The cuts on her wrists smiled at him once they were clean. They mocked him. And why wouldn't they be smug? In the end, they had been close to Christine in ways he never had, and holding her very lifeblood as it left her body. Her very life had flowed through them. But Erik had only held her after she was already gone, and only been able to see and touch all of her in death, as he cleaned her arms and body with a washcloth and replaced her blood-stained dress.
He had found the scissors beside her, had seen the dripping blood. But he had been out, and she had been locked in, and he hadn't thought that she would dream of using them, not Christine. The girl had a life ahead of her, and she had scarcely even gotten to know him. She possessed something better than Erik had every dreamt of. He'd always had a twisted life, a life of hiding, a life spent planning in the shadows until finally, he was able to grab onto just one wish. And yet he had never been moved to etch slits onto his arms.
Did she mean to curve them into identical grins that revelled in how indeed, Death did possess her, but the true Death, not Erik, the living death? Did she intend for him to feel berated as he worked to restore her to her living beauty?
And she was so beautiful, even in death, even with gashes across her wrist that ruined the expanses of her smooth, pale skin. Her eyes were still open, a clean, clear blue; her hair still fell in elegant curls; her lips still resembled the buds of a flower, not yet having bloomed. In her stillness, she had become a doll, crafted to nothing short of perfect. The image of unblemished beauty.
He found himself staring, once again, at the scissors, wondering where such an innocent girl found the courage to do what he still would never dare. Was the key in those twin smiles? Had she found the strength to end her life only because once her existence had been filled with joy and she had discovered anything else was not worth living?
She had been happy, he knew. Not then, not for years, but in some far away place and some long ago time, she had felt true bliss. Perhaps she was bathed in joy once again, her angelic voice now singing along to the refrains of the seraphim. He wouldn't know. She been able to ascend and free herself through two, tiny curves. But he knew never could. He could only continue to dwell in the depths of the opera, searching for another pathway to happiness. Perhaps one day, he would find one that couldn't escape him so easily. And oh, how easily her life had slipped through her veins.