My mind spun in the silent chasm and replayed the scene over and over, sifting through the admissions he’d made to me, seeking which I found condemning, which erected walls between our hearts, and which meant little in the scheme of things. And when I looked at his dark shape before me, never a look cast back, never a touch offered, did I still see a man worthy of a heart I’d already given? …I didn’t know and bore too much confusion to sow such a life-altering path tonight. I needed time.
Erik left me in my dressing room without even a goodnight. He only gave me a hard, set look, devoid of the emotions that had earlier saturated through every crevice, and my heart thudded a resounding ache and longed to beg for their resurgence. But…no, I couldn’t tonight. I needed to think clearly, and his presence was a weight unto itself.
He left me that night with the unspoken vow that I would see him the next night, and he’d seek another chance to win my acceptance. I was actually grateful in the promise of his return, knowing that he’d win in the end. I’d forget everything I should condemn if he were there to chase the shadows away. I loved him already, and I realized the moment he was gone that nothing had changed my heart.
*****
Erik~
I felt…addled inside, off my stable base as if I’d fallen and chipped my delicate corners. I could be fixed and repaired, but she was the one who bore that responsibility, and I had no guarantee that she would accept it.
My Christine… But was she truly mine? Would she ever be mine? Not like this, not with a gap in the middle of our hearts that was about to extend continents. In the midst of too much trauma, I hadn’t set that revelation in place. She didn’t know that come daybreak, I would be gone, and…I wondered if that was for the best.
As I prepared to leave, stalking my home and collecting random articles, my gaze kept drifting to the place she had stood. As if a spotlight shown on that speck of carpet, center-stage of our drama, I’d stolen a kiss right there like it was a scripted move in the libretto of our opera. For as blissful as that second had seemed in its action, it now bore as much regret and shame. She was right. I’d tried to take, …but it had been with a fear I’d lost every chance and I’d never have another. I’d taken, and my lips, misshapen as they were, felt branded in her cells, as if I carried a piece of her with me permanently now. …A piece wasn’t enough.
Huffing a discontented breath, I abandoned my underground house the way an audience left a theatre after the final bow, still with scenes flickering in their heads but already moving on to reality. I had a task that now needed focus, a redemption of sorts. I was not a man worthy of Christine, not yet, but if I sought salvation for my soul, acted penance for my sins, …perhaps I still had a chance. I would fix myself and the flaws she must loathe and return to her a better man, …one she could love.
The daroga waited outside, but I had one stop to make. Though it was not my custom to wander into the sacred space of the dormitories, I needed one last image to cling to and recall in absence. Like the ghost I’d never been, I crept through the moonlit corridors and sought her out. She shared a small square room with the little Giry girl, and both were quite asleep as I snuck into the space and floated to Christine’s bedside.
Dear God, she was so beautiful! Had I really kissed those perfect, pink lips tonight? How could I consider myself that fortunate? Perhaps I’d fabricated the entire episode merely out of my wanting, but no… I still felt their glorious, silken brand like a seal on my mouth, making me hers alone. Always hers.
Kneeling on the hard floor as if in bedtime prayer, I softly breathed, “I promise, Christine, that I will come back for you. Please don’t forget your Erik… Oh, Christine…” Tears I didn’t want to show filled my eyes and tumbled beneath my mask. “Your fallen angel tumbled into hell, but I will resurrect him and make him worthy of heaven for you. I vow it. …My love will burn until I am with you again.”
I yearned to touch her, to caress her cheek and wish myself into her dreams, but I didn’t dare. Instead like the righteous soul I wanted to become, I lifted my eyes to a God I’d spent years cursing and begged with whole heart and soul, “Please…save this for me, this place, …this heart. Please… I love her…”
That was all. I could manage no more words behind a sob, and I stole out of the room as silently as I’d entered without another glance.
“Are you ready, Erik?” the daroga asked as I met him on the dark street corner with the opera house towering in the background.
I didn’t answer. I simply led our stalked pace toward the docks. I couldn’t reason sharing my pains until their sharpness dulled. For now, I cried alone and only allowed the moon to know it.
Chapter Eleven
Erik~
Most people would dub torture as physical pain, and being a prisoner of the shah and locked in his dungeon, physical torture was a way of life. To my slight amusement, the shah had learned some new techniques since the last time I had been his victim. But not a single one, no matter the pain inflicted and wounding involved, compared to the torture in my heart. The ache, the loneliness, the reality that I had spent over a year loving Christine’s memory with little hope of having love returned again.
Over a year…hundreds of days since the night I’d knelt at her bedside and begged her sleeping shape not to forget me. …Maybe she had. Maybe now that nightmares of ghosts and fallen angels were gone, she’d moved on with her life. Why hold out hope for a monster’s return? Perhaps my absence was a blessing.
In my endless weeks of confinement, I reasoned every scenario in existence. Sometimes I chose optimism and envisioned her waiting for me like the devoted pupil she’d once been, eager for my presence, yearning as desperately as I did with nothing but one forced kiss as compensation. Other times, masochism took over with a reign I could not dethrone and ignited visions of my Christine as someone else’s bride, finding another to take my place and vowing a union before the eyes of God. That finale could mutate into so many variations: a marriage, a pregnancy, a child with another man’s perfect face. Layer on top of layer until I was driven near insanity because I knew nothing.
I was allowed no contact with the outside world, and though some might call my sacrifice noble since I’d readily given myself in exchange for the daroga’s family, I called it foolish. I truly believed I’d find a means of escape again. Oh, a day or two of jailed existence, maybe long enough for a bout of torture, but I would triumph in the end. I had too much waiting for me to lose.
Cursed arrogant attitude! That synopsis had been deemed realistic when our boat had docked in Persia after a three-week journey from France. Three hundred and ninety-four days later, and I berated my stupidity. I’d underestimated the shah and his craving for vengeance. But…he had underestimated my longing to return to Paris. It kept me strong enough to endure every obstacle put in my path. A weaker man would have given up and let death take him rather than suffer so uselessly, but I had images of blue eyes and dark curls to renew my fortitude and remind me that if I died, I’d never fulfill my promise of return. I couldn’t disappoint her.
To anyone unfamiliar with the shah, his continuous passion for torturing those who’d wronged him would seem extreme. But I knew the man well, knew he took pleasure in causing as much damage as possible. I’d been him once before, without title and riches attached, of course, but loving the power of hurting and inflicting torments ordinary people could not fathom in their innocent minds. He was an opportunist who took anyone opposing him and made another victim. Since my return, I’d seen him numerous times to hear his gloated victories and spreading control over foreign territories. He loved to boast facts I was indifferent to hear and then hurt me for my continued apathy. It was a cycle that rotated around again and again, and I had little choice but to endure it.
With a frustrated huff, I stumbled about the inadequate accommodations of my cell. Stone walls on all sides, and considering I’d lived happily in the opera’s catacombs, there was a familiarity in the damp darkness, b
ut I’d had carpets and furniture, wallpaper to conceal the bleakness of rock. I’d made a home, but this was only a jail and could enjoy no such reprieve. I had nothing but imagination to change the desolate details, and though it worked for my surroundings, it was unfulfilling when it was applied to Christine. I could not conjure silken, warm skin in my mind or know the reverberation of ecstasy that came with her every smile. She’d shown me the importance of living and sharing contact with another human being. Here, I was alone again and lonelier than ever before.
A spider ran across the floor, and for an instant, memory saved me and gave pictures of the night I’d brought Christine to my home and she’d teased me, actually made me laugh when she’d wondered if I lived among such reprehensible creatures. She’d smiled and beamed like light in the dark; here I had none of that glow to caress my skin and radiate into my bones. Nothing but spiders and darkness and a dream I was afraid to consider might never come true.
Christine was my hope, and part of my enduring stamina against the shah was due to the fact that I never spoke of her, never a word even when I lurked the barred space without company. I was doubtless her memory would turn against me if I dared. I could hear the shah use it in his favor. Further torture. Play on doubt and insist any girl with a semblance of self-worth would never want a monster as ugly as I was. Tell me the same stories that tortured my head. When in my mind I had the power to believe or not, if the shah spoke them, my ears would hear and I’d falter.
The only person who knew the name of my guardian angel was the daroga, and I had seen nothing of him in three hundred and ninety-four days. I hoped he’d left Persia with his family; I actually held no grudge and encouraged it in prayers because this was my fault, my mess. As far as I was concerned, I deserved all the punishment I got and took it upon my fallible mortal body as God’s penance. If I survived, I would be forgiven and worthy of Christine… That made this traumatic endeavor worth every affliction and-
My musings were cut off midway to salvation with the creak of an entrance and heavy footfalls.
Ah, my captor and persecutor. I’d already concluded he’d be back before nightfall. One round of torture this week couldn’t be enough to please his insatiable appetite when the last time he’d actually gotten a whimper out of me.
I preferred to be unmoved, but he’d struck the sensitive damage of my face and won the whimper with low-grade behavior. One knew the rules. If one had a point of disadvantage beginning the game, it was a hollow win to use it instead of finding another. Obviously, the shah had grown tired of my complacency and chose victory any way he could get it.
“Good evening, my friend,” the shah purred with his pernicious grin as the guards allowed him into my cell. He was a large man, overbearing in girth and jewelry as it was; every jewel glistened even without light.
I stayed back and aloof, stating with sarcasm, “Pleasantries before the entertainment? Is this new congeniality in its trial run? Because it is un-suiting to your authoritative demeanor. Why speak mundane formalities to those you mean to govern and squash beneath your shoe? It dulls your threat value.”
The shah gave a condescending chuckle and lifted the whip he had beneath his lush sleeve to my inspection. “Here is your ‘threat value’. The pleasantries were deceiving formalities.”
“The whip again? How original of you!” I rolled my eyes and made my unimpressed reaction known. Without my mask, apathy was thickly cast, and I used it in my favor. Never did I give a single hint that my well-beaten torso throbbed in disdain with the mere idea of more.
“The technique might be overdone, but the method will be inspired tonight.”
“Oh?” I posed doubtfully as the shah toyed idly with the whip and a conceited expression.
“Yes, I think you will find my portrayal ingenious.” The shah arched a dark brow as if waiting for my curiosity to win out and questions to arrive, but I just shook my head and strode to the opposite wall, turning away. My steps were fluid despite the aches my muscles gave in reply. I had to act stoic, and even when every joint moaned a silent protest, I never revealed my pain and played the same omnipotent creature as the Opera Ghost.
“No interest or intrigue?” he prodded and chuckled an ugly sound. “Nothing from one who used to dote on the extent of his perverse forays? Whose vile streak for the macabre and provocative exceeded any creature I’ve ever known? Nothing?”
“I suffer ennui from your senseless prattle,” I retorted. “Say what you wish, and get on with it. Your lead-in drags and seems redundant.”
“Well, my methods won’t be redundant. For you see, I have figured you out, Erik. You and your apathetic regard to even my most heinous of devices. Every creature in existence has an Achilles heel, and I know yours.”
I was dubious and snickered beneath my breath as I faced him. “That’s doubtful. Your skills at deducing are more lackluster than you grant credit.”
“I needed no skills for this, only patience. You gave me the answer from your own repulsive lips.” He pointed the whip in my direction. “You sing in your sleep, Erik; did you know that? Soft, barely audible, perhaps it is a coping device, but typically, it is just obscure melodies, but…last night, you spoke intelligible words, and your companion one cell over was more than happy to share the news for the right price. He is home with his family right now as we speak. Freedom. Such was the cost I was willing to pay for this particular tidbit.”
It would have been a lie to say I was unshaken beneath my façade of surmised skepticism. Betrayed by my own subconscious. Perhaps it was tired of fighting even if I was not, and it had decided to end the battle when I was most vulnerable.
“I would put no credence to a single word spoken in sleep’s realm,” I determined and fisted my hands to hide their shaking.
“Oh? …Then Christine means nothing to you.” A sinister grin curved his lips. “I thought so.”
I’d quivered! I’d given it away! My big secret of secrets, and one tremble, one miniscule motion caused simply by those letters filtering this accursed space as if resuscitated to life had undone three hundred and ninety-four days of armored protection. I’d shown the seam in its vest, the one soft spot where a sword could strike and hit home. Curse it all!
“So who is this Christine?” The shah dared to utter the name again, and even though this time I remained stable, it didn’t matter. It was too late to take it back.
“A mirage.” I shrugged the letters from my shoulders and pretended they were meaningless. “A fantasy I conjured to keep me company. Every lonely prisoner has his dreams, and Christine,” the letters fell from the ceiling again and burned my tongue, “…she is my idealistic illusion. Perhaps women of warm bodies and soft flesh will not entertain notions of a monster’s touch, but my fantasy girl does not stand on ceremony because I am an ugly freak.”
I poured every skill I possessed as a master manipulator into that speech. Ah yes, don’t let him realize Christine was real; let him believe I was prone to erotic illusions in the dark…
The shah chuckled, and the eerie quality made me shudder with dread. “So when you lay alone in your bed, you fantasize this Christine into existence and imagine she is with you, welcoming you with open arms despite your horrifying makeup?”
“Yes, exactly,” I replied and hated myself for cheapening the value of love. “Now let’s get on with that whipping you were so eager to give.”
I carried it off and was certain he believed me…for about half a minute. Then it all fell apart. “I have spent the past decades seeking out weaknesses in the human race. What I’ve come to learn is a universal truth: that love is the primary factor in both triumphs and defeat. Love,” he spat the word this time, “leaves a certain residue behind. When the heart has known it, it carries a fatal flaw in its valves that translates out to every detail. You should have bent and broken under my ministrations, but you’ve had love’s hope as your ally to keep you in the battle. You live…for her. This Christine. How truly pathetic when
any affection a monster feels must go unrequited!”
“How are you so certain in that?” I felt compelled to defend. “Love can also be unconditional and not even a demented face can break its root.”
“Ah, so you admit it then! The girl is real, but unless she is blind, I will not concede to your argument. Look at that monstrosity of a face! I refuse to believe any creature with eyes could endure its sight, let alone love it.”
“She does,” I spoke and refused the incessant voice of doubt. I knew somewhere in the recesses of memory that she loved me, and I recalled one instant that last night we were together and one look that had glowed in affection even if words had never been applied. …And then I’d shattered it by trying to seal it with a kiss.
The shah shook his head. “Impossible. Consider who you are, what you are. No one could love you, Erik. You told me once that not even your own mother could look upon your face.”
Stupid admissions uttered flippantly to make myself more invincible and show no weakness. I hadn’t cared when I’d said it; now it made me think of Christine and actually stung. Christine hadn’t tolerated my face at first sight, but then…well, I was so sure she had lost some of that initial shock and derision. She loved me.
“A face does not make a man,” I insisted and fought for detachment.
“No, actions do, and you are a murderer.”
“Not lately,” I remarked with a nonchalant shrug. “Not while locked in your little box. Now I am atoning for murder, and when the only person I still have violent urges toward is you, I’d say I’m on the road to redemption.”
The slightest waver in his stance told me that the shah took the threat seriously, and he should! If not for guards lingering at my cell door watching the exchange and one decent chance, he would be a dead body at my feet, and I wouldn’t care. But…as it was, he had the power. The second I could turn the game around, I would, and this murder would be justified.
Scripted in Love's Scars Page 12
