-1Erik. His name was Erik.
It seemed important somehow to hang onto that fact.
He had to keep reminding himself, "I have a name. My name is Erik. I am Erik."
But he didn't have another name.
What was wrong with him, he wondered. Why had his mind bent? Why had he allowed himself to sink into madness? How had he allowed himself to hurt the only thing he held dear?
Christine. Beautiful, sweet loving Christine. His Christine, if only for that moment when their hands met in a silvery flash of cool gloved fingertips against hot, welcoming flesh; and suddenly they were the only two people on earth.
But then that pretty boy, his rival, that vicomte, had found his way to Christine's door and shattered the spell. In that instant, his bottled up nightmares and his consuming love--his obsession--for Christine had collided, snapping his mind in two.
Erik moaned. He'd broken everything in that first moment of jealousy.
He hoped that Madame Giry had truly forgiven him. He'd terrified her mercilessly since that night.
He hoped Meg didn't have nightmares about his destruction.
He hoped with every aching fiber of his soul to know that Christine did not hate him.
He even hoped that Raoul didn't blame Christine for all that had happened. It hadn't been her fault. It was his fault. Erik's fault.
"I am Erik," he thought, guilt momentarily stunning him. "It is my fault, because I am Erik."
It hurt him to admit that he--and not the Vicomte--had been the one causing pain. The Vicomte had only been protecting his love.
"He protected her from me," Erik whispered. "It was my fault. I am Erik."
Erik rose painfully from the blackened remains of his lair. Never a home, he thought sadly. It was time to move on, to leave the wreckage behind. The twin pains of guilt over his destruction and the black shadow of his insanity propelled him finally towards Montmartre.
Thoughtlessly, he stumbled through the tunnels and catacombs beneath Paris, until collapsing hours--days?--later.
Montmartre. Compared to his dead Opera House, it sounded like salvation.
In Montmartre, he could hide, he could heal, he could finally rest.
In Montmartre, he could at least find the materials for a new mask, and some clothes that were not torn and soiled. Shopkeepers there knew his tastes, he visited them often enough. In Montmartre, even a man as bent and twisted as Erik could live with little questioning.
He vaguely wondered how far he was from his destination. He hadn't realized how little attention he'd paid to his surroundings.
As he stood again he hissed in sudden pain. Glancing down, he dropped back to the ground, half his mind numbing again with shock.
His right leg was covered in blood--now dried mostly, but Erik could see fresh red oozing from the deep gash on his thigh.
He bit his lip at the pain.
This must have happened days ago, he realized, sniffing the wound curiously. He wrinkled his nose at the sour smell of infection.
Finally, his knowledge had become useful.
Shakily, he rose from the ground a second time, realizing the pain would only get worse as he waited.
The first step was agony. Erik clutched the wall, nearly unable to support himself.
The second step was worse.
The third step had him hissing once more, as he slid, defeated, down the tunnel wall.
He looked around him, faint light from somewhere ahead illuminating the path before him. He thought he recognized the carvings leading to the mask shop he favored.
Using his good leg and his hands, he pulled himself forward.
Erik bit back a sob at the pain. It was almost as bad as standing had been.
Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself forward again. He was so close to relief, to the outer world, to Montmartre, where he could find a doctor and a pain free life.
He found himself--minutes or hours later, he wasn't sure--in the basement of the mask shop. He was relieved he'd finally made it--until he realized that this was merely the basement.
Erik crawled to the ladder in the corner, leading to the store above. Determined, he forced himself to stand.
He had to use the wounded leg to climb the ladder. Each time he rested his weight on it, he clenched his teeth to keep in his screams.
When he reached the top, he forced open the trap door and pulled himself into the deserted shop.
Deserted. No one was here.
Erik rolled onto his back and looked toward the windows. In the moonlight, he could see an assortment of masks. Some leered while others grinned, expressions ranging from the menacing to the comical. All were laughing at him.
Erik closed his eyes. It was the middle of the night. No one would arrive for hours.
He was--for the moment--alone again.
Pain overtook him, and he let the sensations wash over his body.
Behind his eyelids he conjured up the image of Christine. She was so young compared to him--a delicate nineteen. Her face taunted him with it's youthfulness.
Was he truly thirty? the decade between them seemed unfathomable. Would it have been his fate to grow older and uglier before her eyes while she remained beautiful and fresh?
Perhaps, Erik mused, it is better this way.
Christine's image flitted across his thoughts and he let himself drift with her. He lost track of time and place, dreaming of the only thing he'd truly lost.
He hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep until he woke up.
Erik tensed. Someone was watching him. Then the pain flooded back and he involuntarily gasped at the shock.
A cool hand stroked across his forehead. Erik looked up but the face above him was shadowed and back-lit by a single lantern, left by the stairs.
The hand traced it's path again, and he realized the person was a woman.
She shifted, and he felt her shift his head to a better position in her lap. He stirred, but she stilled his movements.
"Quiet now, it's all right. I'm here. I live here. Just rest. I'll find your mask."
Erik felt the woman carefully shift from under him, and he coudln't stop the whimper as she left him. The loss of contact seared deep into his soul.
Her voice had sounded eerily familiar.
Christine. She sounded like his Christine.
No. Christine was gone. More than likely she'd married her pretty Vicomte by now, or another man, much worthier than Erik. Someone less frightening than Erik.
"I am Erik," he whispered. "It is my fault."
The woman--who couldn't be Christine--returned and gently laid a familiar shape over his face.
"There" she soothed. "Lay still, Erik. I'll help you up when you are more rested."
"But the patrons," he murmured, then corrected himself, "your customers--?"
"It's Sunday morning. Very early. We aren't open today. Now please, Erik, rest."
"My name--"
"I know. Shh. It's Erik. Your name is Erik."
He listened intently to her pronunciation of his name. Would Christine say Erik in the same, tender way?
"Christine," he whispered, his voice breaking slightly as he remembered.
He reached for the woman's hand, forcing himself to find her eyes, to make her understand.
"Tell her!" he pleaded. "Tell her...I am so sorry."
The woman shifted, and their eyes locked, as she answered, "I already know, darling."
In his mind, cool, gloved fingertips met hot flesh once more. "Christine," he breathed.
It wasn't a dream, he realized as she squeezed his hand. It was a miracle.
"Erik," she begged, her voice filled with unshed tears, "please don't leave me."
Erik thought that if he hadn't been in such pain, he might have laughed at Christine then. He hated to say it, but he'd suffered much worse as a child. Besides which, he only suffered what he deserved, after the catastrophe of the Opera House.
"It's my fault," he repeated. "I am Erik."
He must have said it aloud, he realized, because Christine was holding him again, and silently crying.
She shifted his body as she tried to quiet him, and sparks of pain shot through his leg and into his chest. His sharp hiss of air and knee jerk reaction to the pain made Christine let go of him, and shriek.
"Erik, your leg," she stammered. "I have to get a doctor! I have to go..."
She began to move, but Erik felt the shadows of insanity closing in on him as she moved away. Desperately he grabbed her wrist.
"Don't leave me," he begged, the madness catching his voice in his throat and causing his breath to hitch. Christine looked helplessly at him. He knew she didn't know what to do or think. He let her go, his release of her wrist painfully gentle. "Christine I love you," he whispered.
Biting her lip at his obvious pain, Christine knelt beside him again. "Would it help if I got you upstairs? The shop owner lets me live up there..." She shook her head at his helplessness. "At least you'll be comfortable.
"Don't leave..." he moaned.
Christine chewed her lip as Erik took her hand, his grip nearly crushing her delicate bones. "I won't leave you," she breathed, knowing that he would take her fetching the doctor as a breach of that promise. "I won't leave." Her teeth continued to worry her lip.
The journey upstairs lasted for what felt like an eternity. Erik tried not to lean too heavily on Christine, but the pain and the fatigue overwhelmed him, and he slowly allowed his weight to transfer to her. Christine didn't complain, and Erik tried not to wince with every step.
Pain shot up his leg with every movement. He gritted his teeth again, and held in his screams.
"I am Erik," he repeated, each time he uttered the phrase he felt somehow better, more able to bear the horror of the wound. Christine kept shooting him glances he could not read when he said the words, murmuring words meant to be soothing. All he could think was that she was sure to be frightened of him, somehow, when daylight came and she could see the monster she was helping.
And then, with the achievement of the flight of stairs behind him and the softest bed he'd ever lain on beneath him, he watched Christine's face fade into blackness.