AN: An attempt was made.
As he watched her leave, Erik searched for any sign of remorse. He found none. Will she find herself feeling guilty for my death? he wondered, and immediately decided that no, she wouldn't. She likely wasn't aware that her backstabbing would cause his death. A part of her, he was sure, still believed him to be a ghost. And that part of her would absolve her of any guilt.
Sure, she might have nightmares about the events of that night. Forever she would carry the memories with her. But Erik realized as he fought unconsciousness that there would no longer be a place for him there, inside her mind.
The physical wound she had inflicted was not enough to be fatal, not outright. He couldn't reach it to remove the broken glass and every movement caused what clotting had occurred to reopen and bleed anew.
How long had he been sitting there now, drifting in and out of consciousness? An hour? A day? Longer? He couldn't be sure. Once she had gone, he'd tried to get up multiple times to no avail. The pain was too much; it prevented him from putting weight on his left leg at all.
How fitting, he thought as darkness closed in around him, that my death comes at her hand.
He slumped forward, too weak to properly lie down, and the darkness consumed him.
It was the hardest thing she'd ever done, and with every step toward freedom she felt greater remorse. She was shaking like a leaf and barely able to keep herself from openly weeping as she helped Raoul along.
She knew it couldn't be much further now. They'd followed the path Raoul had taken, stopping now only because Christine couldn't push herself forward anymore. She took one last staggering step before collapsing. Raoul lost his balance and fell beside her.
"What's wrong?" he asked. When he received no answer, he reached out to touch her face. "Christine?"
"I shouldn't have done that," she whispered, her words hardly intelligible through the sobs that choked her. "Oh, Raoul, I stabbed him!"
"He had it coming," Raoul replied. She knew that he intended the words to be comforting but she found little comfort in them. "He nearly killed me!" he added, almost as an afterthought.
"I have to go back," Christine blubbered. Tears were streaming down her cheeks now and nothing she did could slow or stop them. She pulled herself to her feet and turned to go back, but Raoul grabbed her arm. "Let me go!"
"Christine, you can't. There's nothing waiting for you back there. He's as good as dead. You did us all a favor."
"But—"
"I won't let you turn back now," Raoul said, gripping her arm firmly as she struggled. She fought valiantly but lost her balance and toppled to the ground once more. She didn't try to get up again.
Somehow he managed to crawl into Christine's room. It hadn't been an easy task; red-hot pain radiated from the wound. He could already feel his flesh puckering with infection around the shard of mirror.
It was there that the mob found him. Splayed like a half-rotten corpse upon the ground, he was kicked and stepped on as they ransacked his home. In the cacophony of stomping and smashing, no one heard the corpse crying out in pain.
The opera house was dark and forbidding as Christine approached it three nights later, a thick black cloak obscuring all but the milky white skin of her hands. She hurried across the street to the charred shell of a building, devoid of its usual splendor in the wake of the angry mob that had taken it over.
That fateful night seemed so long ago. How she'd managed to bury such painful memories so soon boggled her mind and caused her guilt further even than that she already felt.
The foyer, once breathtaking in its decor, was now charred and nearly impassable. Still, Christine knew that she had precious little time before Raoul would discover that she had gone. She stumbled and tripped over various half-destroyed items, including part of the railing from the staircase.
When she'd left her sleeping fiancé, her plan had been to find her way back by way of the passage behind her dressing room mirror. Now, however, she discovered what must have been the route Erik had taken the night of the masquerade.
The darkness was peaceful. Not even a dream dared disturb him as he fell further and further away from life. He was at peace, even the pain of the wound that sapped the life from him had ceased to bother him. It was a numbness greater than even opium had granted him in his youth.
And then he heard the voice of an angel calling his name. No, not his name. The name he had made for himself. The name he chose because his mother couldn't bear to name a monster.
"Erik? Erik?" There was a strange, panicked quality to her voice that pulled him from the depths of that murky darkness that threatened to pull him under. As he opened his eyes, he found that they wouldn't focus. Why can't I see? The thought caused him distress, but only for a moment.
"Oh, Erik!" She sounded so horribly sad. "I'm so sorry."
Can it be? Did she really come back? How he wished he could see more than a blur of gold, peach, and white above him.
"Christine?" It felt strange, moving his mouth to speak. Almost as though his lips were no longer attached to him.
Her hand, so soft and so warm, cupped his cheek. He knew then that it had to be Christine. And all at once, it was over. One final, ragged breath escaped his lungs as the light went out of those amber eyes.