my anger and turned your back on me," as he finished, he slammed the book shut, making Christine jump.

"Isn't it beautiful, Christine? Being damned?"

Christine slowly backed away from where she stood, panic biting at her throat through a haze of blind senses and drunkenness. She found she had no voice for a reply. Her voice had left her.

"Idols of metal. I prefer idols of the flesh. They are much more...satisfying, in the face of evil. Wouldn't you agree? If I am to be damned, then I will make a name for myself upon this earth. I'll be remembered by God, long after I'm turned to dust."

Christine forced herself to nod. "I...I need to..." she motioned weakly toward the door, feeling unable to move – pinned to a corkboard like a dead butterfly, floating in a sea of what Julius was implying. An ocean of rebelling against God, against humanity.

It was then that Christine decided that there were demonic Archangels.

And he was one of them.

White skin, clear green eyes, a carved jawline...and black horns that grew from his scalp, pushing tendrils of pale blonde hair aside.

And when he smiled at her, she was frightened...swearing as she rushed out of the studio that she'd seen a flash of the devil himself.

...

A/N: THOUGHTS? FEELINGS?

Will Christine show? And if she does, what sort of things might Julius force upon her? As he's using the role to hold above her, and as an abuse victim, she finds familiarity in these types of situations...

Will she ever be able to break free, now that she's taken a deal from the devil?

Drop a comment with your thoughts, feelings, emotions, etc.! I want to hear them all!

More is to come soon. Thank you, my darling reader, as always, for reading.

Love, L.