Prologue
A blessing is a subjective thing, for who says a blessing for one cannot be a torment for another? And who says a blessing that seemed so generous and kind from God cannot be in fact one of the cruelest torments Satan ever created for man?
"Very good Christine," I complimented after my little protégé finished her aria, my voice so brimming with pride that it threatened to flow over.
"Thank you Angel!" came the excited, naïve girl in reply.
Angel. That very word echoed endlessly in my mind, the same way it does after my every encounter with Christine as I bid her goodnight and watch her bow and leave the small chapel. One part of me would laugh at it, thinking of the idiocy of that belief. I am as far from an Angel as the Devil is from Heaven. Nevertheless the other part of me loved to fall victim into that belief, that perfect fantasy. For the precious times I spend with Christine are the only times of my life that I feel. Long ago I have learned to block out all emotions, all physical feelings. It was trained from years of merciless torture and endless torment. And then comes in Christine, my dear, sweet Christine. She was the only one who did not run away, the only one who ever trusted me, the only one that would listen when no one else would, no one but her.
The echoes of my footsteps sounded the empty stairs beneath the Opera House as I took my solitary route as I do each night back to the house on the lake, the house that I have always called home. Music lessons with Christine always passed by too fast for my liking; nevertheless I refuse to steal sleep away from the precious girl. My mind as always was filled with her voice, her singing. That purely perfect instrument, performing that perfect concert, only for me, and I never wish it to end.