It is a strange thing to write happiness. I was unaware such a word existed until now. Oh, but not now, no. Now was misery. Now I keep glancing at the clock in desperation for the silver hands to turn faster, faster! How slowly they turn, as if they wish to cause me agony. Perhaps they do. After all, the world enjoys that activity immensely.
Would she return, though? Would she? She had promised to, and she bore my ring. My ring! Imagine! My gold band upon her perfect white finger. I would buy her an exquisite diamond when we married, one that would turn the heads of every woman in Paris.
Every woman ought to be jealous of Christine. She is the bravest of women, able to look upon me without the barest trace of fear. She is also the kindest being that ever existed, caring for her poor, unhappy Erik like she loves him! Of her beauty, no painter could ever capture the bright blue of her eyes, the soft pink of her smile, and her hair like morning sunbeams.
She could love me, though, truly. One day she could. She would learn to. After all, she had said that she did not even see my face anymore. That was all that had kept me from love: my face.
To be loved by such a sweet being as Christine, how wonderful it is! I doubt most can feel as exquisite, pure happiness as I. Theirs is tainted by endless forms of it. They have mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and gifts and sweets. Christine is my only happiness. She fills my dreams now, dreams and not nightmares! I have gone all my life without the taste of a sun-kissed dream.
What a dream I had experienced the previous night! It washed away all the nightmares, every last one, until I can hardly remember them. What a small bit of happiness can do to sorrow! Why, someone needs to learn how to package it. Ah, but then, there are sweets, yes. I find no happiness in those, though.
But the dream, oh, the dream was of a meadow! It was coated in flowers of every type imaginable, even ones born of my own unconscious imagination. The sun was blinding, the air cool, and there were birds chirping in a few scattered trees. Christine sat beneath one, her pale complexion protected by the leafy shade. She wore a dress the color of the sky, and sat upon a red-and-white blanket, with a basket before her. She said to me, "Erik, I love you." Only that! Then the dream dissolved into terror, but imagine! If only she could say that in reality, I would certainly die of happiness.
I ought to listen for her now. She had told me she would come by after church. She is so pure! The other chorus girls rarely go, as they see no point in it. Christine, however, is devout. I do believe there must be a god, and I do hope- I know- that there is a heaven for Christine.
...
She asked me to sing for her! How darling she is. I was only too happy to oblige, and I observed her reactions. She was in rapture. Her blue eyes were at their widest, until I feared they might swallow me whole. Oh, to live inside their blue depths, how wonderful that would be!
Then she cried when the piece ended. I asked her why, and she said she was thinking about her poor Erik, and how lonely I must have been without her. No one had ever cared about my loneliness before, save the daroga, but not like this. Why, she must love me! Had she missed me, then, too? I asked her this, and she replied that she wished I could sing her to sleep at night. The angel! I insisted she could have as much music as she wanted whilst with me, and she promised to visit every week. She even said she might stop by when she liked. Oh, the thought made me weep for joy. She did not complain of my tears, but allowed me to comfort myself in her skirts. My mother had never let me touch her, but she had afforded me her skirts on occasion. Christine permitted it always! Her skirts were always soft, as well, whereas my mother's were coarse and unyielding. Christine's were like woven water.
To my horror, however, upon recovering myself and rising before her, I found her skirts damp with my wretched tears. I decided I would purchase a new dress for her, perhaps a soft lavender, to pay for my carelessness. She made no comment upon the droplets, and even told me she wished I did not cry so much, out of pity. It made her sad, she said.
Our tears both made each other sad! That is a sure form of love, is it not? Regardless, I worshiped her the remainder of our time. We spent three hours together, in perfect bliss. I counted her smiles: twelve! Twelve smiles, all in three hours! Surely she loves me if I can make her smile? I had never made a woman smile before her.
Alas, she glanced at the clock that I had been, at intervals, winding a few minutes back at a time to avoid her notice. It had finally reached three hours of her time with me.
I could not help but weep for our parting. The house had become bright and warm in her presence, almost as if it were above ground, and I knew that when she left, it would be dark and cold, and return to its former tomb-like state.
The perfect angel allowed me ten more minutes of her presence, thankfully. I spent that time telling her, in the midst of my tears, how wonderful she was. I praised her kindness, her bravery, and I thought of every beautiful aspect of her and described them all in the most lovely phrases I could think up. Love had made me into a poet. I could not help crooning words of love into her skirts, perhaps repeating the same part over and over, admiring how perfectly it fit the feelings in my heart.
She did separate from me eventually. I rowed her across the lake, the one she called magical, and deposited her on the other side. She bade me goodbye, promising to return as soon as she could.
I feel as if I had been dead for the entirety of my existence, and she had brought me back to life. When she left, I returned to the grave.
