Ch. 13— Out of Sight, Out of Mind
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"Again. You are not giving the right mood to the piece. It needs to be sung with passion, with fire— triumphantly."
Christine looked over from her position standing beside the piano. They had been working on his score for the past three days.
Three days of nothing but his music. Three days of her transcribing his work and then singing it back to him note for note.
Three days… and the cottage looked a mess, and frankly put, so did she.
Lowering the music she held, she looked over, studying her wayward charge as he sat at the piano.
His black hair was long now, falling past his shoulders; his jaw was still unshaven and scraggly in spots due to his uneven beard growth. But excitement shown in his honey-hued eyes, there was color in his formally sallow cheeks making the purple-tinged scars stand out vibrantly in contrast, and his smile—which had been delightfully present— had not left him for the last three days. Even now, when he was telling her precisely where she was mistaken in singing the piece they were working on, he was still smiling about it.
Listening with half an ear as he continued on, she caught a glance at herself in the hallway mirror and cringed. Fly away hair in a haphazard bun that was coming undone at her nape, dark circles under her eyes that made her look far older than her years, and her face looked drawn and pinched as if she'd been ill.
In the last three days, Christine barely had a moment to herself. He hadn't let her. But she had been fed sandwiches… Lord yes, and given tea—copious amounts of tea with the precisely prescribed amount of honey she preferred.
And he let her relieve herself on occasion… when it was warranted…. when he remembered.
For when Christine would ask him, he would say, "Just after this measure..." and then another hour would pass, and she still hadn't been dismissed. Yesterday it had gotten so bad, Christine left him, stood up mid-note and just walked out of the room.
He was there just outside the hallway waiting for her when she finished; his scarred face holding a disapproving scowl. "Ask permission first, Ms. Daae, if you please. You're on my time, my girl. Not your own."
Christine drew breath to argue the point, but he'd already turned around to walk back towards the piano.
And there she was once again standing by the piano, tired, hungry, and strung-out. And Mr. D'Anton was smiling to himself even now.
"Now, sing it again. Remember loudly, triumphantly."
Her eyes narrowed to slits. So help her, if she had to eat another sandwich for dinner, she was going to be ill! And she needed to bathe… badly. "Mr. D'Anton…"
"Now, you've missed your cue again. I surely hope this isn't habit forming, my dear."
"Mr. D'Anton—"
The music began to play. "And begin."
"MR. D'ANTON! I WON'T!"
His hands crashed on the keys as he turned to face her, fury in his eyes as he stared daggers at her shoulder. "You most certainly wi—"
"I will not!" She interrupted, placing her hands on her hips and leaning towards him, her fury matching his. "I need food—actual food—not sandwiches! I need a bath; I need rest, real honest-to-God sleep without you playing the piano full-stop until all hours of the morning!"
She drew a deep breath. "And I need to think about something besides music!"
His mouth opened in shock. You would have thought she had blasphemed.
He rose from the bench to face her, and Christine took an involuntary step back, having to crane her neck to look up at him. "You listen to me, Diva Daae, you will sing, and you will do so now. That, my dear, is not a request."
Christine felt herself begin to comply to his mesmerism—his voiced command—but she choked back the notes, cutting them off before they could escape, a wrenching cry wrested from her lips as she clutched feebly at her head.
Ah, but the pain was horrendous! She whimpered; the sound pitiful in the now quiet room.
"Christ!" she heard him mutter, and then instantly he was at her side, groping for her shoulders, turning her in his arms, and then he was pulling her towards him.
She went rigid in his hold.
"Christine! I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, my dear." He continued mumbling words of apology as his hands cradled the back of her neck, his thumbs moving to her temples and massaging gently. His voice was soft and kind, and the pain slightly began to lessen.
For her part, Christine felt as if she were outside herself watching Mr. D'Anton hold her to him; it was surreal. She felt the shear skull-splitting agony of going against his direct order, but then again, she registered his arms around her, holding her tightly to him.
Had a man ever held her like this?
Never. No man ever had.
Not even her father.
"Say something, my girl. You have to say something to let me know you're alright. Did I break you?"
Christine blinked coming back to herself as he drew her even closer, his hold now frantic, his fingers almost bruising where they held her clutched to him. Their foreheads touched and he whispered, pleading, "Tell me I didn't break you, little mouse."
"N-no," Christine whispered, "I'm not broken, sir." Her eyes were still squeezed shut against the pain. Ah, but her head ached!
His hands immediately gentled their hold. "God, I'm sorry, my girl. More sorry than I can say."
She nodded, her lips pursing together.
He continued, "There is no excuse for my behavior. Of course you're entitled to all the things you requested and more."
Opening her eyes, Christine looked up at him. He stared unfocused down at her, and he was waiting for her to say something. Her chin lifted, and she drew a shaky breath. "Demanded," she exclaimed with certainty. "The things I asked for were not requests."
He seemed taken aback for a moment, but then he smiled that wry, crooked grin, and the fingers of one hand slid from the back of her neck to tap her on the chin. "Ah, but this little mouse is fast learning her rightful place."
Christine's heart tripped, and she gulped. His arm was still around her, and she fit so snuggly there, folded as she was into him. She began to tremble as she looked up.
He was smiling softly, repentantly at her now, and his hand stayed exactly where it was against her jaw, his thumb caressing. Her heart lodged in her throat.
Even with his expression so contrite, his eyes still held that spark of animation that had not dimmed since he first asked her to work on the score. And she was glad to see it for she wouldn't want his joy diminished, not for anything in the world!
…a thought struck her and she paled, her eyes going wide.
Surely… Oh, God, surely she couldn't be falling in love with him!
Staggering back from his grasp, Christine turned and fled the room.
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Lowering his hands, Erik hung his head, his breathing ragged.
Stupid. Of all the bloody idiotic, imbecilic—he cursed himself a blue streak for his treatment of her. He'd lost her and all because of a momentary lapse of weakness on his part.
Why hadn't he noticed her trembling before and pulled away? He'd scared her! He never should have touched her!
But when she uttered that forlorn little cry, he couldn't stop himself from drawing her into his arms and trying to offer her a measure of comfort. After all, he was the reason for that sound. He was the one that caused her pain!
His little mouse who never complained, who never— not once until today—told him of her needs, had finally found the courage to do so.
And had he listened?
NO!
He had ignored her, ignored her words as if they weren't there, and bulldozed through her protests. Then he'd used his voice, and she defied him. She had thrown off his hypnotic suggestion and dearly paid the price.
Groaning, Erik searched his pockets for his lighter and cigarettes, dismayed when he could find neither. Where the hell had he put them? He tried to remember the last time he'd had a cigarette, and with shock, realized it was going on four days ago.
The same went with having a drink.
He hobbled to the sideboard and poured himself a small dram of whiskey, savoring the fiery burn as it made its way down his gullet.
He'd frightened her—and hurt her—with his hypnotic commands ordering her to sing. And that was something he'd told himself he would never do; and to compound it all, he'd touched her—had forced himself upon her—forced her into his embrace.
And in the process, he'd scared her so much she'd fled the room!
Never will he forget how she stiffened in his hold, going so rigid, and quaking like a leaf. And God only knew what she was imagining of him— a lecherous beast with his 'devil's gift' and scarred face.
And perhaps that face now reflected the man inside?
Putting down the tumbler he held in disgust, Erik again raised his hands to his face, forcing himself to feel the rigid, damaged flesh, tempted to claw at it.
This little ritual was becoming an exercise in torture as well as remembrance.
Too often over the past four months, it had been easy for him to forget the scars, so easy to forget they were even there.
After all, he didn't have to see them, did he? They weren't truly a consequence for him. Not really. Although he could feel the damage, he couldn't see it, couldn't picture it fully in his mind's eye.
What's the expression: out of sight, out of mind?
He could hardly forget he'd been blinded. Just as Nadir had said the consequences of his blindness had been far-reaching, influencing every aspect of his life. But he still pictured himself as he was before the mortar shell had ripped him asunder: strong-jawed, straight nosed, bottom teeth slightly crooked. In essence, whole and handsome.
He was… he had been… quite handsome.
But she saw him this way— this was the face his Ms. Daae was forced to look upon daily, and Erik tried to see it from her perspective.
Rigid, star-burst patterned scarring near his left temple that was due to a piece of molten shrapnel burning him; half his eyebrow on that side had been destroyed when the skin there had melted. From there, the flesh crinkled into a multitude of scars, feeling almost to his touch like textured animal hide: thin in some spots, thick and scaly in others. His nose was still whole and intact, but the skin underneath—the dip above his upper lip— that had been burned and a thick scar… (what was the term Nadir had used?) a keloid had grown in its place reaching to curl around the left side of his upper lip. His mouth, teeth, and tongue were fine. Of course, that was if one were to discount the entire right side of his face that now drooped forcing his mouth as well as the skin near his right eye, to draw perpetually downward.
In essence, he was hideous, almost beyond his ability to grasp. In fact, try as he might, Erik still couldn't comprehend, even with the tangible evidence beneath his fingertips.
He had no right! No right at all to foist his attentions on Ms. Daae.
She was his Diva, although she did not yet know of his plans for her, and she could be nothing more to him.
As with his scars, Erik had to tell himself this over and over, hoping one day, he would actually believe it to be true.
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Christine locked the bedroom door behind her, the first time she felt it necessary since coming to the cottage.
And it wasn't that she feared he would follow her.
No. She feared what she would do without the lock there to remind her.
She dove for her pillow and brought out the other picture, the other she saved from the bin when she'd swept the shattered glass away. And her heart still beating triple-time, Christine forced herself to confront it.
Look at it, she told herself viciously. Look!
The picture was a four by six glossy of his fiancé in her boudoir. The Opera Diva was lying reclined on a bed in none but her silky black peignoir, stockings, garters, and a strategically placed feathered boa. Her spiked heels were crossed daintily at the ankle as she propped them against the wall above her, looking up at the camera with a 'come hither' expression. She wore a furtive smile, as if she knew a secret only the two of them—she and her intended—would ever know.
She was stunning.
This was what Mr. D'Anton was used to, this was what attracted him, and the type of woman he wanted: bombshell beautiful and dressed as she was, the Opera Diva could be a pinup girl.
The type of woman Christine would never be.
Now look at yourself, she ordered.
Christine ruthlessly gazed into the small mirror on the wall by her bed taking inventory of what she saw. Bulbous and deep-set, her father's hazel-brown eyes gawked back at her from her small, heart-shaped face, her eyes spaced too far apart. She had also inherited her father's 'Roman' nose, and it vied for dominance with her eyes. Her mouth was uneven, her chin a sharp point.
Her top lip was much fuller than the bottom, and it just didn't fit.
She examined herself, feature by mismatched feature, and then looked at the photograph of the perfect beauty she held in her hands. If Christine had inherited only one of her father's oddly shaped attributes, she would have been comely, perhaps even beautiful. But put together, for a female, she was a mishmash of well… ugly, plain, homely or any other adjective to describe the fact that she was 'rather unfortunate looking'.
She didn't look anything like the woman in the photograph; practically the only trait she had in common with the Diva was gender.
The woman in this picture is what Mr. D'Anton wants! This is the type he prefers. And don't you go forgetting it, Christine!
After all, if the man wasn't blind, he would treat her as every other man had done: by looking straight past her, above her, or down at her feet. For with her features as mismatched as they were, she made others distinctly uncomfortable; she always had. And people found it difficult to look her in the eye.
But not him, she whispered to herself.
Mr. D'Anton hadn't been made uncomfortable by her face. He wasn't aware of what she looked like, and what's more, he'd held her close to him, and it felt so wonderful to be held by him even if she didn't know what to do, how to respond. Nor will you ever learn, she reminded herself viciously.
No, she couldn't allow herself to love him; her heart was going to break when she left as it was.
He was feeling better if the last three days were any indication. His spirit was on the mend. She didn't know what had caused the change in him; it seemed her sudden interest in his music had sparked it, and perhaps that's what he needed? Someone to take an interest in his music with him. Perhaps she should ask Dr. Khan if he could send someone to the cottage that could help him with his notes and transcriptions.
But even as she had the thought, she felt a pang of loss. She would miss it, miss the feeling she got from working so hard to get every note perfectly recorded for him. She would miss their interaction and his snarky asides at his writings, at himself, his running commentary as he labored to create a true work of art.
And yes, alright, she would miss singing for him.
He'd never complimented her, had never even made a single remark about the quality or tone of her voice—for good or for ill— but he had corrected her technique, made her want to strive to sing better, be better, made her want to excel… for him.
And she hadn't felt that feeling in so long… so very long.
Sitting heavily on the bed, Christine had the bittersweet pang of regret. She couldn't stay here forever taking Dr. Khan's money under false pretenses, pretending to be a 'housekeeper' to her patient when that was furthest from the truth.
He was on the mend, and soon, he would no longer have need of her. For although he'd not regained his sight, Mr. D'Anton was doing remarkably well in adapting to his blindness, and if she were to get a transcriptionist for him, then it would be time for her to return to her duties as fledgling nurse, and he to return to his glittering world of music.
She would just have to keep her distance somehow… and pray that this infatuation—that most certainly was not love—went away.
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A/N: Oh, but these two hearts… so battered and scarred… if only they'd just talk to one another, tell each other how they feel… *authoress lifts eyes heavenward and sighs*
Due to an unexpected day off for me while my car is in the shop, I foresee another update soon in the works, dear readers…. after all, just because I'm out of the commission, doesn't mean Erik and his Christine should have to be. ;D
Reviews are the grist that fuel this creative mill! Please let me know what you think of my little tale, won't you?
PFP