Thank you very much for all comments and insights! Hopefully the darker elements to this story aren't too off-putting. :) Please enjoy the ride!
He did not say anything about the subject the rest of the day. Or the next day. Or the next. Christine hardly closed her eyes the first night, dozed in wary caution the next, and slept in weary resignation the third night.
The days were long, silent, torturous. He did not spend any time with her, instead locking himself up in his room. Whenever she was in the bedroom, she could hear him at the piano, papers rustling, books shifting around. But the moment she entered the main room, he would retreat without a word. It stung every time.
She was too afraid to ask when she was going back to rehearsals, and she was too afraid to ask if he had done anything to Raoul. She wondered if there would be a letter waiting for her when she returned, but she was too sickened by what had happened to feel anything about the possibility.
After two days, she asked him if he would bring down more food. They were running out. He nodded, not replying otherwise.
The hours blurred together. She had no concept of the time, sleeping when she felt like it, eating when she was hungry, showering when she felt it was appropriate. Her watch lay on the side table, untouched, unnecessary. It felt as if an impending doom was hanging low over them, a sword of Damocles, shiny and sharp. She tried to ignore it, telling herself to take things hour by hour, day by day. Erik needed time to calm down. She needed time to calm down.
The first night, she had gathered the few letters scattered around the room. She was tempted to read them all again, but she knew that would be too painful, and so she simply pressed a tearful kiss to them and threw them in the garbage, hoping that the penance would soften Erik. He did not say anything about it.
After three days of virtually nothing but silence, she tried to pull some kind of conversation out of him.
"Erik? Who composed Nabucco?"
"Verdi. But I think you knew that." His tone made it clear that he was not interested in discussing it any further.
She gave it one more try that evening. "I made French onion soup. Do you want to try some?"
He stood from the piano bench and went to his room, shutting the door and locking it. She sat at the table by herself, sniffling pathetically, self-pity washing over her.
Then she scolded herself silently. What did you expect? Did you think he would just forgive the fact that you betrayed him? That you lied to him for weeks?
Considering she knew some of Erik's…history, she knew that she should consider herself lucky to have escaped his wrath this unscathed. Things could have gone much worse. And things could still become much worse.
The next day, as she was eating lunch, he finally appeared. It was the first time she had seen him that day. He looked at the wall as he said, "You will return to rehearsals tomorrow."
She kept her face impassive, staring at her half-eaten plate. "Okay. I promise I won't do anything. I swear."
He gave what sounded like a snort of disbelieving amusement and then returned to his room without another word.
She finished her lunch in silence. As she washed up the plate, a small trickle of dread filled her stomach, like the dripping of the faucet, drip drip drips of dread. Throughout that afternoon, it only seemed to get worse, the drips coming faster, more of them, beginning to spill over her stomach and up to her heart, her throat, her head, until finally she realized.
It was going to be tonight.
Somehow, she knew. He would come to her tonight, before she went above ground once again.
Her knees went weak, and she sank onto the couch, staring blankly at the floor.
Wild thoughts raced through her mind, and she tried to think of ways to get out of it. Maybe she could cut herself, badly. Badly enough that she would need to go to the hospital and get stitches. The idea seemed so promising that she actually got up to go to the kitchen, and she pulled out the large, sharp chef's knife, amazed that Erik let her have access to such a weapon. She gritted her teeth and then lowered the blade to her arm, cool and dangerous against her skin.
A long minute passed, and then she put the knife away, shivering. She was a coward, and she was afraid of the blood. She was afraid it would hurt too badly.
She then rummaged through the cabinets, looking for something to ingest that would make her sick. Not kill her, but ill enough that she would either spend the night puking or have to be taken to the hospital. There was not much, but she pulled out a bottle of vinegar. She drank one gulp before spluttering, retching into the sink, the taste vile. She splashed water into her mouth from the faucet, starting to feel increasingly desperate.
The medicine cabinet also proved futile, nothing in there for her to use. She was too afraid of actually hurting herself to consider other options. The last, desperate idea she had was that maybe he would leave her alone if she was asleep.
Immediately, she went to the bedroom, pulling on a pair of the most unflattering pajamas she could find, hating that they were still beautiful, as they had been from Erik. She wished that she had brought some of her old clothing, holey oversized shirts and baggy, stained sweatpants. But instead she had a soft lavender sleeping set with lace trim. She crawled into bed, knowing it was too early in the evening and she wasn't sleepy in the slightest. But maybe if she just closed her eyes long enough, she could trick herself into actually falling asleep.
She lay there, heart pounding, ears straining for any noise. It was silent. The only thing she heard was her own ragged breathing and heartbeat. Time passed so slowly, every moment leading closer and closer to her fate, and she squeezed her eyes shut, begging her body to fall asleep. But the more anxious she became, the more her mind raced, and she did not feel remotely tired.
She had spent so many dark hours in this bedroom over the past few months. It felt like a cell. She was always locked in here, waiting for something bad to happen. No way out, nowhere to go, just a large bed and a door that was always opening to some kind of new pain.
What was she going to do? What would he make her do? Those few romantic hours with Raoul had been enough for her to know that she loved being touched, caressed, pleasured. But if Erik was the one putting his cold fingers on her, his twisted mouth on her…She shuddered, burying her face in the soft pillow.
She didn't have any more cards to play. She had called his bluff too many times, she was sure of it. Her life would be rehearsals, mute except to sing, and hours spent withering away down here, lying down dutifully whenever he demanded it. The thought was sickening. No amount of music and singing felt worth that sacrifice. If she had just listened to Raoul all those months ago and had chosen a path that was practical, more down-to-earth, she could have been content. Perhaps not exactly happy, but she would choose being content over being miserably-trapped any day.
After many, many hours, she had worn herself out with worry, and she eventually did doze off, curled up underneath the blankets, drooling slightly on the pillowcase. She was just beginning to dream about her small apartment near the Opera House. The kitchen was on fire in this dream, and she simply stood there, watching it.
Then she was being jostled out of the kitchen. She gave a little grunt upon waking, blinking up into the darkness, and could faintly make out a tall, thin frame hovering over her. Immediately, she gave a small whimper, sinking deeper into the bed.
He did not say anything. She could hear his breathing, much louder than was normal for him, and she tried to speak, to ask what he was doing here. She wanted to make him say it. But her throat was closed up, and all she could squeak out was, "Wh-what—what—"
His voice was stiff, cold: "I told you that we would have a normal marriage. You cannot pretend you didn't expect this. Don't act as if this is all new to you. I don't want you feigning shyness or inexperience, it's insufferable."
The blanket was pulled back from her body, and she immediately curled up into a ball, feeling exposed. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Cold fingertips brushed her shoulder, running down her arm, passing over her elbow, across her forearm, and tracing her knuckles. She could feel him stroke the lace trim of her top, his fingers grazing the skin below her collarbone. He then petted a few curls near her neck, letting them slide across his fingers.
She was trembling, listening to his breathing. He brushed a few fingers over her cheeks and tried a different approach.
"You're shivering," he said softly. "I won't hurt you, Christine, I swear. Tell me what you want me to do. I—Erik is not so experienced with women, but I can be gentle, and I won't cause you pain. Tell me."
The tenderness was unbearable. She wondered if she would have preferred him to be rough with her, grabbing, squeezing, poking, pinching. But this attempt at gentleness was somehow more torturous.
There was a shifting of weight on the mattress as he moved over her. She bit her tongue to keep silent. He pressed his angular, bony body against hers, gathering her in his arms, and everything she felt against her was hard.
They lay there like that for several minutes. She could feel the thump of his rapid heartbeat against her chest, his breath blowing into her ear, his cold hands pressed against her back. He was taking care not to crush her with his body weight, but he was still heavy on top of her, and she stared into the black ceiling.
A large hand came up, and long fingers ran along the lace of her pajama top again, almost experimentally. When she said or did nothing, the fingers trailed lower, slipping underneath her top to trace the gentle swelling of her breasts.
"I may not be as handsome as your other partner," he said, his voice a soft murmur in her ear, "but I am not a monster. I'm still a man in the way that matters most."
It was true, as she could feel him pressed up against her leg, his bony hips framing a hardness that was impossible to ignore. She wondered if she would faint the moment he tried to use his manhood for its intended purpose.
His breathing against her neck caused goosebumps to erupt across her skin. She was clutching the blankets by her side, her fingers aching with the strain, wondering if he would listen to her begging.
"You are so beautiful," he said. "So soft. God, Christine, how can I still want you after what you've done?"
She had no answer to that question; she hated herself for her betrayal, possibly more than he did.
"You are my wife," he continued, his voice rasping. "Erik's wife. I should have been the one touching you, caressing your skin, listening to your exquisite voice as you cried out my name, feeling you warm and wet and—"
He gasped, his breath ragged. A large hand was suddenly back at her breast, squeezing. She could feel him shudder, his hips pushed stiffly against her leg. Several long moments passed. It was cold.
"Oh," he then said. "Fuck. Fuck!"
He pulled his hand away, sliding out of the bed quickly, and Christine wanted to ask if he was all right, but she could only watch as he stood, went to the door, and slammed it shut behind him, leaving her alone. She waited for several long minutes before pulling the blankets back over herself. As she stared up at the ceiling, she realized she hadn't shed a single tear. She closed her eyes and fell asleep. He never returned to wake her.
If she had thought Erik was cruel before, it was nothing compared to his behavior towards her now. He was a silent, immovable black mass, hardly speaking, barely glancing her way. He never mentioned what had happened between them in the bedroom, and he hadn't tried again.
Christine told herself that she just had to wait him out. She had badly hurt him. It was natural that he was reluctant to speak with her after what she had done. She tried to show him that she was sorry, that she regretted her actions. And she did, she truly did feel like the most hateful person in the world. But he was unyielding.
Even though she still was not happy to be playing Emmie, she gritted her teeth and acted like the silliest, most fanciful girl during rehearsals. She sang in Norma dutifully, without complaint. Erik still gave her lessons, but they were joyless and uninspiring. He only looked at her to correct her posture or examine the shape of her mouth for pronunciation. No matter how well she sang or how hard she tried, he was unmoved.
Opening night drew closer and closer. To her surprise, Mr. Reyer again called her to his office and offered her two new small roles in the upcoming operas, La Rondine and The Cunning Little Vixen, both of which Christine quickly accepted, more than ready to begin working on something new.
That evening, when she returned from her meeting and rehearsals, she saw with some alarm that Erik was already retreating to his room, undoubtedly to hide from her for the rest of the night.
"Erik?" she said. "Wait, I wanted to tell you something."
He paused, not turning around, which frustrated her.
"Mr. Reyer, he—he offered me two more roles. I'm going to start rehearsing for them after opening night."
She waited for him to ask which roles, which operas, but he said nothing, and she blundered on, desperate to fill the cold silence: "It's for La Rondine and another show. He told me the name, I can't remember. Something about a fox. It's in German, I think."
He turned his head ever so slightly, and she was able to see his profile but not his expression.
"Czech," he said flatly. "You will struggle." Then he went into his room, the door shutting with a deafening click.
She didn't know what else to do. He had always reacted to her music before, but now she was nothing but a little windup doll. He listened to her, making corrections when necessary and nothing else. When she timidly asked him to sing for her one evening, he did not look at her as he replied, his voice like ice, "Why would I ever do that?"
It was as if the Phantom had returned, but this was so much worse, as Christine now knew what it could be instead. She was too afraid to broach the subject, but she wanted to make him understand how sorry she was and why she had done it in the first place. However, simply mentioning Raoul's name again or even referring to what she had done felt too dangerous.
"Erik?" she quietly said one evening. Albert Herring opened the next night, and she was feeling nervous and needed distraction. "Would you—d'you want to play backgammon?"
He didn't look at her, concentrating on replacing a light bulb that had gone out in the alcove. She counted to three and tried again:
"Erik, would you like to—?"
"I heard you," he snapped. "Of course I don't want to do that. Why do you keep pestering me? Leave me in peace, for god's sake!"
She couldn't help it; she burst into tears, standing in the front room, crying openly. He didn't even glance her way, which made her cry harder.
"I'm sorry!" she sobbed, squeezing her eyes shut, her hands clenched into little fists. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Erik, I'm so sorry!"
He gave no reply, and when she opened her eyes, she saw that he was still not looking at her, instead gathering up a few loose papers that had fallen from the overloaded sideboard. She turned on her heel and went to the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her and throwing herself on the bed, sobbing into the pillow hysterically. She cried herself to sleep.
A small part of herself thought that he might make an exception for opening night. It was important, after all, that she do well, and maybe he would break whatever wall he had built up in order to help her with her nerves or offer last-minute corrections or advice. She was again disappointed, however. He did not emerge until it was time to go up to the Opera House. Christine vacillated between being miserable, nervous, and angry, and she waited until they reached the room next to the alley before trying to pull something out of him.
"Is there anything I should—should pay attention to tonight?" she asked, her voice a whisper.
He was silent, and then he said flatly, "Pull yourself together. Don't embarrass me."
She left the room without another word, fighting back tears, the cold air stinging her wet eyes.
As she applied her stage makeup, she stared at herself in the mirror, hating the face that looked back at her. She wished she could reach through it and slap herself.
One of the women sitting next to her commented, frowning, "Are you okay, Christine? You don't seem like yourself."
Christine shook her head, reaching for the little bag of pins to begin setting her hair. "Just nervous," she said, trying to keep the conversation short. Erik had told her not to talk to anyone.
"Are you sure?" the woman pressed, lowering her voice so the others couldn't hear. "You look like you've been crying."
Christine wanted the woman to leave her alone. It was obvious she had been crying, she had been crying for what felt like days and days and days, and her eyes and cheeks were slightly swollen. She shrugged, trying to get a particularly-stubborn curl to stay put.
"I'm fine," she insisted, though her voice cracked.
The woman frowned, and Christine caught her looking at the reflection of the simple gold ring in the mirror.
"Trouble at home?" the woman said, her voice still low. "Are you fighting with your husband?"
She wanted to snap at the woman to mind her own business, to be quiet, to let her finish getting ready in silence. But she shrugged noncommittally, hoping her apparent disinterest in the conversation would deter the woman.
There were a few seconds of silence in which they both concentrated on themselves in the mirror. The woman then sighed and shrugged too.
"Well, it's none of my business," she said, gathering her scattered makeup. "But whenever my husband is unhappy, there are some pretty foolproof ways to make him feel better." She gave a little smile and a wink.
Christine frowned and asked, somewhat begrudgingly, "What do you mean?"
"Oh, you know," the woman said, laughing. "Guys are all the same. Give him a good blow job and he'll be all sunshine and rainbows and forget what he was mad about in the first place."
Christine went red to the roots of her hair, her face stricken. The woman saw her reaction and looked embarrassed as well.
"No—I'm sorry, Christine. It's none of my business. I don't even know what's going on. I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. Break—break a leg tonight, okay? I know you'll do great." Obviously flustered, the woman finished packing her things and hurried from the table.
Christine stared at her red face in the mirror, trying her best to keep unbidden thoughts from creeping up. The very idea of…that made her feel woozy. Although she had done things with Raoul that she had never done before, they had never crossed certain lines. He had been conscious of her inexperience, sensitive to her unspoken boundaries, and he had never pushed her for more, something she had been grateful for. But going beyond that…and going beyond that with Erik…She felt a little lightheaded at the thought.
For all her insistence that she wasn't a girl, she still was in so many ways, and it embarrassed her. She didn't want Erik viewing her like a little girl. She didn't want him treating her like one.
The bell rang through the dressing room, making her jump, signaling she had fifteen minutes until the curtain rose. She quickly jabbed a few more pins into her hair, pulled on her shoes, and hurried backstage.
It felt very wrong to be performing as a girl, silly and frivolous, when it was the furthest thing from what she wanted to be. She did her best, though, her lines and blocking coming easily to her, wanting Erik to be proud of her. If he was happy with her performance, maybe he would say something kind to her.
The audience laughed and applauded for her. She wondered if she had made Erik smile as well. Maybe she would ask.
The performance went smoothly. Christine gave her little bow at curtain call and noticed a few people in the back had stood for her. Unable to help herself, she smiled at the sight. Even though her world with Erik was in shambles, she was not yet immune to applause.
Backstage was loud, noisy, and sweaty, with too many bodies trying to swim in different directions. Christine's feet hurt. She had laced her shoes too tightly and wanted them off immediately. As she hobbled along, she found herself being squished against the wall by a large belly, and she looked up to see Mr. Poligny, one of the managers.
"Christine," he said, smiling down at her. "Well done! You're blossoming into quite the little star." He reached over and patted her shoulder with a large, swollen hand. A waft of alcohol came from him, and she resisted wrinkling her nose. "Come by my office soon and we can talk about re-negotiating your contract. How does Thursday afternoon sound?"
She hesitated and then nodded, unsure of what else she was supposed to do, pinned against the wall as she was. "Okay," she said simply, stupidly.
"Wonderful," he said. "See you Thursday." Then he winked and gave her cheek a pat, both of which felt strange, and walked off.
Christine left as quickly as was appropriate, smiling and nodding as people complimented her and shaking her head when they asked if she was going to the opening night party. She wanted to see if her performance had pleased Erik enough to merit some praise.
As soon as she entered the room by the alleyway, however, she knew nothing had changed. He was silent, tense, coiled like a horrible snake, and she felt her heart sinking in disappointment. Still, she tried:
"Did—did you watch? How did I do?"
Through the darkness, she could see him give a careless shrug. "Adequate." Then he turned and started to make his way down. Feeling her throat begin to close in preparation for more tears, she hurried after him, swallowing back the oncoming sobs. Not tonight, of all nights. She had done well despite Erik's cold indifference, and she wanted to be happy for her successful opening night performance.
Once they were back in the underground house, he began to head straight to his room, and she desperately searched around for something to say to keep him from disappearing.
"Mr. Poligny wants to meet with me," she said. "On Thursday."
He spun around immediately. "What did you just say?" he hissed.
She instantly wished that she hadn't said anything at all, because whatever she had said was wrong.
"Mr. Poligny," she said hesitatingly. "He invited me to his office to talk about my contract. He said…he said I'm doing really well."
She could see each new word was making him angrier. His hands clenched into fists, and she shrank back into herself, holding her arms over her chest in defense.
"Poligny," he sneered. "That fat fuck. I told them. I told them to stay away from you!"
Christine shook her head. "I don't know what you mean," she said. "He just wants to renegotiate my contract. Isn't that good?"
"'Renegotiate your contract?'" Erik said, his lip curled, and he stepped closer to her. "Poligny 'renegotiates contracts' with many of the girls who sing here, and renegotiations somehow always include the girls on their knees with Poligny's contract in their mouths."
It took her a moment, and then her cheeks flushed deeply at the realization of his meaning.
Erik looked down at her and said cruelly, "Though I suppose a contract renegotiation wouldn't be anything new for you, now would it?"
Before she even realized what she was doing, she felt her palm connecting with his masked cheek, and there was a dull crack as she slapped him, hard. Erik swore, stepping back in surprise, his mask askew from the blow.
Her heart was racing, her hand clapped over her mouth in horror at what she had done, her palm stinging from the sharp angles of his mask. She had never done anything like that before; she had never hit anyone, anything. And now she had struck the Phantom.
He straightened his mask and then looked up, his eyes flashing. She braced herself for his rage, his screaming—at least then he would be acknowledging her existence. But he simply watched her momentarily, his stare piercing and cold, before turning around and heading to the room by the piano.
"By all means, go to Poligny's office on Thursday," he said, not sparing her another glance. "Renegotiate contracts all afternoon for all I care. I have never been able to stop you before, now have I?" Then he slammed the door shut behind him, the lock sliding into place.
Christine gave a strangled sob and went over to the door, pounding on it with her fist.
"Erik! Stop doing this to me! Please!" She could feel the tears beginning to tumble down her cheeks. "I said I'm sorry! Please stop doing this!"
But there was no answer from him, no sound from the other side of the door, and she was left to scream into a cold, dark, immovable silence.