Sacrifice
A/N: While I was finishing a chapter to another story of mine, I wondered about the final chapters of Gaston Leroux's Phantom of the Opera. This one-shot is nothing unique. It is basically about Erik sitting in his house by the lake as he dies, and waiting for Christine's final return. There is a first part, and then a second. Like I said, nothing unique, but I still wanted to write and post this. I'd be honored if you reviewed after reading. I hope some of you will like this.
I lie emaciated, crumpled, worn, and hollow in a bed that now serves as my casket. If I think about it, I'm not entirely hollow, even after the past four week's morning a love unrequited. I have a heart in my chest, entirely devoted to my Christine, pumping weakly blood throughout my body. It serves very little, but keeps me alive all the same. Nothing is left of my music, except for the black ashes in the fireplace. I have relinquished my clutch on the Opera House, along with the allowances confiscated from the managers by the faithful Madame Giry. My life now lies like a tattered rag, not in my hands, but now the creator's. The only treasure I have left is my darling Christine, my living bride who wears my golden band on her finger now.
It's little over one month now that Christine fled this little house by the lake with her young man, holding a promise of her return to her poor Erik on her honor. She knows I am dying; the knowledge was apparent in her gleaming blue eyes. The Daroga knows I am dying as well, and more than two weeks ago did I send message informing on my current state of health. Christine must be coming soon! I can already envision her drifting across the inky lake in the gondola. Any moment now, I will hear the click of the door and her delicate voice calling my name out softly….
A week passes
Erik has sacrificed his body and soul for you, dear Christine. Here his body will waste in this funeral home, as he waits for your sweet return to pay your final adieu. It has been more than a month, Christine, and finally my love for you is delivering me to the threshold of death. It's not quite how I imagined it, my dear, with my limbs overtaken with a numbness I once believed I knew the definition for. Your scent no longer mingles nearby, yet strangely enough my own odor does not penetrate my sense of smell. And it is so difficult to breath, Christine!
I'm choking on my sobs, thinking only of one thing: where are you?
Did I dare to hope too much when I timidly asked you to return, Christine? Wretched, wretched fool I am! All your poor Erik ever expected from this death was the reassurance that I'd see your darling face once more before my final intake of breath. It is too late, Christine.
Erik is dead.