Husband and Wife

It had nearly killed her. Sometimes she wished he would simply snap her neck and be done, sometimes she wished God would take her peacefully in her sleep, and still sometimes she dreamed of taking her own life.

Yet that was long ago. Nearly five months, if she had counted the scratches on the back of her wardrobe correctly. And she never missed a day. Every night before she finally retired she grabbed a small hair pin, pushed aside the heavy dresses, and quickly gave a small, neat scratch, adding to the copious others. Then she would kneel and say her prayers, asking God to bring Raoul back to her or to take her spirit while she slept. And yet, now she was not praying as fervently. It seemed to become part of her routine – she did not think about the words she was saying; they simply came out.

If she was forced to be perfectly honest, it was not torture like she had imagined. As his wife, she was not pressed for physical intimacy. In fact, he had not brought it up once. That was something she prayed about ardently each night. She thanked God for his compassion for her ignorant and childish mind. Then she slid into bed, sighing and closing her eyes, waiting...

There was a soft knock on the door. "Christine?"

"Yes, Erik?" she replied obediently. It was the same every night.

"Have you said your prayers?"

"Yes, Erik." She vaguely wondered if he said his prayers before he fell asleep; if he ever fell asleep at all, that is.

"Is there anything you might need?" he continued.

"No, Erik. Goodnight."

"Sleep well." After hearing his footsteps fade, she rolled over into her customary position, closed her eyes, and fell into a light sleep. It was never deep and heavy, since she was rarely ever extremely tired. He never enjoyed exerting her, and the most physical trying thing she had to do during the day was sing. Even after all that they had been through, he continued her voice lessons, still finding things wrong with her tone, her breathing, and the numerous other things required while singing. However, he would often say,

"How can I improve perfection?"

At which she would give a pleasant blush and thank him for the compliment. Once she dared to timidly ask him, "Erik, will I ever sing onstage again?"

He contemplated her for a moment before slowly replying, "Yes, I should think so."

Joy burst within her chest and she could hardly refrain herself from giving a slight cry of delight. Instead she gave a small curtsey and thanked him earnestly. It was not just the fact that she would see people; singing onstage was an unspeakable pleasure to her and she had sorely missed it.

"I have written to the managers," he informed her – the very next day, in fact. "They are currently in the middle of La Juive, but when that is finished you have confirmed the next lead in La traviata. We must prepare you at once."

They began that very day. He stretched her farther than he had ever before, and that night she was actually tired. It grew harder every day. He demanded absolute perfection, and once she burst into anguished tears, passionately claiming that she would never be as good as he wished her to be. Kneeling by her and pulling out the handkerchief he only carried around for her sake, he said comfortingly,

"Hush now, Christine. Dry your eyes – there's a good girl. You have done a beautiful job today, and have reached my expectations too many times to name. I...I simply want you to do well when you are finally onstage again."

She hiccoughed into the handkerchief a few times, the cloth damp and cold from her tears and the temperature. A few minutes more she gave one final cough and handed it back to him.

"There we are, child. Shall we try again?"

She was in no mood to sing but nodded, simply to try to please him. It did. He gave her an easy, gentle song, one that she would sing out of pleasure instead of force, and she took it gratefully. When she was done, he looked at her and felt his breath catch in his throat. She never looked as radiant as she did then while she sang. The color of pink roses settled on her cheeks, her sapphire eyes sparkled with delight, and her sweet coral lips moved in time with his music. Giving his head a small shake, he cleared his throat uncomfortably and said that they were done for the day. That night she gave him a rare treat: he was allowed to touch her sleeve lightly to brush off some thread. Normally she would have shied away and done it herself, but this time she simply looked at him and smiled.

"Thank you," she said shyly, then quit the room to ready herself for bed.

The feeling of her silken dress still burned beneath his fingers that night.

To both of their horror, the opening night of La traviata closed in around them, unbidden and without any preliminaries whatsoever. She was now singing close to five hours a day and slept exhaustedly, finding it hard to rise in the morning. He was pushing her harder and further, yet as she rose to meet his demands again and again, she found she was enjoying the challenge. He, too, seemed to enjoy seeing her excel beyond his most feral dreams. Feelings of discontentedness and desire seemed to have washed away from him entirely – for the time being.

The night before the performance enclosed them. The two sat stiffly and did nothing but watch her dinner grow cold on the plate. Finally she sighed and after a few more scales, he did something completely unexpected.

"Now, Christine, would you like to go for a small walk?"

The question was so that it took her a moment to process it. When she finally realized what he was saying, she felt faint.

"Outside?"

"Naturally," he replied patiently, and she nodded quickly. After she changed and they silently walked up the long and dreary passages, she was breathing in fresh, clean air. Inhaling deeply, she let it fill her lungs and head, the clear, crispness of the sky rejuvenating her.

"Do not worry, Christine," he said gently, and she could hear a small tone of amusement in his voice. "The air will still be here when you take your next breath."

A laugh – a real, full laugh – escaped her, and it took both of them by complete surprise. He stopped and gazed at her curiously as she blushed.

"Perhaps this air is doing something to you."

He was graced with another pretty smile and felt his heart skip a beat. Anything in his possession would he gladly give to see her smile daily, to catch a glimpse of her straight white teeth and slick pink tongue. Suddenly finding his mouth quite dry, he cursed himself inwardly and trailed behind while his darling wife skipped ahead of him, taking in the last few rays of light like a warm drink. He decided to take her out more often if this was the reaction. Of course, he had always planned to take her outside. Residing in his desk drawers was the sketching of his dream house. That was what it was, really, but he knew that he could make some of it possible, such as the little courtyard in the backyard, and the wide, sweeping balcony. The master bedroom, on the other hand...

Quickly and furiously pushing the thought out of his mind, he fondly watched her dance ahead before running back to his side, exclaiming about the funny-looking bush or the last songs the birds were singing for the day. And it then hit him, harder than any blow in his whole life: the young woman was really a child, and he, he! who could have very well passed for her father, was thinking of a joint bed! He turned away from her smiling mouth sullenly and suggested that they return. Trying to ignore her face turn to displeasure, he said sternly:

"You have a performance to-morrow night, Madame, so I suspect that a good night's rest is the thing that is best for you. Now none of that!"

For she had stuck out her bottom lip and given him the most heartbreaking look she could muster. It took every ounce of self-restraint not to give her her heart's desire, and yet he knew that she would profit most from sleep, so he led her back to the Rue Scribe and together they descended into his queer, gloomy house by the lake. Carefully she took off her dress, hung it in the wardrobe, and pulled on her nightdress, followed by her dressing gown. She then sat at her vanity to fret.

Once again, if she was being completely honest with herself, she did want to please him. Everything in her present life revolved around him. She was with him all day and mere feet separated them at night. Desperate for human compassion and approval, she worked hard to earn his acceptance and love. But as soon as this thought crossed her mind, it startled her beyond reason. She had just admitted to herself that she wanted his love. Swallowing harshly and hurting her already tender throat, she picked up her hairbrush with trembling hands and attempted to run it through her thick golden hair, yet her small white fingers were shaking so badly she could barely grip the handle. Her nervous anxiety for the night approaching and the thought of her desiring him to love her was all too much.

To make her situation worse, he knocked on the door. "Christine, may I speak to you about to-morrow?"

Clutching her dressing gown tighter around her shivering frame, she quietly walked over and opened the door. Then, without so much as glancing at him, she returned to her vanity, trying vainly to give herself an air of nonchalance and calm. He stepped in cautiously, expecting her to order him out. As it was, she simply picked up her hairbrush, and then promptly dropped it. Bending to pick it up, she swung her hair in front of her face to try to hide her burning cheeks. He, however, pretended not to notice and waited until she was quite settled to begin.

"I simply want to say, Christine, that you will do marvelously to-morrow. You have worked very hard..."

He continued in this manner for some time, though she would not spare him a word. She was trying to calm her hands to pick up her brush. How she longed to feel it through her hair! Somehow it always managed to calm her. Giving a frustrated sigh, she tried again.

"Christine!"

Her name snapped through the air like a whip and she started, looking into her mirror at his angry eyes.

"Were you listening to anything I said? You know I do not lavish praise that often and now you are not even paying attention to me."

"Oh, I am sorry, Erik," she moaned, placing her head in her hands. "I wish to brush my hair, but I cannot stop shaking!" A thought then occurred to her, and, though she dismissed it as mad, it came tumbling out of her unwilling lips. "Will you do it?"

She could practically feel him tense. A very prominent silence followed her question, and she regretted saying it, yet was highly unable to now say anything else. He took an unstable step forward, then stiffened.

"You..." he began hoarsely. "You want me to...?"

Her little mouth opened a few times before she finally whispered, "Yes."

It seemed to take years. One heavy foot fell, then another, then another. It actually frightened her a bit, the way he walked so slowly and deliberately, traveling farther and farther into area that was forbidden to him – his wife's bedroom. When he reached her side he stopped and gazed down at her, yet she would not meet his gaze, instead choosing to stare at the handle of her drawer that held her jewelry. Long, gloved fingers reached around and picked up the brush; she repressed a shiver.

"Eri – "

"Chris – "

They had burst out at the same time and quickly looked away, heartily abashed. To try to stifle the awkwardness, she turned and tossed her hair behind her shoulder, signifying her readiness for him to begin. Clumsily adjusting the hairbrush in his hand, he set it lightly on top of her golden head, waiting expectantly for her to scream at him. Yet she did nothing. She simply sat and let him run the brush awkwardly down her long hair. As the minutes crept by, he became accustomed to the hairbrush and began to actually think about whose hair he was combing. Glancing nervously into the mirror, he saw, with inexplicable shock, that her eyes were closed and a small, content smile was on her face. As he continued he grew even more daring; he used his other hand, running it through her lovely sheets after the brush, feeling the silky threads slide beneath his fingers. A small, satisfied sigh reached his ears and, far from disquieting him, it encouraged him. For once in his miserable life, a woman was actually enjoying the feel of his fingers. A small bubble burst into his chest, filled with something that he had rarely felt before – hope. On his lips grew a small smile to match his wife's and he was rewarded with another sigh.

"Thank you, Erik. This does relax me so."

The minutes trickled by too quickly and the comfortable silence wrapped over them like a warm blanket. Suddenly, however, a small gasp came from her mouth; the comb had become snagged on a small knot in her hair. He fell to his knees with a loud cry.

"Forgive me!" he begged. "Forgive me, it was unintentional!"

To his further astonishment that night, she was laughing. "Stand up, Erik. It is quite all right; that happens all the time."

He would not rise and continued to vehemently apologize, while she persisted. "Really, Erik, I'm quite all right, please, it's fine."

Finally, after many promises that she was perfectly all right and felt nothing he rose. She turned back on her stool and waited patiently while he marveled at the fact that she still wanted to feel his fingers after he had harmed her. It began much the same way; the cautious, light brushing, then followed by the firmer strokes, and then finally she was rewarded with his slender, cool hands running through her long hair. He slowly slid back into his state of peace and was able to touch her tresses without trembling. Soon, however, he could not help but notice that she was beginning to drowse and that yawns were coming out of her little lips.

"Time for sleep, Christine," he said softly, setting the brush, with great reluctance, onto the vanity. She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand and stood shakily before turning to face him. With a small leap of his heart, he gazed into her clear-blue eyes and could do nothing but watch with awe and wonder as she took his hand and...pressed it to her lips. A velvety thanks reached his ears, but it did not process through his mind. Her little pink lips had just pressed themselves to the palm of his hand.

"Christine," he managed to choke out. "You are...a magnificent, alluring goddess."

A pleasant blush rose on her cheeks as he contemplated her. This girl had so much more than simply pulchritudinous; she possessed inner grace as well and he, repulsive, loathsome old man, had felt her feathery, soft lips on him. It all seemed too much and he staggered out of the room without another glance at her.

She watched him go, quite aware of how her kiss had dislodged him. Never mind that now, however. Wreathed in a soft smile, she rid herself of the dressing gown, lightly touched the hairbrush, and crawled into the soft sheets. Tomorrow would be full of excitement. She could hear him distractedly shuffling over papers and knew he was deciding on exercises for tomorrow. As she said her prayers, she murmured a wish to please him with her performance and a desire for the two of them to be happy. Then she waited patiently and was soon rewarded; a strained knock sounded around the room.

"Christine?"

"Yes, Erik?"

For once, there was a pause. She sat up a little, now intrigued by this change.

"How – how are you feeling, my darling?"

There was a small stir in her stomach as she realized that she was his darling. However, she responded quickly, "Anxious."

"You should not be so. I know you will do magnificently."

"Yes, Erik. I will because you will be with me."

There was a startled silence as the two realized what had just been exchanged. She blushed brightly, thankful for the door and the darkness that separated them.

"Goodnight," he stuttered inelegantly. She then heard him quickly walk away and all was silent. However, a feeling of peace had settled over her. She knew all would be well as long as he was with her. To-morrow, they would ascend the long walk together. She would perform as Violetta. The two of them would then walk back down together – as husband and wife.

Fin