Rain of Redemption
The river was rising abnormally high. I thought nothing of it for many days, but as it continued to swell at an unusual rate, I decided that the weather outside—yes, out in that cruel world—must be rainy.
I confess that I'm not quite sure if I remember what rain is like. Water falling from grey clouds, soaking everything in sight, and bathing the land in an earthy scent… is this what I remember, or what I imagine? I sighed, and rubbed my temples.
Why should Erik care about a little rain?
It was nothing more than a bother. Many think of it as a new beginning, a sign of being remade… and other strange forms of redemption. Irrational follies, I deem them—quite idealistic.
Pondering for a long while, I realized I could not recall my last memory of being caught in the rain. Perhaps I buried it, as I did with many memories? Memories having to do with her…
Shaking my head, I gave an agitated sigh. Come now, Erik, relax.
Glancing at the piano, I was surprised that my fingers did not ache for the touch of the ivories. Clenching and unclenching my hands, I gazed at them plainly. I traced the interlocking lines of my skin along my palm, contemplating my convoluted thoughts.
How long has it been?
A week, a month, a year, what?
It has been a year, I thought as I sat up with a jolt. A year? How could that be?
Rising from my seat, I strode over to a spot on the wall where thin little scratches were carved into the soft stone. Ritualistic, this daily accounting of the days was. And I was on day three hundred sixty-five. Yes, it truly was one whole year.
Gazing at the lines, I noticed how those toward the beginning of the collection were somewhat jagged and uneven—anything but straight. Then, as the lines progressed, they grew neater and more accurate.
My brows furrowed in confusion. Why was this so? Was my agony after my rejection so disparaging that I could not so much as carve a proper line into this yielding stone? To be truthful, I could not remember. Why are there, suddenly, so many things I cannot remember?!
Panic flooded me. What if, as time continues, I cannot remember her? Her name, her face, her… voice! Her voice! I could never forget her voice! Angelic and ethereal, it is surely impossible.
Desperate for a sanctuary amongst these unsettling thoughts, I let my mind wander for a moment, lost in silence as it searched. Since my thoughts had only just left the subject of rain, a fond memory of her floated into my consciousness: She adored rain. As young adult, she would dance about outside the Opera House in the rain, singing and laughing with delight as the other girls watched, uttering whispers back and forth, questioning the sanity of my carefree Christine.
I froze.
Her name.
Christine… Christine Daaé. My angel of music.
"Christine," I said, the word sounding pleasant upon my lips, "Christine." I allowed myself a foolish smile, and even a chuckle as I thought about a younger Christine, her wavy hair flying about and curling all the more from the humidity as she ran, barefoot, in the street outside the Opera House.
My thoughtless grin did not fade from my features, which were so often etched in frowns.
Yes, I daresay rain is a lovely thing.
I closed my eyes, listening to the distant rush of the river, and opened them, a sense of purpose held in my irises. I snatched up my cape and rushed out the nearest exit.
When I reached a hidden exit leading to an alley alongside the Opera House, I paused, uncertain for the briefest of moments. Was I ready to venture back out into the outside world, if only for a moment? The vision of a lovely barefoot child dancing in the rain answered my question.
My lungs were filled with fresh, humid air, and the aroma of wet earth tickled my senses. The corner of my mouth rose up for an instant as I stepped out into the cobblestone alley.
Instantly, I felt cool little pelts of raindrops against my hair and clothing. I admit I was not expecting it to be so electric, being rained upon. I resisted the urge to run back inside and seek dryness.
As I stood, a vision appeared before me, so vivid I questioned if it was real: little Christine pranced around in front of me. My eyesight wavered though, for a moment, as rain water started to collect and drip into my eye that was hidden beneath my mask.
Squinting that eye, I gazed forward to see if the apparition of Christine was still there, and indeed, she was! Smiling and giddy before me. A thought crossed my mind, and, try as I did to shoo it away, it would not leave me. The idea of it was so tempting, so alluring that I could not bear to resist.
Glancing around for any possible passerby that would come through the alley, I took a deep breath, my heart suddenly drumming fearfully in my chest.
I removed my mask.
I stared at it, as rain collected in its curves. Clutching it tightly, I slowly and gently titled my head back, my face fully exposed, completely facing the sky.
A rush of relief coursed through me as the cool rain fell against my distorted features. The sensation was unlike anything I had felt before. At first, the chill was a bit stinging and uncomfortable, but then, as seconds passed, nothing could suppress the smile that played upon my face.
I could hear, distantly, the bell-like laughter of a young Christine, who, in my mind's eye, danced a lively jig around me, singing sweet songs of happiness and beauty with her young, pure voice. My grin grew larger, and a throaty chuckle escaped from me. And another. And another. Soon I was laughing a completely genuine and utterly human laugh.
This happiness was undeterred as Christine grew older in my mind's vision. She soon became the familiar Christine that I had know—and lost—only a year ago. She had left me, true. But not forever. Not for good.
Bending my head back into its regular position, raindrops clung to my eyelashes and dripped down the bridge of my nose. Oh, how wonderful it was to feel such a simple ecstasy such as this!
I placed my mask upon my face once again, but did not return to the darkness in which I had so long lived.
My legs, instead, took me to a place I could only assume was correct. A window upon the highest floor was open, and, as I stood from my spot in the street—which was empty, not a soul in sight—I saw a curly haired woman lean out, her eyes closed, her expression looking as though she wished she could embrace the clouds themselves.
At last.
"Christine," I whispered inaudibly, my joy still evident upon my face, "Oh, my Christine."
A second or so later, she glanced down at me, as if she had heard me like I was standing beside her. But who is to say I wasn't?
Seized by a boldness I admit I have never been possessed with, I removed my mask, exposing my blissful, yet still deformed, face to her.
My heart made a giant leap as a broad grin lit up her lovely face. I chuckled, as did she, I saw from afar.
Extending her arm, she raised a single finger and disappeared. I stood in my place eagerly waiting, turning my mask over and over again in my hands.
I glanced down at the ground, observing the many cobblestones of different shapes and sizes when suddenly, my eyes came upon two perfect feet, bare against the stone.
My head snapped up, and I was greeted with the sight of my darling Christine dancing about in the rain, like a child I once knew from so long ago. Her laughter, resembling soft, sweet bells, echoed throughout the street as she leapt in and out puddles and danced about.
She turned around, skipped to me, and grasped my warm hand in her own cool one. Pulling me along, she engaged me in a playful dance, and then later, as it grew late, she proceeded to hold me close to her delicate self.
Laying a smooth, soft hand upon the unmasked side of my face, she stroked the skin softly. Then, daring to inch even closer, she whispered two words. "I'm sorry," and she gently placed her lips against mine.
Yes, I daresay that rain is a form of redemption. And Erik needed redemption.