As Erik lay there, in his coffin, awaiting the final sleep, his mind wandered and his vision swam in blackness. Perhaps he had gone blind, perhaps it was only the beginning. Part of him had long awaited this, part of him knew it was going to come soon, and had assumed such many times; but this had to be it. He knew it. He felt numb. Lack of nutrition, lack of sleep, lack of anything, had brought his body to the point of uselessness. He could feel his heart struggles more than ever now, almost painfully so. Breathing was a fight sometimes and he wasn't sure why he fought for it in the first place. He wasn't afraid to close his eyes, as he does so now, because in the darkness he can see her. Her perfect face, angelic hair like a Halo. She would open her mouth and a gasp would leave him, though it turns into a deflation of disappointment in his thin chest when he hears no sound but his own pitiful breath barely reaching his ears and the drumming of his own failing heart. The only other sound which reached his ears was the grumble of his abdomen, begging to him, though he does not listen. He simply ignores. He doesn't know how long he's been laid here, wasting away, perhaps a week. It doesn't matter now, he cannot get up and he is well aware of it. Certain of it. He can die in peace, regardless, for he kissed her. And she him. She kissed him and he has never felt more joy, more contentment, more ready to die than he had in that moment. That beautiful, once in a lifetime moment that he repeats in the still fresh memory of his mind, like a child refusing to let go of his comfort obiect.
Speaking of, he partially longed to hear the melody of his music box, that perhaps he could listen to the sharp tune of his rule of life and sing himself into eternal sleep. Unfortunately, as he found, he was unable to make a sound, not a sound. He could not even muster a word and maybe that was for the best.
Part of him wondered to himself if he should regret all the things which have taken place. How he tore his love's life to shreds, how he caused nothing but pain and fear. And yet she had still stood tall before him, without fear, and perhaps with pitty in her eyes, with love. Or perhaps hate. He had found women are terribly difficult to read, physically. Then again, he hadn't much experience with expression, facial and otherwise. He hadn't experience in love nor emotion in all due respects and he was well aware that was his downfall; along with his face, he was sure, and his murderous tendencies and monstrous temper. God above, he truly was a monster. He would have chuckled, just then. Him, even thinking the words God above. It was absurd, but surely it could be forgiven of a dying man, laying quite literally in his death bed, willingly awaiting to be taken by whatever hand would take such a creature as he.
She had taken his hand, his mind recalled for him, and he felt what little muscle he had left tighten.
She had, he agreed to himself. Was it of love? Trust? Obligation? He could not tell, and thus could not answer. Perhaps he will never know. Doubt crept through his veins like morphine, though it's affect was almost the exact opposite of the drug. It tensed him, pounded his heart and frayed his thoughts, twisting them until they were knotted with doubt, knotting his starving stomach just the same. Doubts would turn to fears, his heart would pound harder and a cold precipitation would form on his corpse-like skin. Perhaps it was obligation. To ensure she would not feel this way, his sour and tormenting pain of doubt for every action and thought. Perhaps performing on obligation alleviated the guilt. He kept his eyes shut, tried to will his pained heart to cease it's drumming before it quite possibly burst. This was far from the peaceful death he had intended for. Ah, but even if it was not true, she had shown affections! She had kissed him and his being had soared and he wished he had keeled over right then and there. It would have been perfect. But, here he was, silently suffering, alone, no longer waiting for death, but begging for it. He could not bother to open his eyes, part of him feared it would drag this torment on longer. Torment or not, it was right. This was right, he was sure of it. His fears turn to anger, directed cruely at himself. How dare he think so lowly of her. She was not as cruel as the rest of the world; she was not as cruel as himself. He must be becoming dellusional in his state to be thinking of her like this, to doubt, to FEAR her love and honestly, and the possibility of it's falsity. It was not false, it was honest, he assured himself shakily, letting out a wracked breath. It was honest. It was the most honest thing he's ever felt. He kept thinking it, but doubt continued to trickle relentlessly into his mind. Dellusional, Erik, you're dellusional. It's the hunger, the thirst, and the exhaustion. He was tearing up now, not that he could tell. The cold temperatures of his underground home had gotten down to his bones, merciless, leaving him unfeeling, and he was almost certain immobile. He could not feel the droplets running down his thinking cheeks, and perhaps that was for the best.
He opened his eyes, at least, he was certain he had, but everything remained black. The visage of Christine had not returned and he prayed to see her face, longed for the reassuring comfort of her smile and her heavenly voice to tell him it was alright. As much as he didn't deserve such bliss. His eyes closed again (if they had ever been open in the first place), and his tears continued to fall, though he was oblivious to them. His world was silence and darkness. He could not hear the steps of another body in the room, a hallucination he was sure; he could not feel the curls which fell over his face, could not feel the petite thumb wiping away his tears which continued to flow; he could not see the pained, pleading expression above his own blank face, which stared down at him with all the sadness in the world at the state of the corpse in the coffin; he could not sense that face leaning closer nor feel the lips which softly made contact with his forehead for the second time in his life, then his cheeks, and his forehead once again; and he could not feel the gentle hands which wrapped around his, which briefly jerked at the feeling of his skin as cold as ice, the life evaporating from him, just as heat rises and cold settles.
He could not feel the head which rested on his chest nor hear the pleading, loving whispers it said above his heart as she listened to it's final beats, and felt the struggled rise and fall of his chest cease, which at that moment he would never feel the tears which soaked his shirt and gracefully, blissfully mingled with his flesh.