"The Darkness. Light hardly finds its way down into this vault, for it is the domain of its enemy. If only one friendly beam would pierce the eternal night with hope!" The tall, imposing figure of the Phantom emerged from the shadows and stepped into the flickering shimmer of a candle. The black mask she was so familiar with covered the upper half of his face.
"But alas, what else can it reveal than shades of grey?
The Cold. It sticks to the walls of my prison, lurks in the depths of the river Styx. Daily it reaches for me, pulls and tugs at my clothes." Erik's skeletal hands were clenched to fists as his speech increased its volume. "With each day it becomes more difficult to escape its power, and I know that eventually," he paused for emphasis and continued more calmly, "it will win our little game." He turned abruptly and gazed past his muse into the distance without really seeing anything. A strange sadness lay in his words.
"I have no permission to fight the Darkness, which I have learned to employ as my ally.
I have no means to fight the Cold, which my earthly devices may merely delay," he uttered in a matter-of-fact way.
Suddenly, his indifference changed to anger and the watchful eyes behind the mask flared up with fury. "But the Silence – this terrible, nerve-wrecking Silence!" he growled with a violent sharpness. "It is the only curse of my loneliness I am unable to endure. Oh, I tried it a thousand times! First I listened to the vapid mutters of ghosts, then I kicked and boxed the walls until my toes hurt and my knuckles were bloody. In the end I screamed my name into the endless tunnels until my throat was sore just to hear the echo reverberating from the stones!" The pain in his voice had reached its pitch and, overwhelmed by despair, he collapsed to the ground at Christine's feet.
There he remained for a few moments, breathing heavily and struggling to retain his composure. Reciting one of the major monologues from his Don Juan had exhausted him beyond his expectations. Solemnly he stood up, bracing the dust from the rocky floor off his black suit. "What do you think?" he asked casually, secretly afraid to receive a devastating critique from his muse.
Christine did not reply. Not until now Erik dared to raise his gaze to meet hers, and he was shocked to see her features frozen in a battle of emotions and her eyes filled with tears.
"Oh Erik," she breathed sorrowfully, her voice muffled by her gloved hand she was clasping her mouth with. "Oh my poor, lonely Erik. I didn't know-" Even in the dim candlelight he could tell that her face had become pale.
"I- ...Was it bad?" the disfigured musician stammered, visibly confused. With growing uncertainty he backed away from her while his mind feverishly tried to figure out what he had done wrong.
Finally, the realization struck him that his own opus, the opera he had been working at for half of his life, had betrayed him. Unintentionally, he had revealed more of himself than he had ever wanted to show.