Transcend
TRANSCEND
by
Christine Fonseca
Transcend
Christine Fonseca
Copyright 2012 Christine Fonseca.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, or by any information storage system without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN (limited edition hardback):
978-0-9851804-7-8
ISBN (paperback):
978-0-9851804-8-5
ISBN (eBook):
978-0-9851804-9-2
Compass Press books may be ordered through booksellers, Ingram, or by visiting our site and contacting us
here.
Because of the dynamic nature of the internet, any web address or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Stock imagery provided by Thinkstock. Cover design by
CP Design
.
Compass Press 3/13/2012
Dedicated to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber – two men who understood the poetic beauty and complexity of a character such as Phantom.
And to Phantom lovers everywhere – may this story continue your love for this timeless character.
Other titles by Christine Fonseca available from Compass Press:
Requiem Series:
Dies Irae
(novella prequel to Lacrimosa)
Lacrimosa
Mea Culpa
(novella)
Table of Contents
1.
“Innocence, once lost, can never be regained.
Darkness, once gazed upon, can never be lost.”
~ John Milton, Paradise Lost
Upstate New York
March, 1895
~~
I stare at the mirror, my heart pounding wildly against my ribs.
Do it. Do it now
. Raising my hands to my face, I finger the torn scraps of linen. I want to rip them off once and for all and see the horror for myself.
Wedging my finger between the layers of fabric, I gently tug. My pulse quickens as the bandages begin to loosen with every pull. The air stiffens, tightening in around me.
Time stops.
A moment pauses. And another.
The tension climbs to a feverish pitch and I swallow hard. Staring at my reflection, I give the linen one more tug.
The fabric slips, moves.
My eyes grow wide, taking in the vision—dead skin, black and hard.
“No,” I say too loud. My voice echoes off of the stone walls that surround me. “No.”
Releasing a ragged breath, I slide the bandage back over the exposed skin and close my eyes.
I’m not ready, not now. Maybe never.
I turn away from the mirror, my shame. My body crushes under the weight of my pain and torment. I pace, desperate to out run a life that could have been, settle thoughts that refuse to be contained.
So many fantasies I now question.
So many dreams I’ve all but forgotten.
A life…my life…abandoned.
I collapse onto the hard wooden chair seated at the far end of my cupboard-sized room. I have few luxuries in this purgatory that’s become my home, my writing set—paper and a nib pen—amongst them. Taking a breath to calm my nerves, I start the letter I’ve been composing in my thoughts for days, ever since Mother left me for dead.
My hand shakes, dotting the page with ink. “Damn!” I crumble the paper and add it to the growing pile of discarded attempts at my feet. I clench my jaw and start again…
My Dearest Kiera,
There are so many things I want to remember about that night. The feel of your lips on mine, the longing they held when we said goodbye, the promise of a life together with you. But, sadly, that is not what fills my thoughts.
Instead I am forced to relive the damp air, thick with fog that blanketed my skin. And the veins of mist as they hugged the ground and spiraled into smoke, choking the air from my lungs. I remember the crackle of flames when they ignited the spaces around me, turning my face to ash.
But most of all, I remember the silence. Relentless and unyielding, like the pause before a deep breath. Or the moment before sound begins. There was a time when I welcomed such solitude, desperate to create a wall against the noise that forever bombards my thoughts. But not now. Not if the price of such respite is you.
You are the barrier against the chaos of my thoughts. You chase away my nightmares and make me feel whole again. Only you. And now that the realization of all that I’ve lost bears down on me, I am left to wonder if you will ever be able to look at me again. Will you still love me?
When I left you that night, it was with plans for the future—our future. But now that fate has dealt us a twisted blow, I fear our paths are no longer intertwined. Silence is all that remains, a dark void where you should be. There is no comfort in it, no peace. It smothers all that I am, sinking its cold tendrils into my heart and I am again lost inside a deep abyss.
Part of me craves the quiet, afraid that in your absence the noise and clutter of my thoughts will grow too loud to ignore. But this silence is no friend. It condemns me, mocks me.
Without you in my life I am nothing more than an empty shell of longing. I pray that we find each other again and fulfill our promises, lest our love be shattered and I become altogether lost.
I will be strong for us and endure all that I must in order to leave this perpetual agony. All I ask is that you wait for me, as I cling to the memory of you.
Forever yours,
Ien
I choke back a sob and lay the paper on the desk, blowing the ink dry. The letter says everything I need to say, not that it matters. Kiera will never accept what I’ve become. How could she?
I lay the pen down and sigh. A lone tear streams down my face, lost in the bandages that must forever cover the monster I’ve become.
“I love you, Kiera,” I whisper as I fold the letter and place it in an envelope. “Wait for me.”
I swallow back the sob that threatens to undo me and tip the candle adorning the writing desk, allowing the wax to drip into a large puddle on the parchment. Pushing my family ring deeply into the sticky liquid, I seal away my hope.
I stand and stretch my neck, shoulders, back, desperate to release this yoke of pain I’ve worn for so long.
Too many memories are teased up by my thoughts for Kiera. Too many images from the nightmare that will never end; one I am desperate to forget.
Gas-lit streets lined with hotels and businesses.
People crowding around me as I walk home.
The smell of sulfur wafting past me.
It is that scent, sulfur mixed with ash and burning flesh, that always makes me weak. I bend over, dropping my head to the floor. The room spins, my stomach lurches.
“No,” I mumble. “No more.” But the images do not listen, repeating over and over in endless succession:
Glass exploding, shattering.
Flesh tearing from my body in chucks.
Shadows consuming my mind.
And something else. Someone lurking in the darkness, watching. Waiting.
Someone who knows secrets I mustn’t forget. Secrets I
can’t
remember…
2.
“There are some secrets
which do not permit themselves to be told.”
~Edgar Allen Poe (The Man of the Crowd)
Four Months Earlier
~
Ien’s heartbeat thrummed hard as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers, fingering the smooth loop of metal. His mind focused solely on Kiera—her fiery copper hair that hung in waves half-way down her back, her emerald-colored eyes, impossibly round and made more pure by their contrast to her alabaster skin. She was short compared to Ien, but fit perfectly into his arms. To him, nothing was more important than her. Not even his mother.
Especially not Mother.
Kiera wouldn’t be expecting this, not from
sensible
Ien. No one would.
Sensible Ien.
The phrase was foreign in his mind. Oh yes, Ien was always considered the proper sort, never willing to stray too far from the demands of his elitist family. But sensible? Prudent?
Was the music he composed, free and unabashed, proper? Or the fact that he did so in private, clearly against Mother’s wishes? Was his plan to ignore his family obligations sensible?
No, Ien Montgomery had grown wild over the past year. And asking Kiera to marry him was the epitome of
not
sensible.