A/N: "Returned to Life" placed third in the Mort Rouge Christmas drabble contest. Thanks to Devilina for organizing the contest and to all those who read and voted. And as always, read and review, if you have a chance!
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Gaston Leroux. If only all this were mine, however-- oh, the shoes I would buy!
Returned to Life
By Ceinwyn
"Last year is dead, they seem to say,/Begin afresh, afresh, afresh." (Phillip Larkin)
The alarm bell is ringing.
He slumps over the organ, hands frozen. Not one song, measure, note in five years.
How often since she fled has he tried to die? He cannot stir his thoughts to count. He knows, however, that damned Persian has bound the shallow wounds, fed the slack mouth, pumped water from tired lungs every time.
Now there is only emptiness; his body moves like an automaton's, everything by rote. Life flickers and is doused each moment.
The alarm is still ringing.
He lifts his head. It will be that damned Persian, who, if he were less nostalgic, would learn to put the Ghost to rest.
There is a fumbling at the door, a clickclickclick as the locks rise.
He lets his chin drop to his chest.
"Erik?"
The voice is soft, feminine – beloved.
Stiff as a rusty gear, he turns in his seat to find her standing on the rug, wearing a blue dress trimmed in silver.
"Hello, Erik." She smiles tentatively.
He whispers, "Christine?"
"Yes. I have come back…"
He approaches, touches her cheek, feather-light. "Dream," he says.
"No." She takes his hand. "I've come to see you for Christmas."
His gaze darkens. "Your husband—" he begins.
"I'm not married," she says.
Ah, yes, he remembers now the boy on the banks of the lake, shouting: "Return her, monster!"
The Persian murmuring: "She is not here, he does not have her."
And he himself, from the shadows, wondering: Where, then, has she gone?
He voices the same question now, years later.
"America," she says. "I wanted to start again. And I have, Erik. I am the most celebrated soprano in New York. I hope you are proud…" She lifts a hand to his cheek, and he dimly realizes he does not wear his mask. "But I've missed your guidance," she says seriously. "I've missed you."
Because this is so clearly a dream, he puts his arms around her, pulls her close.
"Oh, Erik," she says, her voice only slightly muffled by his shirtfront. "I cannot stay long, I must sail home tomorrow, but I have come…"
He listens as she tells him of the call for new and exciting operas, of her little flat in the city – "room enough for two, I should think" – of a ship crossing the sea just after the new year.
He holds her as she speaks, smoothes her hair, finally puts her to bed in her old room, which he still cleans meticulously once a week. Before he leaves her, she lifts her lips to his. "Think on it," she whispers.
He goes to his own room and sleeps soundly.
When he awakens, he thinks, disconsolate, Only a dream.
Then he notices, propped on the organ, an envelope. Inside is a note – Please come. I will be waiting – and a one-way passage to New York on the steamer Larkin.
He stares at both for some time, then sits before the organ and presses his fingers to the keys. He plays all afternoon, and the Persian, when he comes, seems quite astonished by the new life beating within his friend and is eventually sent out for ink, writing paper, and several suitcases.
"Read in order to live." (Henry Fielding)
Thanks for reading!