Hey, guys! This was a random one-shot I came up with last-night (meaning last-night of a few weeks ago). I was actually in bed trying to fall asleep when this came to me. It gave me nightmares, and I almost cried as I thought it through. Wow... I'm such a terrible person. (evilfaceplz) Oh, well. Erik's angst is good once in a while. Tell me what you think, alright? This is Leroux/Kay based, in case I didn't mention that in the summary.
Oh, by the way, it's Christine's perspective.
Oh, by the by the way, this is set during one of Kay Erik's moments when he tortures himself for lusting after Christine. I read that somewhere. Pretty sure it was in Kay, but I could be mistaken. Anywho, just read and enjoy.
Oh, by the by the by the way, Erik's greatest fear (in case you hadn't realized this yet) is himself. His physical and mental self. He fears only himself. And that would explain his behavior down below.
Okay, now read!
Screaming... Oh, where was it coming from? All I could see was darkness... Pitch-black darkness. But in that darkness, someone was screaming; screaming in pain; screaming in fear; screaming for help. I had to find the voice; I had to help it! But where was it coming from?
Oh, sleep. Wretched, awful sleep! Why must you keep me in this death-like state when someone is crying for my assistance? Why must your clasps be so strong, that not even the strongest mind is able to break your chains? Please, oh blessed sleep... Please break my bonds just this one time, that I may find the voice and comfort it. I will not ask you again if you will but help me this one time. I swear on my poor, deceased father's name that it is true!
Feeling... I can feel. My limbs are starting to wake. Oh, sleep! Thank you! I will not ask again, you have my word.
I started to wake, my moments of sleep just disappearing. My limbs were slowly coming back into feeling, as my consciousness tried to grasp the situation. The voice was still screaming, and the ferocity of its pleas were growing stronger and louder in dynamic. I suddenly realized that the voice was in this very building. But where was I?
"Christine, you must sleep," a male voice spoke. "You have been sick, and you are not feeling very well. Here, let me prepare you some tea. After which, will you promise me you will sleep?"
Oh, yes... I remembered. I was with him... This was his room; the room that I had, a few hours before, fallen asleep in. Had it really only been a few hours? Or perhaps I was looking at this the wrong way... Perhaps it had only been a few minutes... I calmed my curiosity, for finding the time was not my priority. No, my priority was to find the source of the screaming voice, and silence its fears and pain.
I threw my legs over the side of the bed, quickly feeling around for my robe.
"Hello?" I called. "Where are you?" I could feel the adrenaline of the moment rushing through my veins, only causing me to panic more.
What could cause such screaming? I thought while tying on the strings of my robe. I have never heard anything like this...
"Stay where you are!" I yelled. "I am coming to find you." I quickly lit the candle on my night-stand before scurrying to the door.
Oh, what anguish! I thought. What screaming madness!
The screaming intensified, turning into pleas and cries for help. I rushed down the hallways, pressing my cheek to every door, listening for every sound within.
Oh, Erik, where are you? Can you not hear the screams?
The delirium from sleep still held me, so I did not quite realize that it was him who screamed until I made it to the Louis-Philippe room.
It was louder there, the screaming. It held me so strongly and clasped at all of the good in my heart so tightly, that I could not help but weep. I turned and looked, frantically looking for a sign of him, tears streaking down my face. Where are you? The only place I could think to find him was behind the door he had told me I was never to enter.
"Erik, are you here?" I called. There was no answer, except the screaming from behind the door. It was louder, more tormented, now, almost as if he was being torn limb from limb while being forced to drink some sort of poison.
"Erik...?" I called again, but this time my voice was weaker, heavy with fear. What would I find behind that door? Erik had all sorts of secrets.
I extended my hand, and it landed gently on the handle of the door. I was afraid and reluctant to open it, but the sounds of the shrieking had escalated, cleaving my heart in two with its melancholy sound. When I could no longer stand it, I burst through the door. Erik was twisting in pain on the ground, his skin bloodied with the miscellaneous cuts distancing his entire body. His torn shirt and white mask lay abandoned beneath an Iron tree. The tormented man in front of me did not appear to notice my presence, for he continued to scream and weep. Broken glass from the tall, shattered mirrors crunched beneath him as he continued to remorse in something that I was too young to understand. His pain was enough to root me to the spot, for in his pain, I almost heard a cry for help. And there in his eyes was something I had once noticed in my father's. It was a mixture of reconciliation, unending pain, and eternal torment; it was the look of a man long ago doomed to bear the burden of something he felt like he deserved, yet he didn't know why. My father had first worn this look after Mama died; after the last breath escaped from her breast. For years, he had tried to cover it with a mask of happiness and pleasure, but it never faded completely. It always stuck on his skin, like a reminder of something he didn't wish to be reminded of. In Erik's eyes, I saw this same look, but I knew it was not caused by death, for the only person he cared about was still alive, standing in the doorway, watching him cry. No, I did not know what caused his grievance, and days later it dawned on me that this was not the work of another being that caused his weeping; no, this was the work of a man who felt the only way to get rid of his sorrow was through self-infliction.
"Oh, Erik..." I whispered, tears spilling down my cheeks. "I pity you, Erik! Oh, how I pity you..." I fell to my knees, then, not sure of what I should do. His screams continued, singing the song of a lost soul never to return home; the song of a man so twisted and pained, there was no redemption left. I heard it all, and I wept... Oh, how I wept... I wept for Mama... I wept for Papa... But most importantly, I wept for the man that I had always told myself I was afraid of; the man I told myself I did not, could not, love.
"Christine..." He finally choked, causing me to jump, unaware he knew of my presence. "Christine, why must you weep? Why must you cry for your poor, unhappy Erik? It is not your burden to bear..." Though he spoke to me, his weeping did not stop. No, it seemed almost as if it grew in intensity. I remained silent, for I did not know what to say. I just hung my head in sorrow, sharing in his pain.
"Christine," he continued, his voice hoarse and still shaking with sobs. "Please don't cry... You know I cannot stand it when you cry."
"I know, Erik..." I managed through shaky breaths. "But I can't help it... Your pain is too great. I feel that if I do not share it, you will die from it."
"Come here, child..." He beckoned, slowly and remorsefully. I could not deny this tortured man, so I stood, shakily, and made my way to his side, kneeling down in front of him.
"You must not cry for me. Do you understand?" He painfully brought himself to a sitting position, his unmasked gaze falling upon mine.
I did not want to, but I nodded. I could not refuse him anything.
"I am undeserving of your tears... I am undeserving of you." His pained gaze grew cold with his words. "Christine, why must you return? Why could you not stay with your precious Vicomte and allow me to rot and die, everything I deserve?" His temper started to rise and I slowly slid away, not wanting any pain that might be brought by his uncontrolled temper . "Every week you come back! Why? Why taunt me? Why return to me when it is quite blatant that you fear me, and do not wish to be with me?" His voice was at its mezzo-forte, slowly working its way to a forte, and then back to the screaming fortissimo that had brought me to this chamber. But this time, the screaming also held words. "Oh, mad Christine! Mad, mad Christine! Why must you return? Why must you taunt a beast such as I with your angelic beauty?"
His angry tone frightened me, and I pressed myself closer to the wall behind me, wishing that I could escape, somehow. I watched as he scrambled to his feet, suddenly, and stumbled clumsily, but quickly out the door. I awaited for the sound of a slamming door, signaling his departure to his room. But it did not come. It did, however, get quiet, and I was unsure if he was there or if he had indeed left.
I allowed myself to relax and dry my tears, sucking in great breaths, before I slowly stood and made my way to the arch-way to the Louis-Philippe room. I slowly looked about the room, the dimming and dying fire flickering orange light on the walls. I stepped slowly down onto the soft, red carpet that mimicked that of a Persian-rug. As the fire crackled, I finally noticed a figure sitting in Erik's armchair, facing the fire.
"Erik?" I slowly stepped forward to see who it was, recognizing Erik's distinguishable facial features. He seemed to be staring into the fire, lost deep in thought, all previous tears and screams gone. As my eyes dwelt on his skeletal figure, I noticed he was fingering a gun. I gasped, jumping back.
"Erik, what are you doing?" I asked, afraid he'd do something drastic. He ignored my question and looked down at the gun, slowly cocking the hammer back.
"Have you ever felt true pain, Christine?" He asked, his voice cold, harsh, and emotionless. "Pain caused by the knowledge that you cannot ever rightfully and fairly possess a certain individual or object?"
"I-I do not... Do not understand." My eyes remained on the gun, fearing that it would take the life of one of us. I did not know what Erik had in mind, then, but I did not want to find out. I extended my hand, motioning for the gun, slowly and quietly, not wanting to upset him. "Erik, please give me the gun. You don't know what you're doing." But he did not hear me. He was long gone into the depths of his tortured mind.
"If I were to die, Christine, would you mourn me?" His eyes looked up from the gun and bore into mine. "If I were to point this gun at my head, would you try and stop me?" As he said this, he pulled the gun to his temple, pressing it into the skin. I nearly had a heart-attack.
"Erik, no! Don't do that!" I fell to my knees at his feet, pleading for him to give me the gun. "If you go now, who will teach me? Who will make me great?" I tore at his arm that held the gun to his head.
His hard gaze continued to bear into my own, and I could feel his sunken eyes on my face.
"Erik, please..." Tears fell uncontrollably down my face. "Don't."
"Why? Why should I listen to you? You who has never listened to me!" His temper was rising again and my instincts told me to get away, but if I stepped back from him, I would no longer be able to control the bullet that could very well enter his head. So I remained.
"You who has defied everything I have told you!" He continued, standing and ripping my grip from his arm. "I told you not to continue seeing that de Chagny boy, but you did not listen! I told you not to take my mask from my face, but you did not listen! I have told you not to cry for me, but here you are, weeping at my feet!" The gun did not move from its spot in his head. "Why should I be inclined to listen to you, when you obviously cannot listen to me?"
"Please, Erik... I know I've made mistakes, but you love me... Isn't that what you say? If you truly loved me, you would give me that gun and you would forget these silly ambitions of yours." I extended my hand, waiting for him to press it into my palm. I could see that my words had had an effect on him, for I could see his hand-grip loosen extensively. He still did not, however, hand me his gun.
"I am built of death, Christine, so why should I still live? Would it not be for the best if I died and left you to your merry ways?" His tone was biting, but his grip on the gun was still relaxed. "Should I not exhibit what my features would have you believe?"
"Erik, no! No, you are a living being, just like me! You breathe, you hurt, you bleed..." I gently took his unoccupied left hand and brushed over his wounds, pulling loose bits of broken glass. My touch made him tense; I could feel his taut muscles under my hand and I could not help but notice how well-built he was. His skinny, skeletal appearance undermined his muscularity, and I had never noticed how physically strong he was. It took me by surprise and it took all I had to remain where I was, as not to startle or offend him.
"Now, for my sake, will you please give me the gun? If your love is really as great as you say, you will hand me the gun." I was almost at the point of desperation, now... I could not watch a man die before my eyes. I would not allow it. Especially not my music teacher; the man, whether I liked it or not, who had made me everything I was.
Something collapsed in him at that moment, for he handed me the gun and collapsed into my arms.
"Oh, Christine..." He whispered, exhaustion tainting his voice. He permitted a few more tears to slide down his cheeks, and I felt them as they dropped onto my shoulder.
I held him, then, for there was not much else that I could do. I merely held him and sang quietly into his ear, until he miraculously fell asleep.
I moved him to his rarely used bed-room (after having picked all of the glass from his flesh with a pair of forceps I found in the linen cabinet) where I watched him sleep for a while. I did not know why I desired to watch him sleep, but it was almost calming to know that even the wildest, most pained beast could find temporary rest and calm in sleep. As I watched him, it made me wonder why he denied himself so much relief. Then I remembered words he had said once to me.
Not everyone finds happy, sweet dreams in sleep. For the most tormented, anguished soul, sleep only brings oneself back into unwanted memories, forcing them to relive the most painful of wounds.
I pitied him then. Everything from that night made me pity him. The way he pointed that gun at himself, the way he cried, the way he screamed...
During that night, I began to understand Erik just a little bit more, and I knew it would make me hate and fear him a little less from that point on.
Alright, well... There you go. I've been working on this for weeks, now, and I'm still not quite satisfied with it, but I feel that it's just time for me to post it and come back to it later. I am very much eager to hear how you guys viewed it. No offense, but I hope it tore you in two (it was sort of one of my goals as I wrote this, but I fear I did not execute very well)
Oh, and by the way, if you want to envision Erik's gun, I decided on a French revolver called the Lefaucheux M1858. It's circa ended in 1865, but I figured that since Erik was a bit of an "old-fashioned" kind of guy, he would have an "old-fashioned" gun. It was used during his lifespan, so I'm certain he had one at one point.
Anyway... I also wanted to explain why I had Christine sort of look at Erik's muscularity. For one, we all know it's there. I mean, since this book is based off of Leroux and Kay, Erik has got to have some pretty gnarly muscles. I mean, he worked as a stone-mason at the age of fourteen for basically twenty hours everyday, plus he was an assassin in Persia (which has got to take some muscle), plus he ran and climbed all over the Paris Opera House for a living. This guy has got to be ripped! And I had Christine kind of recognize it because it made him all the more a... Man, I guess, and not a ghost. Men have muscle, not ghosts. And I also used it so Christine kind of... was attracted, I supposed, but not in that connotation. I mean, Christine's a girl. Women are attracted to muscle. End of story. Sooo... It was sort of another way to have you guys understand that Christine is starting to view him as that of a man and not some crazy lunatic beast (which is still what he is). Anyway... I don't think this explanation did any of my thoughts justice, but I just thought I should explain so you're not all, "Is she throwing Gerik into the Leroux novel?" No. No, I am not throwing Gerik into the Leroux novel.
This ends a very long ending-Author's-Note. Please review... I seriously spent weeks on this, trying to get it just right. I even deleted huge chunks of it, basically starting from scratch.