In the hushed shadows, she answered, her voice quivered with the weight of a memory, "It's a tune my grandma used to sing when I was just a child to soothe me." A subtle glow warmed her face as she recalled her poor attempt at singing. Her voice had cracked slightly when reaching the higher notes. A self-conscious clearing of her throat followed and a shy admission: "I'm not the most skilled singer … sorry."
His eyes locked onto hers, the golden hues of his irises flickering wildly. Tension hung thick in the air, a fleeting fear crept within her, anticipating a resurgence of his anger, and she whimpered in dread.
He raised a hand, his long fingers trembling as they traced the contours of her neck. Hanna froze at the contact of his cold fingers, her breath becoming shallow. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, and she swallowed hard.
His eyes softened, and he reached for the rope binding her, slowly releasing it. Hanna hastily freed herself, though Erik remained nestled in her lap, seeking comfort and reassurance as he buried his head into her clothes once again.
She looked down on him. Slowly she lifted a hand, her fingers traced the contours of his shoulders, subtly quivering beneath her touch. His involuntary flinch at her caress made Hanna withdraw her hand, fearing her touch was unwelcome. "Please," he whimpered, raising his gaze, eyes brimming with profound sorrow. Trembling, she began to soothe him, and Erik moaned under her touch.
The realization of his reliance on her touch left her feeling a mix of compassion and uncertainty.
She felt overwhelmed by Erik's longing for tenderness and fearful at the thought of what he demanded from her.
"Poor Erik," she murmured as he whimpered under her touch, emitting strange, gurgling sounds—perhaps a result of his missing nose?
While her left hand tenderly caressed his shoulders, she lifted her right hand slightly towards his face. Erik flinched almost imperceptibly.
Her right hand rested on his disfigured cheek, her thumb gently wiping away the shed tears. "Poor Erik," she repeated. His disfigured face contorted into a terrible grimace as he almost greedily absorbed her touch. He leaned into her hand, his bony, long fingers clasping her wrist.
As if unable to fathom someone touching him, he whimpered, "My poor mother wouldn't even dare to caress this face," fresh tears wetting her hand. Hanna couldn't avert her gaze as his mouth twisted into a contorted, tortured grin.
"And yet you touch me... you don't recoil. Tell me, Hanna, how does it feel to caress a death mask?"
Hanna's throat constricted at his words, her fingers freezing in place. "Poor Erik," she murmured, almost like a mantra to herself. "Poor, poor Erik." She withdrew her left hand from his shoulder, cupping his face in both of her trembling hands. "It'll all be alright."
She trembled all over as she shut her eyes tightly, leaning in to press a faint, tender kiss upon his forehead. As she pulled away, an overwhelming awareness of her action struck her, locking eyes with Erik's golden gaze, time seeming to stand still.
Abruptly, almost frantically, he tore himself away from her, darting swiftly to a distance, curling into a ball on the floor. He buried his face in his arms, emitting strained, pained groans.
Shocked, Hanna raised a hand to her mouth. What had she done? "Erik," she whispered. It was her fault. She had overwhelmed poor Erik, she had intruded upon him. "It... it," she began, her stiff limbs protesting as she knelt down and crawled towards him on the floor.
But Erik continued to withdraw, breathing heavily, unintelligible words escaping his disfigured lips. Hanna paused, watching him with a concerned expression from a distance. Erik clasped his head desperately, his fingers buried in his sparse hair, twitching, splaying, then immediately grabbing at the dark strands again.
"Christine, oh Christine..." she heard him wheezing. Then, a mocking laughter followed by bitter weeping.
Now, instead of towards him, Hanna began to crawl away from him. His state frightened her. Or rather, it was the uncertainty of what would happen that scared her. And at that moment, she realized once more: she wasn't afraid of Erik himself, but of his emotions. Those emotions she had stirred up again. Oh heavens, how badly she wanted to smack herself at that very moment!
As if the strings of a puppet had been cut, Erik collapsed upon himself with a final, violent breath, lying motionless on the cold bathroom floor.
It took Hanna a few moments to snap out of her shock, cautiously crawling towards him. "Erik?" she whispered, gently shaking his shoulder. She shook him a little. But to her horror, Erik was unconscious.
She recoiled, a hand flying to her mouth in disbelief. Oh, no... no, no. What had she done to the poor man!
She bit down on her lower lip, attempting once more to rouse Erik from his unconscious state—to no avail. With swift urgency, she rose, her movements a blur as she soaked a cloth in the basin and gently placed it upon his fevered brow. He uttered several pained sounds but remained unmoved even after a few minutes had passed.
Overwhelmed by a sense of desperation, Hanna exhaled a heavy sigh. A peculiar sense of déjà vu enveloped her as she gripped Erik beneath his arms, her actions filled with a resolute determination as she dragged him into the adjoining bedroom. Despite Erik's body weighing merely a fraction of what one would expect for a man of his stature, she found herself grappling with considerable difficulty to hoist him onto the bed, each movement an ordeal of its own.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice a soft murmur as she carefully removed his tailcoat and shoes. She proceeded to unfasten the first two buttons of his shirt, a gesture aimed at facilitating easier breathing for him, and continued to dab away the sweat that beaded on his forehead with a gentle motion.
His breathing had become more serene, and Hanna felt a certain assurance that he had succumbed to sleep, borne down by the sheer weight of exhaustion. She sighed, the sound heavy with resignation, and took her place on a chair, observing him with concern and distress. She could scarcely imagine the depth of his weariness, the emotions overwhelming him. He had laid his soul bare before her, revealing his profound despair at the very notion of human intimacy.
Her gaze wandered toward the door. The very thought of the room beyond filled her with dread. Erik had unleashed his fury within its confines; she could vividly envision the chaos that reigned there. Casting one last, lingering glance at Erik, who now lay in the peaceful embrace of deep slumber, she rose and approached the door, steeling herself for the devastation that awaited her on the other side.
Yet, to her utter astonishment, the room was devoid of any evidence of the tempest that she had expected. Surprised and bewildered, Hanna arched an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued as she ventured through the drawing room, inspecting its every corner. Surely, she had not imagined it. She moved on to the next room.
Even the music room shone in its usual splendor. She paced the room back and forth, her expression distorting upon encountering the chair from which she had been abruptly removed earlier. The images and sounds of the past few hours replayed in her mind, and she leaned on the piano for support as the rising tide of emotions threatened to overwhelm her.
A pressing need for water gripped her. With a hint of dizziness clouding her senses, she navigated her way to the kitchen, cradling her head in her hands. She filled a glass with water and consumed it with an eager thirst.
"Ha," she exhaled with a heavy sigh, bracing herself against the kitchen counter with both hands, her shoulders drooping, and her head tilted downwards. Her eyes, cast downward, became pools from which tears threatened to spill, but she briskly wiped them away. Now was not the time for another emotional outburst, she decided.
She straightened her shoulders, and released a deep, steadying breath, and smoothed the creases from her attire. As she exited the kitchen, her gaze instinctively drifted towards Erik's room. This time, she was taken aback to see that the door was ajar.
Her stomach tightened slightly. Nothing good had come from what she had found behind that door so far. The half-dead body of Erik she had stumbled upon, and then that gruesome coffin. What sight would greet her this time?
Hanna remembered hearing male voices before Erik had overwhelmed her in the bathroom. Did he...? No, she thought, shaking her head, Erik was no murderer. She pinched her cheek to banish such thoughts from her mind.
She should not harbor such thoughts about him. Because despite the fear he had instilled in her heart, he was, paradoxically, her only beacon of stability in this … time. This was the narrative she clung to, convincing herself of its truth.
Hesitantly, she stopped at the doorway, casting wary glances around to ensure that Erik hadn't stealthily appeared behind her. With a determined grip, she seized a gas lamp that stood nearby, lit it and followed her curiosity.
As the lamp's glow swept across the room, it illuminated the dark, ornate furniture, casting long shadows that danced along the walls and floor, giving the entire bedroom a gloomy, almost eerie appearance. And the moment the light revealed the contours of the room, the chaos that loomed right at her feet also became visible.
A sharp intake of breath escaped her, her hand instinctively covering her mouth as a nervous chuckle threatened to break through. The anticipated horrors—corpses or other macabre findings—were absent. Instead, an astonishing array of clocks lays before her, a chaotic collection ranging from imposing grandfather clocks to smaller timepieces that would typically adorn a mantelpiece. They were shattered, their components and faces strewn about, some flung several meters away in a testament to a violent outburst.
Hanna lifted the gas lamp over the heap and examined the destroyed clocks. Several questions immediately sprang to her mind as she realized that all the clocks of this subterranean house were gathered here; Why had he hidden these clocks in this spot? And why had Erik destroyed them now?
She furrowed her brow as she surveyed the pile, trying to piece together answers to her questions.
Circling the heap of clocks, she hoped to find something that would shed light on her queries. What exactly she was looking for, she couldn't say. An unsettling feeling gnawed at her, born from the realization that she was delving into his secrets, an uninvited intruder in search of forbidden knowledge.
She only hoped that Erik wouldn't discover that she had ventured into his private chamber.
Her eyes nervously scanned the room as she took one step at a time. Then, her foot connected with an object that emitted a crunch beneath her weight. With a start, Hanna shifted her foot aside and peered down; scattered on the floor were sheets of paper and a brooch with a crack shining through.
Oh, God! Had she destroyed it? Hanna knelt down and carefully picked up the brooch, the glass in its center crumbling under her fingers. It was a beautiful piece, she thought, adorned with small stones around the edge and elegantly shaped, in the center of the brooch, beneath the broken glass, Hanna could make out something. She scooted closer to the gas lamp she had placed on the floor beside her and tried to discern the image beneath the shattered glass.
It was a small portrait, finely and neatly painted with vibrant colors. Hanna couldn't make out the details, but she could tell that the portrait was of a young woman. At this realization, the brooch nearly slipped from her hands.
Was this Christine?
The discomfort that gripped her upon this realization was difficult to place, but almost abruptly, she placed the brooch back on the floor, next to the paper, with less care than intended. Her eyes scanned the handwritten pages, yet she struggled to decipher a single word at first glance. This challenge was not due to her limited knowledge of French, but rather because Erik's penmanship left much to be desired.
She sat there for a moment, simply staring at the papers. She sensed that these notes were somehow connected to the brooch, and despite the loud alarm bells ringing in her head, she reached out with trembling hands for a sheet of paper that likely represented the most private possessions of Erik.
With effort, she began to discern words, and the more she identified, the tighter her heart clenched.
Très chère Christine
This was how he started most of his letters. Hanna's fingers tightened around the paper as she read words like mort(death), amour (love), and douleur (pain).
Quand viendras-tu m'enterrer? (When will you come to bury me?)
The letter slipped from her hands as she read these words. She bit her lower lip and pressed the space between her eyes, trying to stem the tears.
With a resolve born of necessity, she picked herself up, the gas lamp's light her solitary companion as she navigated her way out of the bedroom. Without allowing herself a final glance at the room that held so many revelations, she gently closed the door behind her, sealing away the confessions and mysteries it contained. She stood there for a moment, taking a deep, steadying breath, her gaze lifted to the ceiling as if seeking answers from the shadows dancing above.
Her heart was racing with emotions she couldn't begin to name. A single, insistent question hammered at the forefront of her thoughts: Why? The depth of what she felt for Erik, intertwined with the revelations of his own tormented feelings, was overwhelming. It was as though his soul's anguish had found a conduit in her, flooding her with a deluge of empathy and confusion.
Her fingers twisted the fabric of her shirt over her heart, a physical manifestation of her inner turmoil. She recoiled from the intensity of these emotions; such depth of feeling was not something she had anticipated or wanted... not like this.
Hanna chided herself with a bitter laugh. It was she who had ventured down the path of curiosity, she who had taken the initiative to close the distance between them, she who had offered him a promise, albeit naively.
"Without really thinking about how far it would go," she murmured to herself, her voice barely a whisper. And surely, even at this moment, she couldn't grasp the full extent of the situation. She knew so little. And the thought that understanding his pain might unravel her as thoroughly as it had him sent a shiver of dread through her.
Drained of energy and spirit, she made her way back to the drawing room, where the fire in the fireplace flickered weakly. She collapsed onto the chaise longue, closing her eyes, the turmoil within battling the exhaustion that enveloped her, and it was only after an eternity of restless contemplation that she finally succumbed to a fitful, uneasy rest.
As Hanna awoke, her limbs groaned in protest. She had lain in a cramped position on the chaise longue, waking up multiple times throughout the night, sometimes due to the overwhelming emotions that invaded even her dreams, other times because of the discomfort her sleeping posture inflicted.
She let out a soft groan, her head throbbing from the lack of restful sleep.
"Good morning," greeted a voice, causing Hanna's eyes to snap open, which only intensified the pain behind her temples.
Erik was sitting on the floor a few meters away from her, observing her from behind one of his black masks. The sight unsettled her; the floor was an unusual choice for someone who had previously shown no hesitation in taking a seat directly across from her, engaging her at eye level.
"Erik," she said, moistening her dry lips with her tongue. At the mention of his name, he straightened his back, his eyes lighting up.
"Why are you sitting on the floor?"
"Why?" he echoed back, as if pondering the absurdity of her question. "Why indeed. The answer is plain," he snickered, and Hanna raised an eyebrow, his chuckle sending shivers down her spine.
"What worth has a wretched soul but to grovel on the floor," he stated, his voice carrying a chilling clarity. At these words, Hanna drew in a sharp, trembling breath, the implication of his statement dawning on her with a heavy, suffocating weight. "Erik would not dare to—"
"Stop!" Hanna interrupted him, her breathing heavy. She clutched at her temples.
"But why, my dearest. Erik is just saying —"
"Stop it, Erik!" she said again, this time louder. She couldn't bear to hear him speak so demeaning of himself. Her face contorted with emotion as she looked at him. He was silent, not moving from his spot, as if waiting for a cue from her.
"Erik," she began, noticing how he perked up and shuffled closer to her on the floor. "Yes?" he inquired, his voice laden with a mix of hope and resignation. She wanted to tell him to get off the floor, to see the worth in himself, not to act so... so like... oh, God! Like a dog waiting for a command.
This thought made Hanna's body recoil, and she sank deeper into the cushions of the chaise longue. She closed her eyes, taking deep breaths through her nose in an attempt to calm the turmoil within.
"Yes?" Erik repeated.
Hanna opened her eyes and forced a smile. "Have you had breakfast?"
Erik scrambled to his feet. "I shall see to your breakfast at once, my dearest."
"No!" she shouted, and she saw him freeze mid-motion. He turned to look at her, his expression bordering on confusion as his eyes flickered across her face, seeking to decipher her emotions. "No," she repeated, almost in a whisper, and sat up from the chaise longue.
"That's not what I meant." She pointed to the chair. "I... I... Erik, please sit with me."
Almost hesitantly, he approached her, but to her horror, he did not take a seat on the chair. Instead, he knelt at her feet and looked up at her.
"Erik, please," she whimpered, attempting to pull him up by the arms, but to no avail. He wriggled out of her grasp every time she reached for him, leaving her feeling frustrated. Why, just why was he being so stubborn!
Adopting a different strategy, she slid off the chaise longue and sat down next to him on the floor. Erik gasped loudly and then tried to plead with her to sit back on the chaise longue again. "Not if you're going to treat yourself like this," she bit out.
"But you are, my dearest," he tried to argue. Those words sent a pang of guilt through her chest. His most dearest! She wanted to laugh, wanted to tell him about the wretched thoughts she had had about him the day before, but she swallowed those words down and took his hands in hers.
He wore gloves, the leather cold under her fingers, yet warmer than his skin beneath them. He froze and looked down at their fingers as she began to gently massage his. She looked up at him. "If it makes you uncomfortable, please tell me. Then I'll stop," she said. She didn't want to impose herself on him, not like yesterday.
The recollection of the kiss she had impulsively bestowed upon him caused a wave of discomfort to wash over her. She wanted them to be able to talk about their feelings, to show him that someone cared about his emotions. Admittedly, her attempt the previous day fell short of embodying this intention.
"No," he breathed out, his voice carrying a hint of bewilderment, "please, do not cease."
Acknowledging his request, she continued with her gentle massage on his hands. She couldn't help but admire his long fingers, the very fingers that had gracefully flown over piano keys, coaxing out melodies. This shared experience of music was among the sparse yet profoundly intimate moments they had encountered together.
Hanna hadn't realized when her hands had stilled, ceasing their tender movements. He, in turn, was staring at Hanna's dreamy face, her features relaxed at the moment.
She snapped out of the trance after a few minutes, and she gently withdrew her hands from his. They lingered in a shared silence, seated on the floor, their gazes locked in a moment of quiet understanding.
Hanna rose to her feet, while he remained seated on the floor, gazing up at her. "Are you hungry, Erik?" she inquired, her voice laced with concern. He responded with a shake of his head, his expression vulnerable. He appeared shy, almost helpless, and… childlike.
"Erik does not eat in the morning," he declared after a brief pause. Hanna bit her lip thoughtfully. She felt a surge of empathy; she wanted to insist he eat something, to nurture him, but recognized the hypocrisy in such advice. She herself couldn't eat anything in the morning; it made her nauseous. Her pre-work ritual consisted solely of a cup of coffee, consumed in silence.
"I don't either," she replied, offering him a gentle smile. "Would you like to join me for a cup of tea, then?"
The invitation was more than a simple gesture; it was an olive branch, a signal of her willingness to move past the turbulence of the previous day. She sought not to dredge up yesterday's shadows, but to preserve the memory of their shared moments of harmony. Maybe, she thought, they could find solace in music again, with Erik gracing the piano keys with his delicate touch. Or help her practice her French?
The thought of asking for a new edition of the newspaper briefly crossed her mind, a seemingly innocent query. Yet, she hesitated, aware that such a request might lead to a discussion about clocks. And discussing clocks would, steer them towards the delicate subject of Christine—a topic she wasn't sure either of them was ready to confront head-on.
She bit her lower lip in contemplation. No, she decided, she would give him time to open up to her. Diving into such a sensitive topic now wouldn't bring either of them any closer to self-acceptance or healing. And she was acutely aware that it would inadvertently reveal her snooping in his room.
No, it was decidedly not a topic she would broach now or in the foreseeable future.
Hanna's internal debate was abruptly halted as she caught a movement from the corner of her eye that filled her with disbelief. There was Erik, not walking but crawling towards the kitchen. Crawling!
She hurried after him. "Erik!" she called out, a wave of despair washing over her, tempting her to succumb to tear once more. It was a long road ahead for both of them. A very long road indeed.