Upon hearing the click of the secret apartment door, my eyes lazily opened as I yawned. I must have fallen asleep on the settee, for it seemed only moments ago Erik had stated he was going 'shopping'. My suspicions were proven correct when a tall, shadowy skeleton of a man slipped soundlessly through the opening in the fine cedar paneled walls (for if they were not cedar, the moisture from the lake would have surely rotted his underground home), arms full of boxes and parcels. Remaining quietly tucked into the leather couch cushions, I expected the masked maestro to greet me upon his return- only to have him walk straight past me without any acknowledgement once so ever.

Puzzled by his dismissal of my presence when he usually followed me about like a dutiful puppy, I stayed lying on my side with my head on the arm of the sofa. Maybe he believed I was sleeping? That was it, he thought I was resting and didn't wish to disturb me. Pulling myself into a sitting position, my thoughts that Erik had ignored me out of courtesy vanished when he re-entered the parlour from the kitchen, again walking straight past my silent form before turning to retrieve another box which I noticed contained blank composition paper and several bottles of red ink. When he finally turned and stared right at me, I smiled in a silent hello, locking my blue gaze with his peculiar, shining yellow eyes. I have to admit, despite the un-loveliness of their setting, those golden eyes were breathtaking. His irises were such a startlingly deep and pure shade of saffron that I could barely discern them from his pupils. As I smiled, I couldn't help but feel as if something was amiss- while I was intently focused on his masked countenance, Erik almost appeared to be looking through me like I was not there. Also, he still had yet to say a word or even nod in my direction. My lips pursed in mounting confusion as he turned back away, striding to the piano with the paper and ink in hand.

My curiosity was peaked to say the least. Watching him more intently, I noticed with new sight how he ran his dextral fingers over the glossy wooden surface of the piano, only stopping when he reached the dwindling stack of paper where he then placed the newly purchased materials.

A slow realization was dawning upon me as I watched him again exit the parlour without a word. To prove my unnamed hypothesis correct, I stood, following Erik to where he'd disappeared into the kitchen and halting in the doorway. I ran a hand over my skirts to smooth out the creases, and only after this slight shuffling did Erik speak.

"Good evening, Christine- did you take that nap while I was away?" He kept his back turned towards me as he spoke, busily placing dried goods and other cooking materials into the cupboards.

"Yes, I did- in my room," I lied, testing and slowly proving correct my creeping realization as the masked man turned and smiled slightly to me. The idea occurred to me that Erik had not turned towards until after I'd spoken, therefore waiting until my voice could give away my exact location because the shifting cloth could not.

"Well, I'm glad you got your rest- you'd been slumping about the house like a zombie dragging your feet over the carpet all day after all!"

I joined his slight chuckle with a half-hearted one of my own, the now blatantly obvious fact that he had pointed out the sound of my dragging feet rather than the sight of my scraggly hair and dark rimmed eyes. And as I again locked gazes with his eyes skillfully trained on my face merely by hearing where my voice issued from, I knew.

Erik was blind!

I don't know how it had taken me this long to figure it out- nearly five months! Little things that I had barely noticed now stood out in stark relief of black and white truth. The way he always ran his fingers lightly over the furniture he passed and the fact he owned such an impressive library, yet never read, all made sense now. Those fantastic eyes that I had earlier called shining and cat-like now held a definite glossy, unfocused sheen. With a harder look, I was able to tell that his pupils were not blending in with the color of his dark irises because of the lighting, but because they were that unnatural, blotchy black and white and gray color seen only in those who'd had their eyes purposefully put out.

Erik was blind!

And with great horror I realized it was not of the natural sort- In my travels with Father, I'd seen people who'd had their eyes put out- those from the East and middle land of Persia. Either by hot poker or some other ghastly means, the proof lay in the unseeing glimmer of those startling saffron eyes.

"Is something wrong, my dear?" A cold, boney hand lightly touched the back of my wrist, causing me to jolt and stare wide-eyed into Erik's expressionless, black masked face. "Forgive me," he drew away, more than a little dejection evident in the slump of his shoulders and the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"My mind was drifting," I muttered uncomfortably. We'd had an unspoken no touching rule ever since I'd screamed from the feel of those skeletal, deathly frigid hands covering my mouth

"Would you like some supper, Christine?" If a grown man could resemble a kicked puppy, then my masked maestro did in every aspect of his shamed demeanor. A small stab of pity and guilt knifed through my conscience; had it been Raoul- or any other person, for that matter- I would have thought nothing of a simple touch of the hand. Erik, however, was not just any person, and my lingering horror of my music teacher after learning of his demonic temper held fast even after knowing him as Erik for so long now instead of Angel.

"Yes, I would," I responded quickly. With a new fascination I watched as he skillfully prepared me a small plate of chicken and vegetables made by him the night before.

"Wine, Christine?"

At my acceptance, he kicked open the cellar trapdoor, returning in short time with the bottle. "I thought white would be better with the chicken." Lightly grasping the wine glass in his dextral fingers, Erik slowly tipped the bottle back, pouring the fine white wine.

Again, I noted the tell-tale sign of his blindness. Though he didn't focus on the task he was performing, I did notice, however, the way he pressed his fingers against the middle of the glass and halted the flow of wine when the chilled liquor reached the point in the glass level with his fingers on the outside.

"Thank you," I murmured taking the offered wine.

Like the dutiful host he was, Erik chattered as amiably as his limited social skills permitted without the intrusion of the awkward pause. As I always did, I found my gaze drawn to his hands as he spoke, the subtle motions paired with that melodic, beautiful voice lulling me into a heavy sense of peace. My trance was only broken when Erik removed my empty dishes from the table and went to the sink.

"I'll do that!" I exclaimed rather too quickly, springing from my seat and scurrying to the kitchen counter.

A small flicker of surprise flashed across those unseeing eyes.

"...If you wish," Erik withdrew from the sink, lacing his incredibly long, spider-like fingers together in front of him. "I have some compositions which need my attention; goodnight, my dear." And he retreated out of the kitchen and no doubt to his mortuary chamber of a bedroom, where he kept the main concentration of his music.

"Poor, unhappy Erik!" I sniffled, silently reprimanding myself for such unshed tears. "To create such beauty, yet never glimpse its perfection himself…" I scrubbed my eyes with the back of my hand, turning to the dishes with yet another sniffle.

"Yes," came a whisper, at that time unheard by my ears. "Poor, unhappy Erik indeed…"