Scripted in Love's Scars

by Michelle Rodriguez

  “No,” she spoke with inarguable certainty and held my shame-filled gaze without waver. “God does not punish in pain or seek penance through torture. This was not in God’s hands, nor was it just atonement for your sins. This was undeserved, Erik. You did not deserve to be brutalized when your heart was already penitent. It is not an eye for an eye. Forgiveness comes with selfless acts and righteous deeds. This was the devil’s abuse, and every scar left behind is nothing worth odium or reproach. I will script them in honor and courage and more love than most mankind could ever feel. Please…let me prove it to you.”

  It was difficult for me to conceive anything but evidence of a time I was weak, and how could the omnipotent Opera Ghost ever be anyone’s victim? I was not supposed to fall, and here was a permanent inscription of ‘coward’ upon my body. But as Christine reached for buttons again, I kept hands diligently fisted at my sides and permitted, desperately holding back a rise of tears and a need for a shield.

  I fixated on her face, and as button after button gave way and whispered my Persian enslavement in every revelation, I saw the true horror of it furrow her brow and bring the same tears I restrained to her stare.

  I didn’t look down at my body; I’d seen enough to know it was horrendous and rarely regarded it since my return. I knew there were deep grooves of missing flesh and healing patches from brutal burns. The shah had a penchant for hot pokers, and scattered about were upraised brandings in his crest, as if I were marked property, a stamped animal in his stables. The leftover evidence from the whips was the worst because each lashing was recorded, criss-crossed strips in pale pinks that were vibrant on my white skin. There was still more healing to be done, but I doubted they’d be less prominent, …maybe less pink if I were lucky.

  Christine’s shoulders shook with silent sobs as her blue gaze wandered the length of my torso to the waistband of my pants and up again, taking it all in as one complete picture and then my horrific face on top of it all. I feared it was all too much for her, feeling the violent tremors of her hands as they fisted in the material of my open shirt and could not seem to un-flex their joints.

  So abrupt that she jumped, I clasped her chin in curled fingers and forced her eyes to hold mine as I snapped, “No pity. I don’t want pity, not from you, Christine. Please, I can’t bear that!”

  I spoke harsh, but the words were so deeply embedded in my heartache that her tears fell faster, and she suddenly hugged her body to mine, pressing her bare breasts against my damaged torso. It was a more overwhelming caress than hands could have ever given, and I shuddered and moaned when my body expected pain to exist in every contact and received softness and warmth instead.

  “I love you,” she insisted in a whimper and burrowed her face in the hollow of my throat. I didn’t know what to feel. Should I be angry? Was this her way of blocking the horror from her line of view and beseeching forgiveness? Or was this solace? My temper had the urge to pop and erupt, but her tumbling tears struck my skin and trickled down my chest, stinging in some places that were still a bit raw, and impulse said to comfort her.

  “Christine…,” I moaned desolately as I slid my arms about her shape and clutched her to me, but fear lurked in my ignorance, and I added with ferocity, “I won’t let you go. You already chose me. If disgust lives in these scars, so be it. You came to my bed willingly, and no matter what, I mean to have you.”

  It was cruel on my part to lay such terms, but desperation took control and insisted how easy it would be for her to reconstruct her broken walls and drag her heart within their protection.

  I would have ripped off remaining clothing and taken her right then, but her hands caught my interest as they finally released material and slid to my waist. Ever delicate and unsure, they made a timid path and found the bare, equally-damaged skin of my back. The whip marks were worse across that expanse of muscle, and I felt my bones shifting within my skin to endure a touch that was gentle. She gasped at what she felt, but no more loudly than I did to know the heated pressure of tender fingers graze up and down my spine, slow and learning every scar’s variation.

  She was thorough and ever attentive, brushing finger pads and then full hands in their mediocre scope, caressing as if they could repair damage. Every scar seemed to have a voice all its own, and as she touched and enticed it to surrender its secrets, it told its story of mutilation to her in whispers. As I writhed and moaned with her unceasing endeavors, I could only consider that if disgust were present, it was well-hidden.

  But no…no, would disgust have her arching her hips against my hardness at every breath and rocking her body so sweetly to mine? Tears were still careening along my chest, but little sounds were passing her lips and blazing a path to my ears, mews of wanting; they could mean nothing else. And to me, this was the best acceptance in existence. She did not need to utter fancy, flowery sentiments or fabrications that the damage wasn’t as terrible as I knew it was. Her desire was enough to conquer my sense of humiliation and remind me that though imperfect, I was a man still and finally worthy of love, …her love.

  The healing power of touch was almost too much to endure. When my body recalled that hands could hurt just as easily as they could be gentle, it was an ongoing challenge to calm beneath her sweet fingers. She pressed little kisses to my collarbone, finding its distinct shape between two burnt patches, and as her tongue emerged to touch and taste, I shuddered and fisted my hands in her petticoat.

  “This body is a travesty,” I muttered as I rubbed my scarred cheek against her silken crown. “I wish I had something better to give you, something worth desiring. Christine, you deserve perfection.”

  “I want you,” she vowed without waver and arched against me again.

  It was nearly impossible to find coherent thought beyond the thrumming throb of my ache. I refused regret, guilt, or any emotion that went against what I yearned to take, and abruptly capturing one of her hands from beneath my shirt, I dragged it between our bodies and pressed it boldly to my erection. I wanted it clear and evident, the blatant insistence of desire’s threshold, and I watched her eyes widen to truly gauge my size and shape, her fingers shaking as they encircled the shaft and cupped with a palm that burned through every layer still present.

  Her caresses were flustered and apprehensive, timid as her gaze held mine and continuously asked for her if she was pleasing me. I longed to assure her that there was no way she couldn’t please me, but words failed to a hoarse moan that I prayed said enough.

  I couldn’t let it go on long, too overheated and desperate not to find completion in a touch alone. Not yet. Not when an absolute treasure awaited my claim.

  Disentangling from her, I jerked away clothing at every fluid motion, holding her stare with my hunger prominently displayed. She blushed in reds and pinks as she slid her petticoat down her narrow hips but watched my body come into view all the while. I knew the scars were brutal and saw their reflection in blue eyes that seemed to be etching every one into her mind, as if tapping their shapes into the tin sheets of memory’s wall and leaving a flawed, uneven palette behind.

  As I unclasped my pants and yanked every other layer away, I was the one wearing a blush but mine was exuded from a shame I could not fully denounce. My thighs and legs were as brutally devastated as my torso; one particular marking from the whip ran from my hipbone down to my inner thigh, still pink and ugly in its recovery, and her attention fixed to its savage horror with a soft cry. Shaking fingertips grazed its length, and I shuddered in an aggressive combination of pleasure and pain.

  “Erik,” she whispered laden in empathy, but this was different. It was like through that touch, she felt my pain and shared it with me, not sympathized it into a contrived existence.

  The wound drew focus first, but as her fingers ascended their path again, they continued across my hip and more scars on their way to my eagerly swollen manhood. I could barely stand it, shuddering before her bare fingers ever closed around me, and as her touch left its own lasting
imprint and learned the secrets of the male body, I drew her pantaloons down her hips and out of my way.

  I needed to touch her, half-afraid her desire would be vanished now that she’d seen the portrait of my wounds, but as my fingers grazed and found her slick wetness, I could not stop myself from plunging them deep and moaning my desperation to take their place.

  “Please,” she gasped, and I took that as permission. I did not hesitate even a breath, guiding her back and parting her thighs. She clasped my shoulders, making flustered caresses to more marks, but as I thrust deep, she abruptly cried out and went stiff and frozen in place.

  “Sshh,” I cooed, one hand upon her hip to keep her from pulling away and the other cradling her cheek. I swiped a flood of sudden tears with my fingertips and tilted her chin to force her gaze to mine, searching blue orbs for love beneath the overlying blanket of pain. I’d hurt her. I hated knowing guilt for it because it felt like another sin had just been engraved upon my soul when all I’d wanted was to give her pleasure.

  “I’m sorry,” I was compelled to murmur, but for as much as I regretted hurting her, I did not regret taking her virginity. Was that what her pain was supposed to inspire? She’d claimed God did not punish with pain, but perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps she regretted, but I was sheathed in a heated wetness so amazingly delicious that my entire body trembled and felt at peace for the first time in my existence.

  She was still unyielding beneath me, as if terrified to move and make pain swell, so in soft tones, I whispered tenderly against her ear, “I suppose I gave you a permanent scar of your own now even if it is inside where no one will see. And yet it’s forever, Christine, a branding that makes you mine. You’re mine… Please tell me this means something extraordinary when to me, this is the most wonderful moment I’ve ever lived.”

  She hesitated, and my terror built until she finally spoke. “You’re wrong. You gave me a permanent scar from the first moment, and that meant forever as much as this does. For as extraordinary as this is, I’ve always been yours.”

  I adored her words and pressed grateful kisses to her trembling lips. I didn’t expect more than that. It was love and made this instant that we were one body, one heart and soul into a blessing.

  I was afraid to move and hurt onward, and as I slowly shifted my hips, desperate to feel more, she gave a cry and drew my wide, worried stare.

  But with shallow breaths heaving from her lungs, she gasped, “Do that again.”

  I groaned with relieved yearning and eagerly obeyed, always careful. Small motions, gentle and yet slightly deeper with each penetration, and though whimpered cries left her lips, she was the one to arch and meet me and encourage.

  I was humbled in my amazement to watch her, to gaze at her desire-clouded features, knowing she wanted me, and then to feel her innocent body learning passion and testing its powerful pull. She was discovering with me, and I was as riveted to her as my own body’s responses.

  Her skin was flush to mine everywhere, her legs entwining with my own in the restless pursuit of wanting, and it astounded me the second I stopped caring about scars and knew she did, too. She dug taut fingers into my hair and raced fitful caresses along my skull as her cheek rubbed my scars. I felt her blush, the heat poured out of her skin the instant before she softly muttered, “You can…move harder.”

  The word alone in her voice made me shudder, and I quickly insisted, “Tell me everything you want, Christine. Please I beg of you. I want to please you. Don’t be afraid or shy, not here with me like this. Tell me what you want of me, ange.”

  She hesitated still but finally breathed against my ear, “Harder,” and I shuddered again as I eagerly complied.

  Like a sudden allegro, I shifted tempos and obeyed, thrusting deep and hard as she clutched me and buried her cries against my throat. I would have feared it was too much, but I felt her find pleasure, my name fleeing her lungs in a shout that sent me up the peak after her.

  It was glorious; I couldn’t have staved off ecstasy if I wanted to. Losing her name just as fervently, I was overcome, clinging to her with arms I wished could mold into her skin and become fixed, …never let her go.

  Ripples of shivers racked my body as the air in the room chilled and cooled my heated flesh, stinging the convalescent injuries down my spine with a pleasant sort of pain I hoped would never fade. I lifted my head to meet Christine’s stare, desperate for acceptance in a way that exceeded even baring my body. I needed it as if I’d perish without it. Oh God, please let her know no regret…

  But she immediately pressed her mouth to mine, catching my sigh of relief in her kiss and breathing into me something better. Acceptance, love, desire, the lingering traces of her climax. I felt it all, and finally, the tears I’d fought rimmed my eyes as I kissed her back and hoped she felt as much returned from me.

  “I love you,” I sobbed the instant we broke a kiss and savored her adoring smile. Whatever I’d done to deserve this, I was in awe and was determined to keep it forever. Every horror was suddenly worth its scars and agony if all was forgiven and in its rightful place. Christine in my arms, in my bed, open heart and soul, mine…

  God works in mysterious ways…

  Chapter Twenty

  Christine~

  Oh, to be in love! I could reason that nothing was as remarkable and awe-inspiring as loving the person one was meant to. I felt complete inside, like a human being suddenly made whole and given the very purpose for living all in one glorious emotion. Love…

  That first week, I functioned half in a haze. One thought, one random stimulus, and I could be dragged into memories of Erik and our overwhelmingly passionate endeavors so quick that a disgruntled Reyer frequently had to call me to attention. It was just too easy!

  And God forbid if Erik walked into rehearsal at any point, for his gaze always sought my shape and turned me into a gelled pool of anticipation. It was quite obvious to cast and crew and anyone with eyes that I was having a torrid love affair with the Opera Ghost, and I didn’t care that they knew it! I was too enamored, blinded to anything I did not wish to see.

  Erik was all I breathed for, but opera had its place next in line. As Faust quickly approached, an amount of serious effort went into perfecting my role. Every day a lesson at rehearsal’s end was our top priority. We had to let music do the touching first and embrace each other through melodies inextricably entwined.

  To my wonderment, Erik actually conceded to sing parts with me, playing Faust opposite my Marguerite and acting out the scenes as if we were the real show. How amazing such a rendition would have been! Erik’s angel voice sung Faust in a way I’d never heard, perhaps a way only heavenly creatures were meant to behold. It would have stunned Paris to hear such exquisiteness upon the stage, but I never asked him for such a thing. I kept it all for myself and savored every second spent in harmony almost as much as every second making love. Both were their own unions and equally as beautiful.

  Erik was my muse for love, passion, desire, every detail of living in general, and eager to be the same for him, I threw myself wholeheartedly into love’s arms and fell harder this time than the first time a year and a half before. Now I knew that if he left for any reason at all, it would kill me.

  As another endless span of rehearsal finally closed its minutes, I watched the cast leave and dallied on the stage, awaiting an angel, my angel, and I had so much to anticipate: music and then being carried off into the shadows and allowing them to devour me whole. I could hardly hope to keep patience intact, but as it was, I had little choice but to await Erik’s presence, mentally willing the ambling ballerinas off to their dormitories.

  Meg caught my eye and gave me a little wave as she scurried after the others. She’d kept her distance ever since it became noticeable that I’d abandoned a Vicomte for the resident Opera Ghost. She didn’t trust Erik or his intentions, and although it stung to lose a friend, I understood her point as much as Erik’s. He had made it his mission to torment for too long, and t
hen add in the deaths and the accidents… It was no wonder.

  Finally, all were cleared out, and I lifted myself up onto my toes in makeshift ballet motion as I scanned the empty theatre for a mask. Mere moments later, he appeared, striding down the aisle with the new confidence my love had given him. Now doubt was dead and hesitation suffocated, and mismatched eyes burned me in their silent adoration and insisted he had memory just as close to the surface.

  “Erik,” I bid with the hint of a smile. Our secrets were exchanged in every glance, candid and genuinely bestowed but so blatant in the telling that my knees shook beneath my weight.

  “Shy blushes!” he accused with a chuckle that thrilled me. “Truly, Christine? After nights of voracious lust and groping hands to bare skin, you still blush so charmingly innocent!”

  “It’s an impulse,” I justified, “and understandable considering the sort of things we did last night…” Merely the mention deepened my hue until I felt the fire coming out of my flesh and guessed red was my color of choice. But last night…oh, his mouth had been everywhere, and the blush was half in abashment and half in longing for him to do it again!

  “The sort of things we’ll perform as an encore to our lesson…if you are willing, of course.” His returned grin whispered more secrets and made me duck a coy smile. “Are you willing, Christine? Because I am. Dear God, you are delicious! I could taste you all night on my tongue, and yet it was unsatisfying when I didn’t have your heated body against me, …your legs wrapped around my shoulders…” He reminded the salacious details, and no matter my determination, I could not drag the corners of my lips down or stop the shiver that racked me with its fierce intensity.

  “Erik,” I chided, halfhearted when I wouldn’t have truly minded skipping a lesson and going straight for the finale. “Ridiculous man! If I am now faltering pitches and lyrics, it is solely your distracting fault!”

  “Shy again,” he accused, approaching in calculated steps. “Or wanton beneath a façade of modesty and terrified to admit it. You want my mouth all over intimate places, …but it’s more proper not to readily admit it.”