He was still silent, waiting for me to utter accusations we both knew I must, and finally as I rose on trembling knees, I let their sharp letters into the air. “One of the stagehands had an accident this morning at rehearsal. Joseph Buquet. Do you know who he is?”
Mismatched eyes glared a breath before he paced onward, brusquely retorting, “Go on, Christine. Finish your tale and make it perfectly clear what you have dubbed me guilty for.”
I cringed and swallowed hard, but there was no going back now. “He fell from the rafters, but he said…the Opera Ghost pushed him. Did you? Did you do it?”
“Of course I did!” he exclaimed as if my answer were obvious, and I was a fool even to ask. “Joseph Buquet is a repulsive creature. He deserved to be taught a lesson for his shameless behavior. I will not allow him to undress you with his eyes! It is demoralizing and certainly no right of his to even pretend to own.”
Each sentence grew in aggression until I regretted ever posing the inquiry. For the first time, I longed to be free of this scene and out of my angel’s presence. I didn’t want to see this side of him or know it existed when it was so thick in hatred.
“So continue,” he ordered, halting abruptly at the foot of the stage and staring bitterly at me. He’d never stood so close, but this was not the image of him I wanted as mine. “Condemn me for my rash behavior. I know you must. The good moral girl cannot condone violence done in her name. Tell me I was ignorant to lay a hand upon him, but never forget that I did it for you. He lusted after you as if the emotion were requited and put it on display for all to see. You do not deserve to have your reputation shredded to pieces for his desires.”
I was thrown because he genuinely believed what he’d done was right. I didn’t understand how anyone could hurt someone else and justify it to the point that remorse did not exist. He wasn’t sorry at all, and how could I forgive someone who did not seek penance?
Shaking my head in confounded uncertainty, I stated back, “Please do not sin with my name on your lips. I do not want guilt upon my shoulders when I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”
“Oh, haven’t you? You certainly never stood up for yourself and commanded that bastard to cease his incessant ogling. You let him look at you.”
“I…I didn’t want him to,” I explained, confused how blame had come around to me instead. What had I done so terribly to earn the growing fire in my angel’s eyes? I didn’t understand how his sin and the fault that went with it could be put upon me.
“But you never stopped him,” he insisted again, biting and enraged. “He made his lust evident to every person who saw and proclaimed himself someone who could have you if he so wanted. And I…I hide in shadows, not even a man to you. My own desires cannot mold the role for me when you never look and see them.”
He seemed so desperate, urgent for something I could not decipher, and taking the smallest step toward the stage’s edge, I beseeched, “I don’t understand what you mean. Please just tell me.”
Even with a mask between, I read hurt in anger’s center as its very core, and though he kept an unyielding glare, he demanded, “Do you look at me and see me as a man, Christine?”
“Yes, I-”
“No,” he corrected, raising his hands in the air for silence. Sense bid that I should focus and see those hands as the same ones that had pushed Buquet out of the rafters, but I couldn’t. They were just his.
“You don’t see me as a man,” he decided. “I am not allowed to be a man to you. I must cower in the dark and yearn alone, and it is hardly fair when a deviant like Joseph Buquet can look at you with lust in his eyes and want you as a man would, and all I am permitted is a voice and a fantasy.”
“Ange, I-”
“Angel,” he spat the term back at me. “I don’t have a name to you. You’ve never asked for one because only men have names, people worthy to exist in the living world.”
“I…I’m sorry,” I begged, and to my wide-eyed surprise, he began to approach the stairs leading onstage in slow, calculated steps. I didn’t know how to react. Was this a threat? A danger? He’d never come so near, and though I staggered an unconsidered inch back, I forced my legs to halt escape and waited. If he meant to destroy me, so be it. I would not run from him.
He kept at the stage’s edge, a good distance away, but the spotlights streamed light around him and gleamed along the material of his mask, illuminating and making it unavoidable. And yet…his gaze grew gentle, hopeful as he lifted defenseless hands that I saw tremble.
“Erik,” he suddenly told me, “My name is Erik. Won’t you say it and make it real? I’ve only dreamt its unworthy syllables in your voice. Will you speak it for me, Christine?”
My own name was an adoration when he gave it that soft and tender, and eager to return the token, I breathed, “Erik.”
My angel had a mortal man’s name, and even pretend couldn’t be achieved anymore, not with that one, solitary fact.
He shuddered, and I couldn’t believe I had that effect in return. He was always the one with power, and it shocked me to watch that shudder shake and crack his bravado with its racing possession. He broke before my eyes and slowly slid to his knees at the edge of the stage, watching me with tears in his gaze.
“Yes, and your Erik has disappointed you,” he said with somber disdain. “But can you offer forgiveness? Can you look at the man before you and see that he is nothing without you? Look and see me, Christine, not the angel in your mind. You prefer illusions, but they aren’t real… And the man is.”
I’d known that all along even if I chose not to dwell on reality’s details, but now there were no denials that could equate. I looked and saw Erik, kneeling on the stage in supplication and reverence, his brilliant eyes rimmed in tears. The image shook me. How quickly he could go from a villain to a hero’s heart! I didn’t know how to accept it.
So with timid steps, I tiptoed nearer, grazing my stocking-clad feet along the wooden floor with every careful motion. What was I doing? Giving forgiveness as if it were my place to save his soul… Under the stage lights, he was real, a body with limbs and torso, tangible and solid, not the dark silhouette out in my audience. …Alive, and I longed to comprehend verity.
Never speaking a word when none could validate my unbidden curiosity, I extended a quivering hand and shyly rested it upon his shoulder. He shuddered violently beneath my palm, and I curved fingertips into a very real suit jacket, holding tight when I knew he was unstable and falling apart with one touch. Real, he wanted me to see real, and yet he was as shaken by it as I was.
“Christine,” he whimpered my name, and I adored the sound. It was as beautiful as a song.
So sudden that it went unanticipated, his arms darted out and caught my waist, weaving their lanky threads about my hips and entwining against the small of my back as I was pulled close. I went rigid and stiff, terrified for reasons I had yet to find, but his grip was fierce and unyielding as he pressed his one unmasked cheek against my abdomen.
I didn’t know what to do, awkward in my own skin. Should I hold him back? Should I force him away, struggle and give him no choice but to release? But…he did nothing but clasp me to him, his fingers in fists against the small of my back as if to diminish their potential and steal the threat. I felt him breathe, a deep inhalation that opened the lungs pressed boldly to my legs, and it was exhaled as a sigh, so content that I feared destroying this moment. Would anger return if I pushed him away? Would the rift that had started forming its chasm in accusations return and extend like an abyss between us? I didn’t want to take that chance. This was my angel teacher; man was second to that and the exhilaration that came in the music we shared. I couldn’t lose it now.
Forcing numb limbs to comply, I rested my hands to both his shoulders, as much of an embrace as I could permit, and was oddly stirred with his next shiver as he delicately rubbed his cheek to the satin of my rehearsal attire.
“My God, you are so soft,” he hoarsely gasped, and I could n
ot suppress the shiver such an impassioned admission ignited. It rushed through my body like a lit spark, flames that ran and licked at the confines of my veins burning their way out. I was afraid and wanted him to let go, but the command would not coagulate in my hazy head.
“Say you forgive me,” he fervently begged against my stomach, and goose bumps arose beneath the thin material separating his mouth from my skin. “I cannot bear to consider this the only time I’ll have this feeling, Christine. Don’t let my rash behavior be the reason you deny me, not when this moment is everything.”
“Everything,” I repeated in a whisper, only I could not decide if I agreed with him. An angel held me in his powerful arms… Only he wasn’t an angel at all, and I didn’t know what that meant.
He took my acquiescence as concurrence and rubbed his cheek again to my stomach as if longing to imprint the thin satin to his flesh. It didn’t bring disgust, not the revulsion I’d known for Buquet and his leering desire, but…no, what it brought was indulgent and swelling, terrifying because it was beyond all control I’d ever believed I had. I was desperate for this to end.
“Do you forgive me?”
“Of course,” I muttered, low and quiet and held my breath with a prayer for that to be enough.
And like God’s resonant answer, his strong arms disengaged and released my quivering shape as I rooted my feet and tried to stand firm and not give away how much I missed his body the instant it was torn away from mine. Why? How could I want him and fear him at the same time? Every emotion seemed contradictory to one another until I had no idea what I felt.
My angel…Erik rose, arrogant demeanor back in place and mended at every crack, and striding the stage as if he hadn’t just been trembling against me, he went to the piano and sat before its keys.
“Perhaps it will be an advantage to have accompaniment tonight,” he decided as he ran quick scales up and down the keys, cringing at a few suspect pitches with flat intonation. “My managers will be receiving a note in the morning cursing their lackluster endeavors at keeping a tuner on hand. This is opera after all. It is an irony to let the cast suffer without correctly tuned instruments until the performance week!”
A tangent about instruments when my head was still swimming, and I tried to focus on the image of his proper posture at the piano when spotlights made the mask too prominent and noticeable.
He muttered onward about the wayward pitches, but I did not listen until a convicted assertion burst my haze. “The aria in the second act, you know it, don’t you?”
Aria… “Carlotta’s aria?”
“Do not credit Carlotta with any piece of real music,” he sharply declared even as he nodded. “But yes, that piece. I’d like to hear you sing it now.”
I felt the color leave my face. “I…I’ve never sung it before.”
“I didn’t ask if you’d ever sung it. I asked if you knew it, and you do. So sing it. Now.”
I had no time to think. He played the introduction, and I jumped in with the first pitches. He never ceased playing as I was coerced to sing the entire aria, and though I knew it was not my best, he nodded after the last chord.
“Yes, this will be perfect,” he concluded with the confidence I lacked.
“Perfect for what?”
“For you, of course. What did you think we were after with these lessons, Christine? You are to be the diva.”
I went numb with his adamant decision. Diva… I’d never dreamed of such a future, and despite a temptation to argue with him over his supposed assessment of my talent and potential, I kept silent, staring at a masked face that loomed hauntingly over the piano’s keys.
This angel…man had thrown another human being out of the rafters for me. What else was he capable of doing in my name? I was terrified to find out.
Chapter Five
Erik~
Obsession. I was obsessed, and I freely admitted it to myself and actually encouraged it onward. Christine… Her name might as well have meant the same thing as obsession, an identical definition, because that was what she was. And my current point of fixation was one semi-embrace on an empty stage.
Oh God, I’d touched the goddess… And weren’t unworthy mortals automatically condemned to hell for such a sin? Well, I’d burn willingly if it meant I could have more. Another taste of the fire, another lick of the flame. I ached to take something greater, but hesitation came in an over-analytical mind.
I not only obsessed over my actions but her thoughts about my actions. Perhaps I’d pushed too hard and too far, and damn my infernal weaknesses! I’d given her a view of the vulnerable soul I yearned to hide, peeking out in desperation and tears. Tears! I’d cried genuine tears in front of her! It was a point I called pathetic. I needed to be strong and seem invincible because if she ever realized she could destroy the Opera Ghost, every game would be over and I’d fall for good.
So in un-validated fear that destruction was my imminent outcome, I did not make another attempt at contact despite how my body ached. I limited myself to angel teacher again, only now I resided on spot-lit stages instead of in the dark. It was a two-fold solution. I needed a piano to truly teach, and from the stage, I could watch more closely and condition her to seeing me as a man. After all, ghost or angel couldn’t be a consideration when I was too near to forget my mortal makeup. Yes, she had to succumb to sharing the air with a man.
Obsession ran rampant through me, but when we worked, I put emotion aside. It was difficult but necessary when the talent I shaped was so pure and infinite in its potential. Christine was my muse and not just because I was infatuated with the girl. Her voice… It still stunned me that something so glorious passed her lips in every note and she was unaware that it was brilliant. With the right training and guidance, I knew she could rival every diva currently on an opera stage. Her gift bore no limit, and I knew I could make it flourish and continue growing forever if she let me.
But for now it was an intimate secret between only the two of us, as I watched her dance in the ballet and knew she was destined for something exceptional. Not a single tutu-ed brat had the promise Christine did; none of them realized they were dancing in the presence of greatness. Only she and I held that secret… In a way, it made me feel so special and close to her.
Obsession had stages that only worsened with chosen abstinence. Now that I knew what she felt like, smelled like, her softness, sweetness, beauty, obsession was an ache that shrieked in a shrill voice for satisfaction. It tempted me to more touches, promising I wouldn’t regret it, that she wanted it, too, while sense argued the opposite.
I was doubtless what I felt for her was love, but…her heart was a mystery. There were times as we worked so diligently lost to music’s consumption that I was sure she must feel something for me, something beyond mentor and confidante. She’d look at me with this glow in her eyes as if she couldn’t get enough of my words to satisfy her. More praises that I purposely kept restrained, more instruction and guidance. I could tell that my company was cherished at those moments, but since I didn’t push for more, I couldn’t fathom how deep feeling ran.
Determined to give real purpose to our sordid relationship, I worked with her on the current leading role for the production. If she found such a thing odd, she did not let on of it after that first night and dutifully allowed my plans to prosper.
Unbeknownst to my rising diva, I had every intention that Christine would be the one to sing the lead on opening night. A talent of her caliber deserved to be heard, and when Carlotta was a screeching cat in comparison, it seemed a travesty to hand her leading roles simply because of reputation. No more. No matter what I had to do, Christine would sing.
While I was not above using sin and vice to my advantage, I was extra careful to keep my plan from Christine’s knowledge. She’d never condone immorality, and her naïve sweetness couldn’t reason the politics behind opera. She needed a contender on her side, someone to raise her up above the throng, and even if a bit of dishonesty was
involved, that was the game. Only those wiling to play had a chance to win.
So while preparations were underway onstage and Christine spent her days as a mediocre ballerina, at night with me, she shone like the beacon star she was meant to be and took her rightful place as prima donna. It was a lot to put on her shoulders, but she seemed to be handling it with ease…all until one particular night.
I favored waiting until the theatre was empty to join her, most especially now that I allowed myself in view on the stage. I couldn’t risk anyone else lingering and catching us mid-practice, so I always checked the vicinity first, locks in place, all bodies gone and not still in dressing rooms. It was tedious when my heart was racing ahead, eager to be with Christine, but my task was necessary for both of us.
As I finally deemed all satisfactory and joined her in the theatre, I found her once again practicing that dreaded Act Three routine on the stage. Her ballet improved by the day, and though she managed to blend well with the others in every other section, this Act Three number always left her berated by Madame Giry’s eagle eye and perfectionist tendencies. I hated every time Christine was singled out for chastisement and perhaps if ballet were her only talent, I’d have found my own way to make the pompous Madame more lenient. But I couldn’t truly care about ballet when opera was the greater passion in Christine’s blood. For all I deemed, ballet was a temporary respite on the way to notoriety.
Onstage, Christine moved with too much heaviness. I noted that every time her mind was distracted, she overworked her motions, and now as she pirouetted, she pulled her leg out too early and stumbled off her toes with a discontented cry.
“You know this piece much better than you’re giving yourself credit for,” I called and discounted her startled response to my sudden appearance. Shock quickly relaxed to nothing but her frustration with ballet, and I took it as encouragement as I approached the stage and found no hesitation or apprehension in her stare. She didn’t even question me, not anymore.
Scripted in Love's Scars Page 5