When the big hand closes around his own, the child smiles and it is definitely Charles' smile that Erik faces.
The scene shifts then, in the way dreams have of moving you from one spot to the next with a flick of the mind and no conscious awareness that it makes no sense to have been in a bedroom one moment and a corridor the next. The corridor is one Erik has walked -awake- in the house before, somewhere over on the south wing that so far Charles has not bothered to open yet. The projection is certainly that of a child's as the walls appear to be standing giants of a maze, closing in on them both.
As they walk the child is projecting his emotions with adult clarity and strength. His arm hurts and he's scared because he didn't mean to fall off the dresser but his night light had gone out and he'd been trying to turn it back on. He fell and it hurt so badly and he'd cried for an hour but no one had come. It was late and his nanny was down stairs probably asleep in her own bed, exhausted from a long day of keeping up with her strange troubled, insane, disturbing charge.
Eventually he'd cried himself out but his arm still hurt and his wrist looked so strange and he didn't know what to do so he crept out of his room to go find, Mother.
But he was scared. He shouldn't be up this late and the walls looked so big, getting taller -even for Erik's perspective- and pressing in on them both as Charles lead Erik towards the door that suddenly snapped into existence before them.
Taking his hand out of Erik's, Charles looked up at him and gave him a tremulous little smile.
I hate this part he said in that soft, child voice.
The scene swung around and the corridor dropped away, leaving them both in an opulent room, decorated with aggressive femininity. Beautiful, rich colors that should have been warm and inviting, yet there was something off about the room. It was subtle, hidden beneath the warmth thrown by the fire in the heart, the cheerful music playing on the phonographs and the soft perfume of gardenia and rose ... the stench of alcohol.
Now, Erik is left next to the door, an observer rather than an active participant, as these next events are burned in memory, rather than something Charles can manipulate.
His mother is stretched out on a chaise lounge, looking like a perfect picture, still in full make up and her hair, a shade lighter than her son's, perfectly coiffed. Her eyes are closed, expression dreamy as her toes tap in time with the music.
"Mother?" Charles' voice is small, hopeful as he approaches her, though he stops exactly four feet away, not an inch closer, as if he's been schooled not to rush up to his mother. "Mother, I've..."
"Hmmm?" The noise is almost a sigh and she doesn't open her eyes but her lips twitch. "Charles, what are you doing awake?"
"Mother, I fell..."
"Charles, go back to sleep, it's late."
"But Mother, please..."
"Charles," her voice doesn't raise but there is an icy firmness to it and her eyes never open to look at him. "I'm not going to tell you again."
1/2
The scene shifts then, in the way dreams have of moving you from one spot to the next with a flick of the mind and no conscious awareness that it makes no sense to have been in a bedroom one moment and a corridor the next. The corridor is one Erik has walked -awake- in the house before, somewhere over on the south wing that so far Charles has not bothered to open yet. The projection is certainly that of a child's as the walls appear to be standing giants of a maze, closing in on them both.
As they walk the child is projecting his emotions with adult clarity and strength. His arm hurts and he's scared because he didn't mean to fall off the dresser but his night light had gone out and he'd been trying to turn it back on. He fell and it hurt so badly and he'd cried for an hour but no one had come. It was late and his nanny was down stairs probably asleep in her own bed, exhausted from a long day of keeping up with her strange troubled, insane, disturbing charge.
Eventually he'd cried himself out but his arm still hurt and his wrist looked so strange and he didn't know what to do so he crept out of his room to go find, Mother.
But he was scared. He shouldn't be up this late and the walls looked so big, getting taller -even for Erik's perspective- and pressing in on them both as Charles lead Erik towards the door that suddenly snapped into existence before them.
Taking his hand out of Erik's, Charles looked up at him and gave him a tremulous little smile.
I hate this part he said in that soft, child voice.
The scene swung around and the corridor dropped away, leaving them both in an opulent room, decorated with aggressive femininity. Beautiful, rich colors that should have been warm and inviting, yet there was something off about the room. It was subtle, hidden beneath the warmth thrown by the fire in the heart, the cheerful music playing on the phonographs and the soft perfume of gardenia and rose ... the stench of alcohol.
Now, Erik is left next to the door, an observer rather than an active participant, as these next events are burned in memory, rather than something Charles can manipulate.
His mother is stretched out on a chaise lounge, looking like a perfect picture, still in full make up and her hair, a shade lighter than her son's, perfectly coiffed. Her eyes are closed, expression dreamy as her toes tap in time with the music.
"Mother?" Charles' voice is small, hopeful as he approaches her, though he stops exactly four feet away, not an inch closer, as if he's been schooled not to rush up to his mother. "Mother, I've..."
"Hmmm?" The noise is almost a sigh and she doesn't open her eyes but her lips twitch. "Charles, what are you doing awake?"
"Mother, I fell..."
"Charles, go back to sleep, it's late."
"But Mother, please..."
"Charles," her voice doesn't raise but there is an icy firmness to it and her eyes never open to look at him. "I'm not going to tell you again."
"Mother..."