Husband and Wife

Husband and Wife

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 breathing, her pitch, 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 further 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 finished, 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.