Chapter Two: The Trap is Set

Christine stood abruptly, almost toppling the chair over in her haste to rise.

"P-please excuse me…I-I feel rather sick," she stammered through pale lips, looking everywhere but at the newspaper.

"Of course, I hope you-" Raoul began diplomatically, but Christine was already hurrying off, her ornate yellow dress sweeping the marble floors softly. Her fiancé stared after her with wide blue eyes before shrugging dismissively to himself and resuming his meal.

She needed time to think.

Christine paced her room, her heart pounding rhythms against her ribs. Her soft silken shoes made no sound on the marble, and the whisper of her skirt was the only sound in the room. But in Christine's head voices raged in conflict.

Oh Erik, my angel! How could this have happened?

But was that even your Erik? Who is to say that another Erik does not exist in Paris? It's not as if they printed a full name in the paper.

Then again, it's not as if you know his full name.

This was the moment she had most been dreading since she had been beseeched to care for Erik's body when he died. He had looked her in the eyes, his golden orbs alight with some hidden emotion.

"Christine…I know you will not stay with me forever. I cannot ask you, an angel, to stay in this…this hell," he had spat out the last word with disgust, "but I ask only one thing of you. Since you cannot be with me in life, I beg you…please be my aid in death. When I die, as I undoubtedly shall when my beautiful music leaves me, please come back and find me."

He had taken her hand with his cool, long fingers, cradling her smaller hand in his fervently. Erik had bent his dark head gravely to look at her delicate hand as he gently ran his fingers over hers.

"I-I don't…" he had paused, his melodic voice breaking with emotion, "I don't want to remain in this hell for eternity." A single tear had dropped onto their joined hands, striking a chord in Christine's charitable heart.

Christine did not fully understand the words when he had spoken them, but she had agreed, deeply touched by his show of emotion. But realization dawned on her now, causing her to feel weak. Christine sat down hard on her bed.

She was his music, and she had left him alone and cold in his dark hell.

The least she could do was keep her promise.

XXXXXXX

He stared blankly at the food in front of him. Vaguely he wondered why he even bothered to continue to buy it. Eating no longer held any pleasure; it was simply not the type of nourishment he so craved. Not that he precisely needed to eat regularly; he had gone for long periods of time sustained only by creativity and musical inspiration. He had survived then. He could survive now. Not that he in fact wanted to survive at the moment. Not that he in fact should be alive.

Pushing his untouched, meager meal aside with a sneer, he placed his arms on the table and propped his weary head in his long hands. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily, feeling the resulting hollowness as the air rushed from his lungs and past his lips. For a few moments he allowed a dim fog to blanket his mind, cloaking his thoughts and bringing a manner of unconscious peace. When he had finally attained a state close to serenity, a nagging thought suddenly pierced this veil of unawareness like a hot knife.

Oh angel, how fallen you are! A voice in his mind taunted him with a hint of a derisive laugh.

Standing up with a rumbling growl emanating from deep in his chest, he began to fitfully pace his underground prison with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His black leather boots, scuffed and faded, clicked out rhythmic staccato notes on the rock beneath his feet.

Why do you delight in tormenting yourself? The voice in his head asked, slippery like oil in its soothing tone. Why not just end it all, here and now?

The man spun to glance at the table with cat-like fluidity to his movements, causing his tattered and torn cape to whirl around him and embrace his skeletal body. The golden eyes behind his silken black mask glinted in the candlelight as they came to rest on his tool of salvation. Dull and blurred vision snapped into focus – his first moment of clarity in a long time. A knife lay next to his discarded plate of food. Eyeing it hungrily, as if it were his soul's desire, he tentatively stepped over to once again stand near the carved wooden table. He slowly picked up the knife and turned it, watching how the candlelight danced along the blade. Dimly he wondered what it would feel like to die….

Shaking this thought from his mind angrily, he hurled the knife away with a snarl. It clattered to the floor and skittered away to reside in a darkened corner of the room. His slender fingers shook uncontrollably, and he ran them fitfully through his unkempt hair.

He didn't have the courage to die. But he didn't have the courage to live alone either. He could not learn to live in his solitude, the lone prince of his personal hell, once he had tasted the joys of heaven.

He needed her, but he did not have her. He could have her, but he would hate himself for it – but there was never actually any other decision he could reach. All he could do now was curse himself for his impending deceitfulness and wait.

Go away for the trap is set and waits for its prey…Ah, the bitter irony.

XXXXXXX

After a few hours of numbness where she sat on the downy bed, almost unblinking, staring into the gas lamp on the wall, Christine finally managed to rouse herself enough to recognize she needed to begin her preparations. She had no idea what time it was, but she knew her unsavory business was best handled as soon as possible. Quickly standing, she had to grasp the bedpost to keep her balance. Christine's lack of breakfast had left her feeling rather lightheaded and her vision swam momentarily, but the furnishings of her room soon stopped their obnoxious twirling. She would simply grab something to eat along the way to the Opera House.

Brushing a stray curl from her face, she strode to the wardrobe, running her hands along the smoothly polished cherry wood before opening the doors. Shuffling through the exquisitely ornate dresses she found within, she forcefully pushed them aside. It wouldn't do to wear a bright, bejeweled gown to perform the task she was obliged to do. Towards the back of the wardrobe, hidden beneath piles of slippers, she found some of the dresses that she had managed to retain, even against Raoul's urgings to be rid of such simple clothing. Settling on a dark grey dress with only a little lace along the bodice and sleeves, she swiftly changed into it – or as swiftly as she could. The dresses she had been coerced into wearing for the past months happened to be as hard to get out of as to get into.

Fumbling with the myriad lacings up the back of her yellow gown, Christine cursed quietly under her breath.

That's not very lady-like, a condescending voice in her head pointed out. Her rosebud lips curled in a wry smile; she could just imagine the speech she would receive if her fiancé heard her. Raoul would most likely begin by sighing in his irritating manner and fixing her with a patronizing smile before scolding her as if she were a disobedient child.

She wondered suddenly if Raoul would expand his vocabulary if he were forced to wear such infuriating clothing. Perhaps if he knew the suffering I undergo every day just to please him he would appreciate my presence more…

Her overtaxed mind conjured an image of Raoul in a frilled and laced dress and hysterical laughter bubbled past her lips. She quickly cut it off, for it sounded strained and false, only proving to jar her nerves further.

Shaking her head, she finished donning the grey dress. Christine, concentrate! There are more pressing issues at hand besides your wardrobe!

Growing somber with the thought of her departed angel – for she no longer felt guilty to refer to him as such – Christine gathered a few more simple dresses and laid them upon her bed. She retrieved a simple travel bag from the bottom of her wardrobe and returned to the bed to pack her clothing. As she leaned over the dresses, mechanically folding them and placing them within the bag, she felt something warm and wet fall onto her hand. Pausing and glancing down curiously, she beheld a tiny splatter of water on her cream colored skin. Christine brought her slender fingers up to her cheek and noticed that another droplet had just escaped the corner of her eye to rest on her soft skin. She was crying.

Her knees buckled. She numbly felt herself to fall into a sitting position on the floor, her skirts pooling around her. She placed her face in her hands and finally permitted herself to accept the emotions she had been stoically fighting the whole morning.

Her angel, her love, was dead.