The next few weeks passed quickly like a shadow creeping over Erik's life. Now more than ever did he feel alone. He had always been alone really. Growing up as a child, his only friend was a toy monkey who played the symbols. As an adult, he immersed himself in different fields of knowledge, but he always came back to the Opera Populaire. It was his home, really, and he belonged there as much as Christine belonged there with him. Christine. It always came back to Christine for Erik. He spent his recent years loving her more than she would ever love him, hoping that maybe he was wrong and there actually was something lovable about him. He should've guessed what would have happened. No song would ever capture her beauty or his misery. He did try to write, since it was always his one way of expressing himself. He could vent every emotion into a single song, yet, when he picked up his pen, nothing came from it. There was some invisible block on his connection to music. For Erik, this only served as another example that he was slowly fading away.
This was the case of today, as he tried to write something-anything. He had come up with three pages of a play called Tragedy's Score. Within these pages, the main character is murdered by his wife's lover, who is in turn kidnapped and sold into slavery by the lover's two evil henchmen. Erik picked up the pages, crumpled them into a ball, and tossed them into the hastily swept pile of broken glass. He discovered that some six days ago. The shards of glass covering his entire island had been swept into two piles of dust. Erik had a feeling that he knew who it was, he just didn't understand why she had done it; this would be the second time the woman had helped him, when he did not want her help at all. Erik stood up quickly in his anger and paced the floor of his familiar cave. What was he supposed to do? He could not write for he could not think of anything to write about except his misery.
Erik had turned into an exceptionally desperate case of self pity.
He flung himself onto the oyster-like, red velvet bed which he Christine had slept in only a month ago. He wondered what she was doing with Raoul. Were they married already? Would they do it as fast as possible out of burning love for each other? Or would they wait so that their families could gather and put on a splendid celebration?
"Christine! Christine! Have you forgotten me forever? I love you, I loved you. I cannot forget you too." The words burst forth from the Phantom in the form of a tortured song and broke off into weak whispers. His exclamations bounced around the chasms of the Opera Populaire and he knew that, if anyone listened hard enough, they could be heard calling for Christine in his desperation. Right now, Erik didn't care. He wouldn't care if it brought another raving mob to his heels, barking out orders for his death once again. He pried himself from his bed and self-loathing, only to return to the familiar organ again. Familiar...everything was far too familiar. He couldn't forget her, if he was surrounded by memories of her. Fingers splaying on the organ keys, Erik gracefully played a tune painfully familiar to himself. He hummed the words he had written to its tune and thought of something that would take him far away from Christine. Where could he go that he wouldn't think about Christine the entire time?
The melody tilted and lilted like the light of a thousand stars dancing to the chorus of the moon and other night creatures like himself. The answer was simple; there was nothing that did not make Erik think of Christine. He woul have to find something as equally distracting in order to mask his memories of her. Another opera? No, that would make things worse. He needed to leave the Opera tonight and venture out into the city. Sticking to the shadows, he would search for an answer to his questions. If he found no answer, he would return to his doom and waste away his days in this dungeon, alone, forever alone.
It was a simple quest, but one that could not be taken lightly. He must guard himself, so that no enemies might discover him. If he was even slightly careless, it would all be a waste and he would discover nothing, save maybe the sharp and sweet bitterness of death. Erik found his black cloak and his mask. After placing both on, he fetched his rapier and pocketed a small figurine of Christine to remind him of his task.
Paris is a beautiful city at night with the merry life that fills its streets at any hour. As Erik paced the shadows untouched by the festivity of young love, the beauty of the city was like washed out watercolor, turning dismal and dreary. Even as Erik watched the couples dancing around him, everything seemed empty. The splendor of Paris was nothing compared to his rose, his Christine. Erik heaved a heavy sigh and internally chastised himself for being so pitiful. He would not wallow in his depression; he had a task to accomplish and he would succeed. Erik strutted forward under the protective blanket of night, searching for an opening in his own character. He had to succeed.
As he turned a corner, Erik bumped into a small, feminine figure. Though his cloak covered his face, Erik's hands flew to his head to pull it tighter. The figure in a light gray coat, hat, and head scarf. Glanced up at him and darted past him, as if his presence stung her.
He walked down the alley, a skip in his step, and a new fear in his heart. The shadows he stalked now seemed feral and dangerous, even to him. Erik's heart began to race and he felt goosebumps rising on his skin; he could swear someone was watching him...it would be alright though, the entrance to the alley was not far ahead. If he moved a little faster, he could-
"Hello, friend. Nice night for a stroll isn't it?" A nasally yet distinctly masculine voice pierced the night air from behind Erik. Turning around, Erik saw that a scrawny little man had indeed been following him. Erik felt himself relax at the pitiful sight of this scoundrel; he would handle this man quickly in a matter of seconds. At the sight of the gun in the man's hand, Erik's fear creeped back up. "I like that coat of yours," The thief whistled. "What nice big pockets they have. I wonder what they hold?" He grinned a toothless grin which faded off into a scowl as Erik didn't even flinch. If he ever learned one thing from his childhood, it was how to hide your emotions.
"Empty 'em, before I empty your skull, idiot." The scoundrel growled. He reminded Erik of a fox, a dangerous, deceitful fox. Erik threw back his hood to reveal his mask. He lifted his chin haughtily at the bandit and moved his hand to his waist.
"I think you are more of an imbecilic than I could ever hope to be, even if I bashed my head upon a rock for several months." Erik replied snobbishly to the criminal, who looked a little indignant amongst other things. After all, he was robbing the Phantom, not the other way around. Instead of insulting Erik back, however, the thief had something even worse.
"You! You're that Opera Ghost, aren't you? The Phantom of the Opera. I know Andre, and I guarantee he will pay quite the hefty fee for your head on a silver platter." The man threatened, scratching his stubbly chin. The Phantom raised his hands in a surrendering sort of gesture, unhappy about this turn of events. The criminal aimed his pistol square at Erik's chest and made to squeeze the trigger.
A hand flew out from behind the scrawny man and deftly slit his throat with a small pocket knife. Blood poured from the criminal's wound as he slumped against the ground, twitching before finally dying. The person who had slit the man's throat was none other than the small lady in the grey coat. Erik reached for his hood quickly at the sight of her, but he stopped him with a flick of her hand.
"There's no need for that. Though I am curious, what are you doing out here, Erik?" A familiar voice asked him. The woman removed her hood and scarf, after safely storing her pocket knife back into coat's inner pockets. Erik was not surprised to find Madame Antoinette Giry before him.