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Release (Open)
His only phone call had gone to Hannibal. Later, there came a lawyer, shortly after Enigma was released. The lawyer, he'd learned, was hired by his assistant, Mike Deal, not by Hannibal. It was curious. Another week went by, filled by chafing idle hours and punctuated by hearings, then another with the same. In the end, Erik was handed his effects, a receipt for the charges he'd incurred, and waved out of the station. He went home first, his car waiting for him as he stepped onto the street. Home - the one place where he could love unconditionally, and create with the freedom he'd always yearned after. Home - the Opera House, crafted with his design and his intent in mind.
The preparations for his reworking of La Mer were in full effect, The Death of Don Juan having wrapped earlier in the week. He regretted that he had not been there to see it close. He showered quickly and pulled one of the suits he kept at the Opera. It was mid-day, and everyone involved in La Mer should be rehearsing. He walked the Opera, taking in the work being done, stopping to correct where it was needed. Hannibal was strangely missing. It was not like the young man to skip crucial moments within the nascent stages of a production like this.
His path finally led him to his office, where he sat behind his desk and pulled on the black gloves that shielded him from the rest of the world. He stared down at the blackness, stared at the wood grain in its gleaming polish under those hands of his, and let out a deep breath. He'd been caged before. He'd been in prisons before. He'd been in far worse situations than the last month behind him. But he'd forgotten. He'd forgotten what it was to lose his autonomy, his freedom to write or play, and he'd forgotten what it was to be at the mercy of others. Slowly, he set his head in his hands and shut his eyes. The rising fury, the same emotion he'd suppressed violently within the bars of his cell, began its unrelenting climb. The hatred for humanity came with it. His fingers tightened in his hair. He grit his teeth.
The preparations for his reworking of La Mer were in full effect, The Death of Don Juan having wrapped earlier in the week. He regretted that he had not been there to see it close. He showered quickly and pulled one of the suits he kept at the Opera. It was mid-day, and everyone involved in La Mer should be rehearsing. He walked the Opera, taking in the work being done, stopping to correct where it was needed. Hannibal was strangely missing. It was not like the young man to skip crucial moments within the nascent stages of a production like this.
His path finally led him to his office, where he sat behind his desk and pulled on the black gloves that shielded him from the rest of the world. He stared down at the blackness, stared at the wood grain in its gleaming polish under those hands of his, and let out a deep breath. He'd been caged before. He'd been in prisons before. He'd been in far worse situations than the last month behind him. But he'd forgotten. He'd forgotten what it was to lose his autonomy, his freedom to write or play, and he'd forgotten what it was to be at the mercy of others. Slowly, he set his head in his hands and shut his eyes. The rising fury, the same emotion he'd suppressed violently within the bars of his cell, began its unrelenting climb. The hatred for humanity came with it. His fingers tightened in his hair. He grit his teeth.