The beauty of Christine Daaé was incomparable and uncontainable. Erik had spent years trying to encapsulate her heavenly perfection, but the mundane, earthly ink and parchment were never able to come anywhere close to the absolute flawless creation that was his angel.
It was a failure that frustrated the Opera Ghost beyond his mind: Erik's skillful hands and sharp mind had been made to create the beauty that his face lacked, but even with all his talent, that had been praised anywhere he had displayed it, he was never able to truly sculpt a beauty similar to the one the real Christine Daaé possessed. Not amount of flawless strokes of the brush, or the brightest of colors, or the softest of touches of the pencil could ever be enough to cage the true art that was his living muse.
All the portraits contained pieces, mere glimpses that truly reminded him of her: the white, flawless skin; the dark curls gracefully falling down her back; those shiny eyes that could make any man delirious with joy just for looking at them. But it was never enough. The beauty of the image was static, dead; not at all like Christine, who was alive and always moving around with the gracefulness of the ballerina she was; her movements fluid and angelic as music itself.
Whenever Erik touched Christine -not that it had ever happened in anywhere but in the wickedness of his mind-, his fingers could always grab; his hands could always curl themselves over her curves. Christine had a tangible, moving shape that did not stained his gloves with black ink, and that was simply because Christine was no drawing, no painting; she was a woman.
But, oh, he could never have her like that. Not now, not ever; even if his rotten heart beat for nothing but for her own. No woman, and especially not one as perfect as his Christine, ever deserved to suffer such a fate, condemned to be chained to a deformed monstrosity who had to hide in the shadows since the day he had first seen the light.
So he built a mannequin.
The idea had disconcerted him at first, and had almost rejected it completely, aware that instead of easing the pain in his heart, it would only increase it, but the almost palpable and breathtaking image of his beautiful Christine -even if it was just an empty, lifeless replacement for her true beauty and warmth- standing under the same roof and in the same room as him; or sitting across the table with him during breakfast, or laying on the bed he had brought down for her and only her, made his fingers twitch in anxious eagerness and delight.
The creation of the face was simple, for he had spent so many nights dreaming of its perfection, that the image was tattooed in his soul. It took no effort for him to paint the watery blue of her eyes, with the little specks of emerald and gold that only a few fortunates had been able to witness. The rosy of her lips had driven him crazy of love more times than Erik could even remember. The thick lashes that could make him her slave. The little button of a nose she had. The adorable freckles spread through the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Every detail exactly as he knew it.
The body was a complete different matter, however. He had seen his angel many times, and even if his eyes would usually be forced to stick to merely the decent and acceptable areas, he had caught glimpses of more. He recalled the perfection of her slender hands; her broken feet -the sacrifices ballerinas were willing to make for their love for art would never stop amazing Erik-, the cleavage many of her attires forced on her; her long, beautiful, strong legs...
Everything that the sometimes too revealing customs and the too fortunate occasional incidents had allowed his wicked eyes to see, he had guiltily memorized and treasured. He never actively looked for it, though, and because of that there were still too many blank holes in his mental image of Christine. He would never get to see her, and as much as he wanted his Christine to be an exact copy of the real Christine, that was a boundary that his pride, modesty, and shame would always forbid him to overpass. So at the end, his Christine's torso, waist, and below, were nothing but wires and empty metal pieces intertwined that hardly resembled the intoxicating secrets she hid under the innumerable layers of clothing.
Once the head and body were ready, Erik got it clothes. If it was to be Christine, it had to be perfect. He made the most beautiful wedding dress just for her, just like he had dreamed so many times before. And when she was ready, he left the room before even looking at her finished perfection, and went change into a matching attire. If she was to be his bride, he got to be a groom. He returned to the room wearing the best of his clothes, without a mask or wig.
He laid her plainly on the bed, adjusting her legs delicately over the mattress as the whiteness of her dress spread across the dark silk.
Erik sat besides her and removed a curl from his bride's sleepy face; his knuckles lingering a moment longer against her skin as he gently caressed it, admiring the masterpiece before him: it was perfect. Just like her. Perfect in every curve, in every shape.
And she was his. His and only his. She was here with him, for him. Now and always, she was here. He would wake every morning besides her, he would eat every meal sitting with her at the table. She would listen to his music and close her beautiful eyes as she reclined on the sofa, delighted on her husband's talent. She would compliment him, and hug him, and kiss him and...
"I love you, my Christine," he said, looking at the closed eyelids of his bride with all the love and devotion that a mortal man could hold in his heart.
But she did not answer. Silly! She was probably asleep! Erik took out his pocket watch, and saw it was already midday. It was so late, and his beautiful bride was still asleep!
"Christine, it's almost one o'clock," he said, and she didn't respond. Seeing no other way to wake her -and not bothering to look for another- he towered over her, and gently cupped her cheek in his hand before finally daring to kiss his bride.
Erik had seen countless people kiss in his life, but he had never had the opportunity to do it himself. Until that moment, he could only imagine how it would be, how it would feel, but his wildest dreams could have never gotten anywhere near to this. It was the most amazing sensation a man could ever feel.
Her pink lips were so soft; so small compared to the bloated ones he had. But unlike his, hers were cold. Motionless.
He broke the kiss he had started, the coldness burning him.
"I love you so much," he murmured. But she did not answer. She did not move. She did not breath.
She was dead.
No, she wasn't even dead. She couldn't be dead if she had never been alive. She wasn't even a "she", merely an "it" his putrid heart wished with all its might could one day hold another heart that beat in the same rhythm as his own.
"I love you, I love you, I love you," he cried, his burning tears falling down the same wicked curse that had chained him to this, to now. The same face his mother couldn't love, and that would only ever allow him the empty joy of the lifeless love.
It was so embarrassing, so distasteful, so pitiful, so... so... so lonely.
Filled with shame, he laid at its side, and grabbed it by the waist to turn its body to him. Its eyes opened, and he nearly felt the bloom of hope on his chest. But no, she had not opened her eyes: it was a mere optical illusion he had fabricated that same morning; thinking at the time of the endless joy it would bring him so, but now it only caused him more pain, feeling the weight of its judging non-existing gaze.
To run from it, Erik hugged her against his chest, caressing her head and hiding her empty eyes from his sight. It was cold. He tangled his leg on top of its, but it was still cold.
And in that moment, Erik accepted with the resignation of a man going to the guillotine that he would never feel warmth. It was a simple, lifeless doll he had made with his own hands. And yet he knew he should be grateful for that unfeeling piece of plastic and cloth, for no living woman would ever let him hold her like this, in a bed, with his monstrosity of a head bare and with all the candles lit.
It was an empty queen for the monster king of the lonely kingdom. Just another lie, another make-pretend, another sweet illusion. Another illusion that kept him farther away from the reality that had denied him, but nowhere near to the happiness he craved like a madman.
Erik hugged the doll harder, burying his terrible face in its odorless plastic hair and letting his tears fall against it.
At least this he could have.