A/N: Hey, DeMuerte here. I heard a song called "The Art of Suicide" by Emilie Autumn and I decide to do a song fic about Erik and Christine. It's a little intense, but I think you'll enjoy it. Please, listen to the song while you read it. I feel like the effect will be greater. Hope you enjoy it!
Disclaimer: The song " Art of Suicide" and the Characters are not my property.
Note: Song lyrics in italics, story in regular font.
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Erik thought to venture to ask of her, why? Why would she stand before him in such a hectic manner?
The art of suicide
In her night shift, curls more unruly that usual. She was not Christine, her face was not set in a pout. The sparkle in her eyes, nor the threat of tears anywhere to be seen. Something was definitely wrong here.
Nightgowns and hair
Curls flying every which where
Yet, there was something there. The way her knees turned inward in silhouette beneath her gown. The way her hands clung to it, revealing her pale, dainty ankles. This was usual. These were things he expected from her. Not the look of utter doll-eyed passiveness. Then, he realized what it was. There is was.
The pain too pure to hide
"Christine, my dear?" he asked, his voice tip-toeing lightly around her. He stood in the doorway of his bedroom. Her, at the cusp of hers. It was the scream from her lips that had drawn him to such a place, in such a state. The notion at something would be wrong was no doubt in his mind. He did not expect her to stand there, sighing.
Bridges of Sighs
Meant to conceal lover's lies
" What time is it?" she asked, suddenly, her face becoming animated for that moment. Erik drew his pocket watch out by it's chain and exposed it's face.
" 1 o'clock in the morning."
Under the arches
Of moonlight and sky
Christine seemed to nod, but the man in the mask could not be sure. It was a semblance of such a gesture of recognition. A mere twitch. Her face drew back into itself, a automaton once more.
Suddenly easy
To contemplate why
Why...
"Erik." she said. Erik nodded, body stiff from being tense for so long. " I need to show you something..." Erik moved forward, but she held up a trembling hand.
Why live a life
That's painted with pity
And sadness and strife
"Christine?" She looked to him, then back into her room. What was in there?, he wondered. She seemed to whimper, a hiccup of emotion leaking through her eccentric shield. Erik took another step forward, to which she twitched.
She merely pointed towards the inner most part of the chamber, eyes downcast and glazed. Erik walked forward, feline movements making him look like a king. He peered into the doorway, and the shock nearly knocked the life from his body.
Why dream a dream
That's tainted with trouble
And less than it seems
" Christine...is that?"
" Yes."
Why bother bothering
Just for a poem
Or another sad song to sing
Erik fell to his knees, barely able to catch his torso before he smashed his face into his mask if he had indeed, fell to the floor. Christine was still standing, her hair a mass of embodied emotions that she could not process nor face at the moment.
Why live a life
Why live a life
"How could we have not known, Christine?" Erik looked up at her, unable to face the bed. The previously ivory sheets, now a garish mockery of such a thing
The art of suicide
" Things are so different down here. In the dark. Under the Opera. If we lived in the world above, we would have known right away."Christine, her dress so pristine, made everything around her so grimy and unholy.
Pretty and clean
Erik's mouth hung so agape. What was to be done now? If he dared to stand, face such a tragedy, what would happen to him? Would he lose all control over himself? What he was?
Conveys a theatrical scene
" I changed my clothes. A mother should never look a mess." she said, rather hauntingly. Erik, somewhat collected, rose to his feet a father. He moved to the four poster bed, and looked down at his child.
"Alas, I'm gone!" she cried
Stillborn. Premature. Face blue, covered in the gore of birth. Christine remained in the doorway. She had wrapped the little girl in her first nightgown. The one Erik had kissed her goodnight in. He face contorted beneath the mask, mouth grim and deep as it turned down.
Ankles displayed
Melodramatically laid
" When was she born?" Erik asked, his voice wavering. A Titan falling at the sight of his own cut down.
"An hour ago." she whimpered.
Under the arches
Of moonlight and sky
Erik stretched his hand out to touch her, but he found no conviction to do so. Christine came to his side. It seemed to be washing over the couple in waves.
Suddenly easy
To contemplate why
This was their child, and she was dead.
Why...
Why live a life
"Do you think," Christine inquired, her voice lofty and ethereal, " that she would have been miserable?" Erik let out a shuddering breath. He did not know what this child would have been. Was she a genius? Was she a songbird like her mother?
That's painted with pity
And sadness and strife
Would her heritage shame her? Her father was, after all, a murderer. A cad who tormented other because of his hatred of humanity. He had only found one who would love him as he was, though he feared that his world was slowly killing her.
Why dream a dream
That's tainted with trouble
And less than it seems
" I do not know, my dear. I do not know." Christine, sat on the edge of the bed. This child, of which she bore before it's time lay in front of her. Suddenly, she began to cry.
Why bother bothering
Just for a poem
Or another sad song to sing
" This is my child!" Christine wailed, her face falling into her hands in utter despair. Her frame shook violently, narrow shoulder blades jaggedly shifting her gown up and down with each sob.
Why live a life
Erik reached out and picked up his child. She was so cold.
Why live a life
Just like her father.
Life is not like Gloomy Sunday
With a second ending
Erik used the loose ends of Christine's bloody gown and wiped off his daughter's face. Clean of all the blood, she just looked as if she were sleeping under a moonless sky. In the dark. Erik touched her hair, black and gooey. He rocked her softly, humming to her. Christine looked up from her grief
When the people are disturbed
" Is she alive?" She pipped. Erik shook his head solemnly. A mother stood by a father then, hand on his shoulder, looking at their cadaver child. Perfectly formed, perfectly dead.
Well they should be disturbed
"She should be named and baptized...before she is buried." Christine whispered, touching her child's button nose. Erik did not protest.
" Anything for her." was all he could manage.
Because there's a story
That ought to be heard
" Adele. Her name shall be Adele Daae." Erik said with finality after a good, long while.
" 'Noble'...Yes, I think she would be like her father..." Christine took the child from his arms and lay her on the bed. Taking a vial of holy water she had received from some priest on a Sunday long ago, she made the sign of the cross upon her infants forehead and blessed her.
Life is not like a gloomy Sunday
With a second ending
Erik spent most of that night building a coffin. It was small, lined with the silk from his own cape. As he went about his task, he would cry. Had he lived his whole life in a coffin? Sleeping so far underground, in a box of his own? He looked at Christine now and again, singing to their deceased Adele. Erik would imagine that this was a dream. That their daughter was alive and he was making a crib, not a coffin.
When the people are disturbed
Well they should be disturbed
But, what a lie. Telling himself that she was alive was like stabbing himself in the heart and watching it bleed. Watching himself die would have been better than to discover that his daughter, of whom he did not expect nor greet, was not breathing. Noy crying. Not cooing.
Because there's a lesson
Once all of this was over, Erik would buy a house in the countryside and live there with Christine. They would no longer live underground. Condemning themselves to the early grave killed their child. Erik had killed Adele through his madness and rage. His self-loathing had ruined everything.
That really ought to be learned
Erik and Christine both took their time with her. Christine told her how much she wished she could watch her grow up, wept for a long while, and then handed her to Erik.
The world is full of poets
We don't need any more
Erik took her into his arm, cautious with her tiny form. She really was so very small. If he had words to say to her, they would not come. Just the chattering of his teeth as he shuddered.
The world is full of singers
We don't need any more
"I am sorry, Adele. I am so very, very sorry. Please, forgive me."
The world is full of lovers
Erik and Christine laid their child to rest in the Daae tomb at Perros, next to her grandfather. The ceremony was quite, not words were said; Just silent prayers, and the songs of two lovers, now a mother and a father. They held hands and left the tomb. Erik closed the sepulcher, leaving behind a part of himself that he would never get back. He thought he had only loved one woman in his life.
He had been so poorly mistaken.
Adele Daae,. Born 12 a.m December 15th, 1883- died 1.a.m.,December 15th, 1883
We don't need any more..
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Well, that's the end. I do hope you enjoyed it.
Sincerely,
DeMuerte