What his senses claim still hold no reality to him; his memories must be bleeding into each other, corroding away little by little. When he thinks his vision may be beginning to clear, he watches one of Cohen's men as his head suddenly unfurls in an instant and he drops boneless to the ground. With no context, and on the tails of such vindictive electrocution, his mind struggles to follow exactly what's happening. He's just... down, all of the sudden. Twitching and bleeding and as close to death as you get down here, without resorting to vivisection or explosives. The foggy philosophical thoughts drift listlessly across his brain; what does death even mean, anymore? Broken pieces all eventually come back as one, like water droplets drawn together by thier surface tension.
But what about the delicate electrical-chemical subtles of the brain? If such a seat of knowledge and personally is brutalized enough, will it be able to reform exactly the same way? Or will something, no matter how minutely small, be different? Erik recalls his arrival to Hell vividly, to this day; the agonizing procedure he'd had to endure to undo the damage his death had left upon his new physical form, which continued to reflect himself upon his demise. Of course nothing could be done about his face, but the rest of him was recovered, more or less. Not everyone is so lucky; some are left scarred, or otherwise disfigured by the blows that caused thier death. Some souls are never quite the same again.
And it is this thought that forms into an anchor to drag him towards urgent reality.
But what is he even seeing? They seem like kaleidoscope-twisted memories of himself, only too little about them is familiar. His vision is only mercifully blurry for so long; it's... she's...
Christine...
Only, it cannot be! Yes, he understands that she had changed much after his death (was changed so much by his death) and further down the rabbit hole she fell upon deciding to descend into Hell for what surely seemed a madwoman's errand. But this...
How can this be real? It's not legitimate murder, he frantically reminds himself, but does that truly matter, anymore?
There is a brief half moment when Cohen's red-smeared lips curl into a particularly rotten grin. In the space of a single blink, a unnatural ripple flows through the air, and suddenly Cohen is gone. In his place there is only tiny bits of eerily floating flesh and a mist of blood left thickening the air. The same ripple and swirl of red fog signals where Cohen will be the second before he appears--
-- standing with a flourish upon the top of Erik's cage.
"Who is this, now? Another bird of prey to join in our dance? Another winged creature drawn so helplessly to the fire?" Cohen's slender bony fingers drift up and remove his mask in a jerking unsteady motion. His skin is saggy and sunken around his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks, and run through with a strange lumpy texture that makes him look deathly ill. His eerily narrow and far apart eyes are absolutely caked around the edges in ash-black mascara, and his black hair is oiled down against his skull.
Suddenly, the bunny-obsessed lunatic tips his head downwards and taps a foot on the top of the cage, trying to get Erik's attention.
"A secret protege, galloping in to save the day? Why don't you thank her Erik, don't be a rude little rube." The golden pocket-watch still sways on its chain, subtly exuding that hungering greedy magic.
And of course, Erik knows he cannot speak, but it doesn't stop him from trying.
"Chri--" he can't manage a single syllable, the needling pain in this throat increasing brutally; so much heartache, relief and horror have been vented by that single sound. Erik forces himself to stand by grasping the bars, sharp-edged shoulders tightening in tension as he stares at her with blinding guilt, terror, and absolute awe. He tries to tell her so much without words, finally unable to brace the shaking from his hands. Is he trembling, or quaking with rage? His gaze is a chaotic mix of too many things-- it's overwhelming and he knows he's drowning in the cold suffocating truth he can no longer ignore.
This is his Christine.
The tiny grain of golden pride he feels is more than enough to make him sick to his stomach, more than enough to miss the mindlessness of the electricity. Physical pain could not be nearly so unbearable as this.
Erik is momentarily dislodged from his whirlpool of dread by something light but solid landing with a 'thunk!' upon his head. Bewildered, he glances down and sees it on the floor, looking up with empty eyes and mocking him:
The Rabbit Mask.
"For you sanity," Cohen says graciously, his lunatic laughter bouncing off the decaying walls as he vanishes just in time to avoid being hit by the body that suddenly plummets from above. It lands with an obnoxious clash and a few rosey splashes of red create abstract art upon the pallid vien-ridden skin of Erik's face.
He doesn't even look up; he just keeps staring at Christine, pleading with her with his eyes.
Your icon looks like Liz I can't are they sisters or something? IT'S DELIGHTFUL
But what about the delicate electrical-chemical subtles of the brain? If such a seat of knowledge and personally is brutalized enough, will it be able to reform exactly the same way? Or will something, no matter how minutely small, be different? Erik recalls his arrival to Hell vividly, to this day; the agonizing procedure he'd had to endure to undo the damage his death had left upon his new physical form, which continued to reflect himself upon his demise. Of course nothing could be done about his face, but the rest of him was recovered, more or less. Not everyone is so lucky; some are left scarred, or otherwise disfigured by the blows that caused thier death. Some souls are never quite the same again.
And it is this thought that forms into an anchor to drag him towards urgent reality.
But what is he even seeing? They seem like kaleidoscope-twisted memories of himself, only too little about them is familiar. His vision is only mercifully blurry for so long; it's... she's...
Christine...
Only, it cannot be! Yes, he understands that she had changed much after his death (was changed so much by his death) and further down the rabbit hole she fell upon deciding to descend into Hell for what surely seemed a madwoman's errand. But this...
How can this be real? It's not legitimate murder, he frantically reminds himself, but does that truly matter, anymore?
There is a brief half moment when Cohen's red-smeared lips curl into a particularly rotten grin. In the space of a single blink, a unnatural ripple flows through the air, and suddenly Cohen is gone. In his place there is only tiny bits of eerily floating flesh and a mist of blood left thickening the air. The same ripple and swirl of red fog signals where Cohen will be the second before he appears--
-- standing with a flourish upon the top of Erik's cage.
"Who is this, now? Another bird of prey to join in our dance? Another winged creature drawn so helplessly to the fire?" Cohen's slender bony fingers drift up and remove his mask in a jerking unsteady motion. His skin is saggy and sunken around his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks, and run through with a strange lumpy texture that makes him look deathly ill. His eerily narrow and far apart eyes are absolutely caked around the edges in ash-black mascara, and his black hair is oiled down against his skull.
Suddenly, the bunny-obsessed lunatic tips his head downwards and taps a foot on the top of the cage, trying to get Erik's attention.
"A secret protege, galloping in to save the day? Why don't you thank her Erik, don't be a rude little rube." The golden pocket-watch still sways on its chain, subtly exuding that hungering greedy magic.
And of course, Erik knows he cannot speak, but it doesn't stop him from trying.
"Chri--" he can't manage a single syllable, the needling pain in this throat increasing brutally; so much heartache, relief and horror have been vented by that single sound. Erik forces himself to stand by grasping the bars, sharp-edged shoulders tightening in tension as he stares at her with blinding guilt, terror, and absolute awe. He tries to tell her so much without words, finally unable to brace the shaking from his hands. Is he trembling, or quaking with rage? His gaze is a chaotic mix of too many things-- it's overwhelming and he knows he's drowning in the cold suffocating truth he can no longer ignore.
This is his Christine.
The tiny grain of golden pride he feels is more than enough to make him sick to his stomach, more than enough to miss the mindlessness of the electricity. Physical pain could not be nearly so unbearable as this.
Erik is momentarily dislodged from his whirlpool of dread by something light but solid landing with a 'thunk!' upon his head. Bewildered, he glances down and sees it on the floor, looking up with empty eyes and mocking him:
The Rabbit Mask.
"For you sanity," Cohen says graciously, his lunatic laughter bouncing off the decaying walls as he vanishes just in time to avoid being hit by the body that suddenly plummets from above. It lands with an obnoxious clash and a few rosey splashes of red create abstract art upon the pallid vien-ridden skin of Erik's face.
He doesn't even look up; he just keeps staring at Christine, pleading with her with his eyes.
Please, don't do this. Please stop!