Scripted in Love's Scars

by Michelle Rodriguez

  Perhaps that was petty. I wanted to love him but not touch him, but modesty kept me shy and unsure. Touch seemed heavy and real, and when he played his music instead, things were half a fairytale.

  I wasn’t naïve or completely ignorant on the subject. I knew we could not continue this peaceful sense of abeyance forever when it was sugarcoated and idealistic, but…a little longer couldn’t hurt.

  For the next few weeks, I was fortunate to stay in that rose-hued state, but then as was inevitable, the fragile bubble popped and thrust me back into the world.

  Joseph Buquet returned to the opera. He hobbled about on shoddy crutches, but he seemed determined to do his job. I understood such adamancy when losing a position implied future starvation on the streets, more so for a man who needed to let his leg heal before he could search for another job.

  It was not unfathomable that he’d endure the hardship to keep a cozy place in the opera crew, but from the moment he arrived back in the theatre, I was acutely aware that his focus was on me. This was not the same as the ogling, desirous leers he usually cast; this was ominous and rose anxious goose bumps on my skin. I had much worth worrying over, considering he and I both knew Erik was responsible for his accident. I wondered how accountable it made me if the sin was done in my name. I felt guilty.

  I endured his looks all morning and tried to appear unaffected. Erik would be watching, and if he knew Buquet was up to his old games, there was no telling what he would do. I did not know Erik’s basis for sin and reprieve. Where was the limit? I didn’t want to learn.

  As afternoon rehearsals began, the ballerinas awaited their Act Three entrance in the wings, and as I lingered back, I felt the lightest touch on my elbow. With a sharp gasp, I flipped about only to come face to face with Buquet’s beady eyes. It felt like this meeting was inevitable, as if I’d been waiting all day for the instant accusations would find the light. I was more surprised by what I glimpsed in his eyes: fear.

  He lifted a chubby finger to his lips for silence and then motioned that I follow, and though I hesitated a breath with an idle glance onstage to see that I still had time until my entrance, I obeyed. Let him try something immoral; I was confident his homemade crutches were not stable and could easily be kicked out from beneath him. The idea lessened my anxiety as I followed him into an empty dressing room.

  “What do you want?” I immediately interrogated, on guard again as he closed the door before facing me. Alone in a room with a deviant man twice my size who lusted after me… I edged back anxious steps and locked my eyes on the base of his crutch. One swift kick, and I knew he’d tumble.

  “Relax, girl,” he snapped and made a face at me. “I’m not here to hurt you. Just the opposite actually.”

  His words were slurred and sloppy, and in the train of my thoughts, he took a flask from his back pocket and took a long swig before eyeing me again with a nonchalant shrug.

  “Dulls the pain,” he commented and waved the flask in the air. “Need something to take the edge off the damage your lover left behind.”

  I went stiff with the mention and feigned innocence. “I don’t know what you mean. I have no lover.”

  “He would say otherwise. I’d watch that innocent body around him if I were you. He thinks it’s his already.”

  Buquet’s glazed eyes showed pinpricks of wisdom, and shaking my head, I refused to listen, muttering, “You don’t know anything.”

  “Don’t I? I was told none-so-gently by your masked suitor that I was not to even look at you again lest I find my death awaiting.”

  His words chilled me through flesh to the bones beneath because I knew he spoke true and I hated how much I didn’t want to believe him. “And yet…here you are talking to me,” I insisted instead. “If what you say is valid, why are you chancing your life?”

  “Because I don’t think any pretty young girl deserves the fate you have coming if you don’t get out of this place. You’ve put yourself on the map of the almighty opera demon, and that is a place you don’t want to be. Trust me. He is a murderer and a monster. The devil.”

  Buquet was straight-faced and solemn, his beady stare piercing me with its intensity, and although I listened, I kept doubts palpable between us. “I see no reason to believe you, monsieur. You are obviously inebriated, and-”

  “Do you know why he wears a mask?” Buquet interrupted, and I went numb with the mere mention.

  “That…isn’t my business or yours either.”

  He ignored my unease and stated flatly, “Because he is the devil, mademoiselle. That mask hides what he truly is, the face of hell’s own demon. He is Satan on earth looking to tempt the innocent to fall into fire and flame. The devil teases with pleasure and seeming bliss as he sucks your soul from your body. …You don’t believe me?”

  Did I? I didn’t want to, but I remembered one particular exchange and the way it had felt when he’d touched my leg… Fire and flame.

  “Look at his face,” Buquet ordered. “His real face, and you’ll see I’m right. Do it before it’s too late for you.”

  I shook my head, unable to find a clear thought as I pushed, “Why are you warning me? My presence is the reason you were hurt and why you have more threats on your head.”

  “As I said, I don’t like to see pretty things destroyed for no good reason. He wants you. He isn’t going to stop until he has you. If I were you, I’d take the warning for what it is and get out before that happens.”

  Buquet took another swig from his flask before deciding, “I’ll say no more. It’s your funeral and an eternity in hellfire if you refuse to listen. At least my conscience will be clear for trying.” He was about to leave but added lowly, “I’ve heard the music, mademoiselle. He plays like an angel of God, isn’t that so? But the devil was an angel once, too. Don’t forget that.”

  And with such ill-omened overtones, he hobbled out of the room and left me with torturous musings that made my heart hurt with their pinch.

  The devil… I already had suspicions about the crimes Erik claimed he did not commit, but…the devil. That was quite an accusation. I didn’t want to put a single thought to it, but…I recalled the delicious way his music made me feel. Such exquisite sensation! And I would willingly fall to damnation in its spell. It was the perfect tool to claim my soul because I wanted its consummation.

  If Erik were indeed the devil incarnate, I didn’t care as much as I knew I should. Sense said to get proof and then make a choice. But…what proof existed except what lay concealed in a mask? …Perhaps there was where my answer lay.

  I carried on through the rest of rehearsal without a mind attached, but even when Madame Giry shouted at my lack of focus, I didn’t fix the problem. I couldn’t care about social humiliation with my soul on the line and potentially a step from hell’s door. That seemed to hold more concern and eternal consequence than fumbling Act Three’s routine!

  When my lesson time arrived, I was yet a mess. I didn’t know what I was going to do, having devised no possible solution in my contemplation. My meditation kept coming back to one point: that if an answer existed beneath the mask, I had to see and know. I never pondered what I would uncover except for a hope that it wasn’t the devil. Would I even know the devil if I came face to face with him? Perhaps I’d find something ethereally beautiful and not realize what I saw was as much an illusion as his music…

  My head twisted in a plethora of unanswered questions, and although Erik must have sensed my seeming insanity, as we began our lesson time, he made no mention of it. Unsurprising. He probably pinned it on my awful dancing and constant chastisement all afternoon. That made sense in reason’s realm because why would I ever consider that I was taking music lessons with Lucifer himself? That was absurd!

  Singing felt tedious when I kept wondering if perhaps I was a terrible singer and the devil was only humoring me because he wanted my soul. For all I knew, I could have no talent whatsoever. I’d clung to his assessments as fact without real proof. I had nothing,
but…every time I met Erik’s mismatched stare and garnered hints of his affection, I lost momentum and Buquet’s warnings grew meaningless. I knew Erik, the important facets anyway, and everything else shouldn’t matter. …Why did it matter?

  “Christine,” he called with a sharp huff, “that’s the third time you missed that entrance.”

  “I’m sorry,” I beseeched and meant it. “I’m just…tired, I suppose.”

  What a pathetic excuse! I didn’t believe myself and didn’t think he would either, not when to him, being a musician came first and foremost. But…he didn’t leap to temper or snap back at me. …Perhaps that should have been a clue that something was unsettled, but I was so consumed in my own mind’s traumas that I shrugged intuition off and rejected any musing that was not selfish.

  “Will you just…play something for me, ange?” I begged, desperate for his music with a hunger I’d never known before. I ached for something beautiful, for the emotions he always gave in melodies, craving to my soul with a hope that I’d forget everything else when music took over.

  He paused and regarded me a long moment, and I thought I saw sadness in those eyes and a despair I had no explanation for. But with a barely audible sigh, he conceded, and his hands created all the beauty I could ever require, spanning the keys and grazing with a delicate touch.

  This was tender and fragile, a melody that evolved out of itself and wove its arms about my body as if to insist he longed to do the same. To comfort my fluctuating thoughts and smooth them to nonexistent with an embrace as his enticement. And as much as something inside craved his touch with a raw ferocity that ignited fear, I couldn’t succumb to it. Not until I knew the truth…

  I approached in tentative tiptoes, coming to the piano’s siren call as I always did. It was the connective tissue between our hearts and solidified more fibers in its consuming melodies. This time I denied surrender and crept near, gazing at the graceful motion of his hands and every tender caress he granted a cold instrument in unacceptable envy. I shouldn’t want the devil’s touch, but though it bit in fire and flame, it stirred me to the depths of my being. I was already a victim falling to temptation, and even as I wanted answers, I knew they would change nothing if music were still his weapon of choice. I’d always falter and give in.

  I came to stand behind him, and my hands tingled as I rested palms atop his shoulders, feeling him tense at my given touch when such a thing was so rare. A touch. I was about to deceive him with a touch and make something he’d consider a blessing into a manipulation.

  I felt his body rise and fall with the music and an inhalation that savored this second…the second before I ruined it all.

  Without a thought, my hand rose and went for his mask, and just as abrupt, music stopped, and his fierce grip had my wrist before my fingers ever found manmade material. I gave a small cry and cringed as all emotion I’d known seemed to spiral like a hurricane within me and lock in the one place he had me. His fingertips dug into the smooth skin of my wrist and bruised as I yanked and tried futilely to get free.

  “I expect such merciless betrayal from everyone else in this abomination of a world, but not you. Not you,” he hissed, leaping up from the piano bench and jerking me with him to center-stage as his fiery gaze penetrated to my soul.

  “I…I’m sorry,” I whimpered, recoiling as far as I could as he twisted my wrist painfully in his grasp.

  “You weren’t supposed to fall to curiosity and doubt. You were supposed to be stronger than that, to care about your actions and their consequences. You were supposed to have a heart, Christine!”

  His enraged insults drove like daggers into my flesh and pierced holes into my veins. What had I done? “Erik, please. I just…I wanted to see your face. Have I not earned such trust?”

  “No!” he shouted and spat back my word. “Trust? Trust is not seeing the horror beneath the mask. It is leaving me with my dignity and free will to show you in my own time. But you…you let that bastard Buquet tarnish every good moment between us with his vile lies.”

  “How…how did you know about that?” My heart halted and dropped in my chest. So he’d known all along… As I’d stood right in front of him, agonizing and debating a choice I knew would leave damage behind, he’d let me suffer instead of calling attention to a clandestine encounter. He knew, …and he also concluded that I would fail. When he needed my loyalty most, I’d proven his lingering doubts. …I had failed.

  Tears filled my eyes and poured in rivers down my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I begged as if for my life, no longer fighting against his ferocious hold, and as he tightened until my fingers went numb, I welcomed the pain. It was superficial; it would fade and heal, but the pain I’d caused both our hearts would linger in scars forever. I’d broken us.

  “Foolish, foolish girl,” he spat coldly. “So quick to cast the first stone! The devil, Christine? Am I the devil to you? Have I ever treated you with evil or malice? Ever given you reason to condemn me? Ah yes, I pushed Buquet out of the rafters. I defended your honor and innocence with violence, and therefore I must be Satan on earth!”

  Dragging me close by my held arm, he twisted it behind my back and pressed its capture to the curve of my spine. “Tell me, what did you hope to find beneath the mask? A demon face? A monster? A lie and perfection instead? How inconsiderate of you! To choose to steer our fate without ever giving my opinion pause. I cannot refuse and tell you no if you steal my mask away without permission granted. I can only react after the fact. Do you have any idea how often that has been the case in my pitiful life? I am humanity’s victim, a monster shaped by its cruelty and spite, but you weren’t supposed to know that. You were supposed to find that there was more to my being than a face. Selfish girl! You nearly destroyed everything!”

  Anger then pain and back again, and I watched feelings fluctuate, and it didn’t matter that a mask stood in the way to full depictions. I heard in his voice, and I felt in his grip. There was danger looming about his shape, that powerful threat that made my knees waver beneath my weight. I had no idea how far he would take retaliation, and I was afraid.

  “Erik,” I stammered and sought words, any words to appease, “you are not the devil. I know you would never hurt me.”

  With a fierce growl, he released my arm, and backing necessary steps away, he snapped, “You know nothing, Christine! You proved it tonight. Not my heart, not my soul, certainly not! Well…perhaps it will give my character some credit to admit that I’ve never entertained this sort of a relationship with anyone. I talk to no one. I humor no one. I certainly do not care for anyone. …Only you.” The rage hadn’t calmed, but his heart shone through greater as he declared, “But then again perhaps my word is worthless. If you could denounce everything I ever said to you and let Buquet’s abominable explanations mean more, then I am fooling myself and giving you more to doubt and mistrust, aren’t I? Dear God, I am so ignorant when it comes to you. I never thought you would act, simple as that. Perhaps because in your presence, I forget what I am.” A bitter laugh crossed his lips. “Fool! I forget that I wear a mask!” His sarcasm drew him back toward anger, and he suddenly shouted, “How dare I? How dare I see myself as just a man in your presence? I should be damned for that alone! But you never judged the mask, and it was easy to consider us equals. I should have known better.”

  Shame heated my cheeks, and as I lowered my head, I fixated on the fall of my tears as they broke free and struck my tulle skirt. It reminded me of a night in the snow as snowflakes had done the same. That night, I’d learned both emotions that humbled me and emotions that terrified me, but as I now considered I might know neither ever again, I cursed my naïveté and silently prayed for forgiveness.

  “I just…wanted to see,” I softly revealed because at curiosity’s core, everything was simple and uncomplicated.

  “Christine…”

  He spoke my name with such desolation and yet such passion, and as I dared to lift my eyes and blink the blinding pool o
f tears away, I saw a mirror of my agony reflected back. To my surprise, he brought one hand to his mask, slow and quivering, and caught its edge at his jaw line. Lifting it ever so slightly, he exposed only his mouth, and I felt pain, raw and violent, attack my inner core.

  “Oh…” It was the sigh of my deflated lungs as my eyes trailed anatomy so distorted that one could not even reason it a mouth, not when considered against its normal-looking counterpart. His upper lip swelled grotesquely above the bottom one, malformed and uneven in spots as if someone took thumbs and indented their shapes on the way up an abnormal arch.

  My mind kept insisting it wasn’t real. No, no, how could a voice so angelic and beautiful have such a demented casing? That seemed…ludicrous. The vessel containing it should be as exquisite as its brilliant timbre and not…ugly.

  He showed me no more than his mouth, and as tears filled a mismatched stare always upon me, he jerked the mask back in place with fiercely shaking hands and ducked away from my continued observation.

  “Who…did that to you?” I asked, shaking a stunned head too full of abnormalities to find reality.

  “God.”

  God works in mysterious ways… The sentiment came back to haunt me with its sudden validity. It seemed the opposite of a blessing and utterly unfair.

  “I…have to go.” Erik abruptly made the decision, still not casting me a single look as he stalked toward the edge of the stage.

  No… Never contemplating, I let impulse drive me and hurried after him, wrapping claiming arms about him and hugging my body to his back as he halted and shuddered in my embrace.

  “No, no,” I whimpered amidst tears that I buried against his suit jacket, pressing my forehead to his spine and holding him as if I couldn’t let go. Sense insisted this was a product of compassion and a form of penance, seeking forgiveness for my earlier behavior, but…to feel him as he shivered and trembled, to inhale his scent and mold myself to his back as if I couldn’t be close enough to satisfy some internal hunger, those details made the moment mean so much more.