Scripted in Love's Scars

by Rodriguez, Michelle

  “You bought the opera to keep her in your company then,” he reasoned. “Because her fiancé doesn’t have scars from head to toe, and…you think the music is compensation for the things you can’t change to appease her.”

  I hated hearing it stated blunt and straightforward and snapped back, “I do not need your psychoanalysis. I love Christine; she will love me back, and that rests the case. I appreciate your continued meddling in my life and your wish to see I am well, but it is futile. Go off and be with your wife and child. Wasn’t that the point of all this to begin with? And yet you’ve spent more time in my presence than theirs.”

  “I just…want to be sure you are well first,” he insisted, but I knew there was more to it. He felt guilty for taking me away to Persia and getting me stuck beneath the bonds of torture. He took the blame upon himself despite my hand in the start of this game, and now he was making his own penance by choosing to stay until he deemed I was happy and well-adjusted. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his quest would likely be wasted and any peace he hoped I’d gain was a fool’s wish. I had learned how important it was to atone and the reconciliation of the soul, but I’d had it easier. I’d been tortured, and he had no such simple path to his own enlightenment.

  The daroga kept in my company the rest of a dull, quiet evening. I doubted he had anywhere else to go. In public, he was as much an outcast as I was, and what kind of acquaintance and semi-friend would I have been to toss him out? I had the distinct feeling that until I either fixed things with Christine or gave her up, I’d have a small, foreign man coming and going in my underground home, putting in his opinion whether I wanted it or not. Damn.

  In the spirit of such a conclusion, I decided it was time to stop waiting for Fate to wake up and do her job. Time to play on my terms.

  As Reyer gave the final notes to a cast I dubbed lackluster after my afternoon’s observations, I called before dismissal could be announced, “Mademoiselle Daaé, will you please stay behind? I need to have a word with you.”

  I saw fear. It leapt like mad in her eyes, but beneath a frown, she nodded consent as concern permeated the rest of our audience. Yes, because they perceived their new manager as the demon Opera Ghost with a distorted, devil face beneath the mask and the potential to devour souls. Christine knew better, but her obvious unease only fueled the gossiping wildfire as the others were dismissed and rushed out.

  I waited in the back of the theatre until the stage cleared and minutes after to be certain everyone had gone, and as I stood, I stared fixedly at Christine’s ducked head and trembling shape. When had she ever been this afraid of me? Not even our first meeting when she’d expected a ghost or when I’d shown my true face. This was…odd.

  My gaze traveled through dark curls drawn loosely back in a ribbon, onward to soft shoulders and the scant bits of skin exposed at her neckline, lower over her curves…

  Since I’d returned, I hadn’t fully appreciated desire’s consummation. No, because Christine felt so out of my reach that desire fell second to a love I was desperate to reclaim. But…no one was about anymore, only she and I, and for a year and a half, desire had been a fantasy I couldn’t touch. Now…she was practically at my fingertips and in my care.

  Silent as the preying wolf, I stalked the empty aisle and approached her shape on the stage. I gave not a single footfall away, and yet I saw her stiffen before I ever arrived at her level, her every breath quivering with its inhale-exhale motion.

  “Christine,” I breathed in husky letters that gave wanting a name.

  She never looked up, quickly replying, “If you intend to scold my performance at rehearsal and insist you’ve made good on your threat and arranged an understudy, then be done with it. Raoul is waiting.”

  I hated his name, hated the sound of its syllables in her voice. As far as desire stretched its fingers, mine was the only name I ached to hear, and though I fisted hands that tingled with their need to grab and hold her, I did not disguise my annoyance as I snapped, “And I’m sure a Vicomte would not understand if you chose your career over his company. He’d believe your so-called job was completed and over at rehearsal’s end. Never mind the fact that real musicians devoted to their talent need practice and lessons; they need to commit themselves to what they truly love and make it their greatest passion in life.”

  Still, she kept eyes downcast as she muttered, “And do you mean the music, or do you mean you?”

  I shrugged idly. “If I can bring the passion out of you, then a little of both perchance. You have been a distant stranger to both the music and me since my return, and I can only be disappointed.” My gaze traveled her curves again, now close enough to see the goose bumps upraised on her bare forearms and every revealed speck of flesh. Did they make layers beneath as well, coat her skin in telltale secrets?

  “You ask for too much.”

  “I ask for what I know you can give. You’re afraid,” I accused exactly what I read, “and I cannot decide if it is a fear of me or of what I make you feel. I force you to look within and pour your soul out to the music…to me. You never put up such walls before, and when you tried, I destroyed them from their base. Remember the ballet, Christine. I have no magical snowfall this time to grant you portraits of passionate interludes, but I will inspire you just the same.”

  “How?”

  I contemplated because I truly had no idea what the answer was. How could I reach her soul when she wanted to keep it from me? But music was the key; I was doubtless, and with the slightest smile upon my lips, I gently commanded, “Marguerite’s fourth act aria. Sing it now for me. Close your eyes and just sing, Christine. No matter what happens, don’t stop singing.”

  Her blue gaze finally lifted laden in wariness, a dark brow arching in a question mark, but with a reluctant sigh, she slowly let lashes flutter closed and obeyed.

  The recitative passed her lips and resonated out into the vacant theatre in the same restrained manner I’d been subject to at her earlier rehearsals. Emotion but reined so tight that she felt nothing, and what she showed seemed trite and contrived. A beautiful voice was only a beautiful voice and nothing worth a second listen without a spark to show its true excellence. That spark came from interpreting, and beyond that, it came from feeling and letting the music flow through the veins. It meant becoming a willing servant to music’s mastery, and Christine was too determined to control every emotion she ever felt again to realize she wasn’t feeling anything at all.

  She came to the aria, “Il ne revient pas…”

  As she sang with rounded tone and precision, I wandered around her postured shape, softly speaking near her ear. “What are you singing? ‘He does not return’. Surely, you know what it feels like to be abandoned. Your father left you; I left you.” I cringed to use the trauma in my favor, but I could hear her steady tone waver with the reverberation of emotion I was seeking.

  “I left you,” I repeated it as she had accused at our last encounter, “and hurt you, didn’t I? I took a piece of your heart with me.”

  Ever studious, she kept her song sounding, but every miniscule tremble shook her vibrato and spoke to the place I sought to reach. Shaking with my own uncertainties unavoidably present, I edged close until her back was only inches from my chest, so near that I saw her sway on her feet as she sensed my boldness. Her curls were a cloud before me; I longed to press my face into their soft caress, but...not yet.

  “Keep singing,” I reminded in a whisper above her ear and shared her shudder. She never denied me; closed eyes stole the vividness of reality, and so as my arms delicately snaked about her waist, she shivered but did not draw away.

  “He does not return,” I repeated her lyrics and fitted her body snugly to my chest so that her every deep inhalation was half-mine by default. “And you will never have this again; only in dreams can you feel him, and it is disappointing, a hollow embrace when touch is but a memory. Oh God, Christine, feel me,” I begged it and finally surrendered to her curls, letting th
eir coils envelop my face and breathing in her scent. “Imagine it. Being so utterly alone with only fantasies for comfort. …I couldn’t feel you,” I hissed the words as tears gathered in my eyes and I permitted their tumble into her hair.

  Her voice was in pianissimos, barely beyond a whisper, and though real singing was choked away, I never cared. I felt the quivers in her breaths and heard the catches in her tone, and it was exactly what I wanted. Emotion, raw and pure. Her small hands lifted and timidly rested on my forearms, her grip growing firmer with every second that she tested my tangibility.

  As her aria ended, I whispered thickly against her ear, “Feel me, Christine. I am not a ghost haunting your dreams. I am real and alive, here with you. No one will take you from me, not your Vicomte, not the rest of this world. This is where you belong, only in my arms.”

  “No,” she suddenly muttered, and even though she tried to break free, I tightened my grip and kept her against me.

  “No? You’d dare deny me after everything I have endured to be in this place with you again? I won’t accept it. I may not be your milksop Vicomte, but I had you first. You were supposed to be here waiting for me.” Pleasant peace quickly mutated to pent-up pain and anger, and on its heels, I molded my body flush to her back and pressed my desire against her, half a threat and half proof that I spoke the truth, that I’d never stopped wanting.

  “Forever?” she gasped out and squirmed, and I could not suppress a moan at that tempting gesture. She wanted freedom; I was too aroused to even consider her agitation. Another struggle, and my head swam until she shouted, “I wasn’t even worth a goodbye to you! And you dare to insist that I am yours! Would you have had me await a hopeless dream for the rest of my life? As far as I knew, you were gone, and I was alone. Erik… Let go. I’m tired of these games when Raoul will be the one hurt in the end. He has done nothing but love me. That is more than you could manage.”

  “I have always loved you!” I yelled back.

  “You left!” she shrieked and struggled harder. “I hate you! I hate you!”

  I felt her break. That was the second the walls collapsed, and a sob ripped from the recesses of her innermost soul. There was my girl, and as she cried, her little hands struck at my grasping arms in a need to hurt as I’d hurt. She couldn’t possibly, and I knew that disappointed her.

  “Yes, yes, put it all on me, Christine,” I crooned tenderly and pressed my masked face to her silken crown. “Give me all your hate, ange. Let me feel it. Let it go.”

  A year and a half of separation, a year and a half mourning, grieving, aching, of loneliness and longing. I deserved eternal damnation for what I’d done to this girl. I loved her, and she suffered because of it.

  “Let go,” she whimpered amidst another sob.

  “Never.”

  “I am not yours!” she cried. “You gave me up when you left and broke my heart.” Weak became saturated in fury as she suddenly shouted, “Monster! You’re a monster without a heart! Selfish, selfish man!” Struggles grew fierce again as this time, she whimpered, “You can’t keep doing this, Erik! You deserve pain and torture with a bleeding heart, but why do I deserve such agony? I have done nothing worthy of it! Your love has been my punishment!”

  Her accusation was sharp enough to delve within my soul. Punishment… Was my love something so vile? I hadn’t realized… But as I held the struggling girl sobbing telling tears, for the first time, I did consider myself selfish. Just because she had been my hope in the shah’s dungeons, my saving grace and fantasy, didn’t mean that I was hers. And wasn’t it ignorant of me to assume?

  With a reluctance that made muscles stiff and inflexible, I released her from my embrace and watched her stumble and stagger to stand on her own two feet. She flipped tear-filled blue eyes to mine, their hue so vibrant, brighter than usual. Funny how tears had such an effect. Making pain prettier than even happiness. My eyes were probably just as luminescent, but I was not privileged enough for them to be dubbed ‘pretty’. No, they’d seem to clash their blue against green more than usual and be ugly.

  “You don’t deserve punishment,” I muttered with realization, “but neither do I, and that’s all I’ve ever had. Christine, I…”

  I considered filling her ears with my story; the daroga had pushed as much. Tell the truth, no matter its degrading reality, but…I looked at her hurt eyes and could not reason using her inevitable sympathy to win her. That would never be enough.

  “You…have an awaiting supper companion, don’t you?” I pushed and gestured to the stage exit. I took it as a victory that though she carried pain, I was granted views of it now. No more stone heart and guarded shields. It was so deep that it took my breath away, and as much as I hated the idea, I considered that the Vicomte would be the one to mend its chasm. He’d heal her every wound, and I would be nothing but the villain who’d caused injury and bruises inside.

  She seemed for a second like she would protest my offered escape, lingering before me with those accursed tears lighting blue eyes so brilliant that I was enamored with their contours. But then with a gasped inhalation, she spun on her heel and ran. I did not pursue. Why punish her further?

  For the first time, I regretted my choices, every single one I’d made with her love in mind. I’d left her with love in my heart; I’d suffered with its ever-present solace as my salvation; I’d returned desperate to kindle the spark. She was right. I was a selfish man. I’d never once considered her love.

  Curse it all! I’d atoned and still God condemned me! It wasn’t fair! Even monsters deserved forgiveness if they were penitent. How much more would it take? Or would redemption only come if I were sacrificed on the proverbial cross, a symbol of pure, unconditional love for all ages?

  But even in death, I wouldn’t have what I truly wanted: Christine, her heart and soul, her body, every bit of her in my life, in my arms forever. …Monsters also deserved love, and I was denied its possession from every angle but my own. Torture had been whips and pain, burns, chains, beatings to blood and broken bones, but its agony was endurable when placed beside the aches of the human heart. I’d had hope to get me through, and now…hope was gone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Christine~

  I ran. Tears blinded every step and smeared the amber and pink hues of sunset like paint splattered on a canvas, a mess of nothing definitive, only color. It felt too bright and exposing, and I longed for night and its dim shades to hide me again.

  Dear God, it was as if every wound inside had their scabbed surfaces ripped wide open again, and I could not stop the blood flow as it pooled out of me. I ached from the inside out with emotions I’d thought dead, suffocated at their source of breath. Now they were born anew, thriving, beating into me and taking their share. I didn’t want to feel, but Erik had found a trigger within and used the music to penetrate my defenses. Every one of these feelings were his, good and bad, from inspiration to consumption, and I didn’t want their possession.

  My footfalls echoed in my ears as my boots clanked the cobblestone walkway to my apartment. I thought only to be alone, to sob into my pillow and pray the poignancy wore away and trickled out with tears, but…

  “Christine! My God, what’s happened?”

  Dear, sweet Raoul. He was at my side within half a breath and dragging me into his arms without awaiting explanation. I never had to tell him that my tears were out of love for another man; I could just take the comfort he offered and cling to him as if he would save my soul from its downfall.

  It was so ironic. I’d once wondered if Erik could be the devil, and in the end, he might not have Satan’s lures, but he was after my soul just the same. He’d already won it, and even as I tried my best to protect it and keep it as mine, it was falling.

  “Darling, …did you have a poor rehearsal?” Raoul worriedly asked as he gently stroked my hair.

  Yes, to him, that would be the only thing to bring such tears. He’d never seen me cry. I’d been so careful to appear put together and
whole for him, not the true damaged creature within. Why would he ever think my hurt ran deeper when I’d given him no impression that anything but he and the music mattered to me? Music…Erik…

  “No, no,” I whimpered in reply to my heart’s frantic whispers.

  “Then what happened, darling?”

  I drew back to meet his kind eyes, and the truth fluttered on my tongue. Raoul deserved its secrets. He loved me, even if it was only the version I’d presented to him and not the extent of my real, broken self. He should know… But the words were so heavy that my mouth could not form them all.

  “The new manager…he upset me.”

  “That man with the mask?”

  I nodded, dull and empty as tears still silently fell. “You’ve heard Meg speak tales of the Opera Ghost. He is the Opera Ghost.”

  Raoul’s handsome features creased with doubt. “Those are stories, Christine, and Meg is dramatic. Did she talk you into believing her frivolous fairytales and frighten you? Ghosts aren’t real.”

  “No, they’re not, but evil men with sins on their souls are. The title ‘ghost’ just makes them immortal in their infamy.”

  “Evil men? Christine, …did this masked man hurt you?”

  I saw the mixture of fear and anger build in the Vicomte as he leapt to assumptions that very well might have been true, but I couldn’t tell him that part of the truth. “No, …not like that, Raoul. He…wants so much from me…in the music, and I can’t give it to him. He was…disappointed with my performance today.”

  “Oh!” I saw relief as Raoul clasped my shoulders and grinned with encouragement. “You have such a tender heart, Christine! You cannot let his opinion mean anything. Mine is far more important, and I think you are extraordinary and amazing, a diva to rival all divas of the stage. This manager of yours has rubbed every member of your company the wrong way with his condescending temperament. Let me speak on your behalf and remind him who funds his business.”