Voice Of A Troubled Angel

Chapter Twelve: Faces in the Shadows

    Christiana could see nothing except the darkness of her mind. The darkness of the night, an eternal night that settled over her. Shapes moved in the shadows, shadowed faces gazed worried over her, the same face repititiously. She was floating on something cool and soft. Other somethings were caressing her, a weight was being lifted from her.
    Through the start of the night she hovered in a dream world. She felt nothing and saw nothing. Gradually her black visions became dotted red, then blotted until blood red splotches stood out in the night. She writhed in pain as white hot irons gorged on her flesh. She screamed. At long last, she sank into real sleep, unaware if how she was tormenting the man in the house in the hill as he watched her terrors and pain.

   Christiana sighed and her fingers flattened themselves on the bed she was lying in. The sheets were soft and silky. Cool against her burning skin. Ahe breathed in and out slowly, feeling a discomfort nudging her side, an unexplained tightness. But that tightness was soon explained as her memories returned to her. She had fallen in the middle of a snowy forest clearing in her heavy white Christine Daaé costume. Why was she in a bed? It certainly wasn't a hospital bed either, for a hospital would never have silk sheets.

   She was curious to find out about her surroundings, but did she really want to open her eyes? Did she want to know where she was? Yes, that would be helpful.

  Christiana's green eyes flickered open. The sheets on the bed were black, and the walls of the room were a creamy dark blue. A blueish black? She couldn't name the color and had never seen such a shade or variation of it. There was a sturdy, elegantly engraved wooden dresser in one corner, a glass desk in another corner, and a cracked mirror leaning against a wall. Christiana looked down at what she was wearing, suddenly concerned. Her bloody dress was gone, and in it's place was a man's black button down. It reached a little lower than mid thigh, which she was gratefule for. Her undergarments were still in place... but someone had removed her dress. She blushed at the thought of anyone but a woman removing her clothes. She was a prude, if nothing else.

   She sat up slowly, wincing at the sharp pain in her side. She looked at the mirror and lifted the shirt to find a row of nice, even stitches. How pleasant.

   Christiana stood, gingerly testing her legs and weight. She could walk.

   She noticed a pair of pants - a man's pants  - sitting neatly folded on the dresser. They were black. The only person she knew who wore that much black... oh no. She left them there, not sure she wanted to bend anyway to put them on.

  She left the room and began taking note of the house.

    It was large and many of the walls were glass. A few broken things lay shattered on the ground, but Christiana, as she was barefoot, made sure to step around them.

    Whoever owned this house certainly was rich. And musical. She couldn't remember the last time she had seen so much sheet music, and it was all just lying around, in random stacks, some towering up to three feet tall. The house was quite a sight and such a mix of contradictions. It was cozy and warm, yet distant and lonely. Probably because everything else mostly showed a lack of use. The rooms she came across were clean but untouched, and nothing was out of place, except for the broken vases or statues, or picture frames on the ground, which oddly enough did not have pictures in them, nor paintings.

   But the owner did have expensive taste. Or an eye for extremely precise replicas.

   Christiana heard a small thud, the sound of something being dropped, followed by a hushed, seductive curse coming from the next room. She knew but one person who could speak so softly and insert such danger into the softness.

   She entered a kitchen and found Erik Stanton cleaning up a broken plate off the marble counter tops.

   "Christiana," he said when he saw her. A bit dramatically, he dropped the shattered pieces, making more of a mess, and rushed over to her.

  She held in a laugh. Was everything the man did done with drama and sardonically depressed enthusiasm?

  "Hello Erik," she stated, unsure of what to say.

   "You shouldn't be walking!" He huffed, dragging her - rather quickly for an injured person to be dragged - to a barstool and helped her sit down on it.

  She thought it a bit much, but was pleased with the length of his shirt again, as it covered her legs,

  Erik, really, was trying his best to keep his eyes on her face. Even if black was such a beautiful color on her pale skin. And his heart was trying to beat up his ribcage and sternum. And possibly his lungs. And her legs were so - stop.

  "Um... I'm not sure what happened last night, but thank you. So much. I am so sorry to be such a bother. First I run into the street, and you drive me home then you do this," she randomly gestured.

   "I want to help you, and you will never be a bother to me." I can't let you go now that I've seen you again and you've fallen into my hands, is what I mean, Erik thought to himself. "I care about you a lot. May  ask though, if you knew who stabbed you?" He moved behind the counter and began tidying up the broken dish again. "Pardon the mess, as well, as I was attempting to make you breakfast."

   "Oh no, you don't have to do that. Thank you for helping me though... and uh... my mother."

  "What?" He stare at her.

  "My mother stabbed me."

   For the third time that day, the same dish shattered.

  "Well it is not that plate's day," Christiana laughed.

   Erik stared at her like he crazy. Well maybe she was. His blood had been boiling and he had been ready a second ago to draw Mrs. Dame's blood, he had wanted to feel the thickness and heavyness of it on his hands... and now he found himself simply questioning the sanity of his angel. He was pretty crazy, but the fact she so calmly delivered the statement of her mother's harm was unimaginable.

   Something occured to him. "You don't think she was right to injure you?"

  Christiana looked down. "No, but -"

  "No buts! You're mother tried to kill you!"

   Christiana looked up, fearful at his harsh tone. He had just yelled at her.

   "Maybe I should go."

   "No. You will stay here until you are healed. I'm sorry for impersonating a banshee, I shouldn't have yelled, but Christiana, it is not right for anyone to hurt anyone else." Yes, Erik killed before. But he had been a hypocrite before too and felt no guilt in telling her this.

  Christiana  didn't know what yo think. If he forcefully wanted to keep her there... maybe he didn't want to know.

  "If it's not an inconvenience..."

  "It's not. And I won't have you going back to her again."

   "Thank you, Erik."

   "Anything for you Christiana."

   He had enough of trying to not stare at her legs. "I left pants for you on the dresser. Did you see them or wish for something else? I ordered some clothes last night and they should be here soon."

   Because there was nothing creepy about that. Even if there was, both of them were very abnormal, so they wouldn't have caught it.

   Christiana just replied, "Thank you."

    So. Sorry. To. My. Readers. I know it's weird, hope you like it. Anything you'd like to see happen next?

  Al