I was never truly mad.
They all say I was, those who know me now say that I still am, but they do not know the truth. The truth was that I am what I am, and what I am is what the world made me. It is said that a mother shapes her children, but as I had no mother—not in the truest sense—it was the world that formed my mind. The world calls me mad, and yet the world made me thus. Ironic no? It would be, but I am not insane.
I have committed many crimes over my years, but the only one I will ever show any remorse for was that I let her go. No, I made her go. She would have stayed, I saw it in her eyes, but I forced her out, screamed at her to leave and forget me. Why can I never say what I truly mean? In my frenzied rantings I demanded her forget me, when really I was expressing my inability to forget her. I never will you know, she'll always be right behind me, just out of eyesight.
She is dead now, she has been for a good many years. She died in childbirth, giving her Vicomte one final gift, an heir, before slipping beyond his reach. For that at least I am grateful. He can no longer reach her. Great tales of this lad I have heard. His father named him Christopher, most appropriate I should think. The boy was a skilled musician, playing the piano with a dexterity so far unsurpassed. Obviously because he has never met me. Sadly, he never learned to play the violin. His father forbade it. But Christopher possessed a beautiful voice, or so I'd heard. It wasn't until I met him on chance a few years back that I got the biggest surprise.
He has my eyes, my sharp, amber eyes. I laugh at the thought even now. That, along with the obvious musical inclination would lead me to suspect an alternate sire, but one painful reality blocks all hope of that. I never knew Christine. I could have, but I didn't, and even to this day, have not known a woman's touch. If I cannot have Christine, than I want no one at all. So, even though the boy—a young man now—cannot possibly be mine, I must smile every day to think how his eyes must haunt his dear father. Sometimes I come dangerously close to pitying the man, but circumstances being what they were and are, I cannot bring myself to feel so. I never was much of one for pity.
The Vicomte himself has a good many years left of his life. He is happy again, I believe he is to remarry soon. I can only scoff. But in that at least, I have defeated him. Let him live out the rest of his long life alongside another woman. I will soon join my angel. Yes, I can feel it creeping in my bones now. I have been coughing up blood for three days. I shan't have long to wait.
Kneeling at my bedside—or rather at the edge of my coffin—I begin something that I have not done since before she left. I begin to pray. Whispering words I have not uttered in years, I beseeched God's mercy one last time. Perhaps he has tormented me enough now. Perhaps he will be kind enough to grant me this small mercy.
Dear God, I know she can no longer love me, and I know I can no longer promise to be good. I do not even ask forgiveness, for I have done so much that I doubt even you could find it within you to forgive me. All I ask is that you let Christine walk with me on my path down to hell. Give me one last cooling ray of light before I am plunged into the burning darkness.
Rising, I climb into the wooden casket, lying flat on my back, arms crossed. I cannot close my eyes. This isn't right. I have lived my entire life as a corpse, and I'll be damned if I'm to die as one. With a little bit of my old grace I climb back out, making my way down the hall to a room I have not seen in 25 years. Turning the knob slowly, ever so slowly, I slipped into her room.
I made this room for her, to live in while I won her heart. But alas, all had come to naught. I had expected to find a mass of decay, but even a Ghost is fallible. A heaviness hung about the room, the years weighing heavy on that which they could not tarnish. The bed, carved by my own hands in the semblance of the phoenix, still lay rumpled from her last stay within these walls. The stand by her bed held her book of Psalms and a single red rose, tied with an ancient black ribbon. The long dead flower looked so alive so soft, so I find myself surprised that is has hardened, crystallized if you will. Holding it to my chest I slip ever so quietly into the bed. Only one thing now remains. I will leave this world as I entered it, bold, baring my face for all to see God's mockery.
I close my eyes and I can hear her singing, softly, ever so softly. I feel my breathing grow shallow, and I can only rejoice, because the less sound I make, the louder she becomes. I have stopped breathing, and now I can make out her words. She is singing the Ave to the Madonna. I force my heart to slow and quiet. I want to hear her all around me. Soon my wish is granted.
A flash of white light, and I find myself in a nighttime garden. So, this is where the Creator sends his children for judgement. I cannot say I fault his taste. I am still looking at the sky. I know it is a garden only by the scent of jasmine that reaches my nose. A mixture I think, jasmine and lavender—wait. That is Christine's smell. I would recognize it anywhere. Lowering my eyes to the foliage around me, I spy my angel, looking just as lost and confused as I. I felt my breath catch in my throat. When did I resume my breathing? It doesn't matter, for she is looking at me now. Our eyes have met, and a slow smile spreads across her soft lips. One hand raised, she beckons me come to her.
I feel my legs move, I never could deny her. I feel my spirit soar far above me. God heard my last request, and he saw fit to grant it. I can feel tears of joy welling behind my eyes, but as hard as I try to push them out, they will not come. God does not allow mortal tears to water his flowers.
I have closed the distance between us, and at last my hand grasps hers, the sensation of our mingling flesh rushes through my body. I watch her expectantly, waiting for her to lead me down the path to hell, but strangely she does not move. For what seems like an eternity we stand thus, looking the other in the eye and gripping the other's hand as a lifeline. Finally she moves, though it is not in the direction I had anticipated. No, she is moving towards me. I must admit I am so shocked by this I cannot react until it is too late. In one fluid motion she has brought her arms around my neck, and her lips, soft and insistent, are on mine.
How many years has the memory of her first two kisses haunted my hours both waking and slumbering? How many nights have I sat, tormented by the ghost of her kiss? Now I feel it again, and all dreams are pushed aside. Nothing can compare to the real thing. Finally recuperating from the initial shock, I wrap my arms around her waist, returning the kiss passionately. Why not? Too soon I will be tossed into hell, away from my undeserved angel. For the first time in a long time, that thought brought me pain. Now that we had been reunited, I had no desire to leave her. Please God, let her love me and I'll be good forever. Not the most appropriate choice of words, but it's all I can manage while kissing my darling Christine.
The kiss is broken, and still I have not been thrown out. Christine leans in closer, her lips coming just to the edge of my ear, and whispers. "I love you Erik." It was then I realize that her voice is still singing the Ave. Her hand reaches up to caress the right side of my face, still as broken and marred as ever, but not even that can dampen my pure joy. The words I had waited to hear for over a lifetime have finally been uttered.
Suddenly her grip on me shifts from my neck to my waist and tightens. At first I feel a space of fear, but one look in her piercing blue eyes and I know I am safe. Trusting her, I follow suit, tightening my grip about her waist. We are pressed so ver close together; I can feel every contour of her perfect form as she slides closer, ever closer. Soon we have passed the boundaries of flesh and blood. I am within her, and she is within me. Do not ask me to explain it, for I cannot, as at the moment a blinding wave of pleasure has rushed through me—us, rendering me incapable of thought. Soon the pleasure subsides to a dull throbbing, and I can hear my voice singing the Ave with her. In that one moment, I see a mirror image of myself, but there is one minor change. "I am perfect" I am floored is more like it. No, said Christine. "We are perfect."
In that one moment, hour, day, year, lifetime, millennia, instant, I knew only two things. The first and foremost is that I love Christine, more now than ever, and the second thing is that God is merciful.
There is forgiveness after all.