It was a wretched excuse for a life. Day in, day out Erik was in constant darkness, broken only by the occasional dim lantern hanging in the corridors so deep below the city. He tended to stay away from where there were lanterns. The light usually signified that there were other people nearby, and if Erik had learned even one thing while hiding away in the catacombs, it was that people weren't going to take pity on him.
Sometimes when he allowed himself to sleep, his mind would wander back to when he'd very nearly had everything he wanted. In his dreams, he hadn't let Christine go. Sure, he'd kept his word, he'd let the viscomte go free in exchange for the girl's love, but the girl was doomed to remain underground with him.
In his dreams the girl grew so sad that she could not bear her life anymore. In his dreams, Christine fled from him, only to get lost in the catacombs and die of starvation.
Coincidentally, it was a death that Erik was slowly approaching himself. It was a hard life indeed, having to live off of the crumbs of those who chose to spend their existence in the areas closest to where he typically stayed. Food was becoming scarcer and scarcer at the depth he liked to stay, his 'neighbors' less and less welcoming when Erik would cross into their space searching for breadcrumbs or tiny scraps of meat.
He knew that he would have to resort to something drastic if he didn't want to die.
The Vicomte de Chagny didn't even acknowledge what he had done while in a drunken stupor, nor did his wife particularly expect him to. She knew how he would react, if he reacted at all. He'd merely drink one less drink before coming home the next time. Perhaps he would buy her some frivolous trinket like a ring or a music box. There would be no apologies, no promises of making things better. Still Christine wished she knew what she was doing wrong.
She only wanted to please her husband. She wanted him to come home sober once in a while, to take her out on the town again. There was no way to tell him that, though. He was never in a favorable mood anymore and he wouldn't listen to a word she tried to tell him unless it was something about their good old days.
She sighed wistfully as she thought of their youth. They'd had such promise then, in spite of their they'd married. They had won their chance at normal lives, or so they would've believed. But Christine had a hard time believing that either of them could consider their lives normal.
While Raoul spent his day doing whatever it was he was doing- he never did tell his wife, though she suspected that he was off with another performer, someone who actually still had a job- Christine decided that she would try to start singing again. It had been so long since she'd last tried to summon her voice, she wasn't sure she still could.
But finally, seven months after her wedding, seven months after her angel of music had set her free, she raised her voice in song. At first she sang just a little lullaby she remembered from her childhood. At first, her voice barely filled the room. Her heart just wasn't in it.
For a brief moment, she wondered if the angel of music had truly gone from her life. She thought, in horror, that she might never be able to sing as she once had again. But she pushed the thought from her mind as quickly as it had barged in, and she tried to think of a song more inspiring than a nostalgic lullaby. A strange melody, unfamiliar at first, drifted through her mind. A chill ran down her spine as she finally recognized the music. It had been in the Phantom's opera. It was their duet, the bittersweet seduction they had shared before an audience.
Christine remembered that night with both fear and longing. Closing her eyes tight, she began to sing with the tune in her head. She was shocked and pleased when her angel's voice was there, still as beautiful as she remembered it, in her mind. Could it really be a memory? She had been certain that her angel had been but a mere man. She didn't want to remember what he hid behind the mask he wore, didn't want to remember the murders.
She was nearly finished with the song, nearly to where her fear had caused her to abruptly end the song, when she felt her voice swell within her. The final few notes of the song held all of the emotion she had allowed to build up over six months. She fell to her knees as the song ended, holding her hand to her throat in utter shock. She felt her heart soar in a way it hadn't since it had that first time she'd sung in the place of Carlotta.
Raoul swallowed a shot of some foul-smelling liquor the bar had imported specifically for him. He couldn't pronounce the name, but he'd grown quite fond of it over his honeymoon, though to be fair he hadn't spent much time anywhere but in bed, tangled in the sheets with Christine.
He didn't know what had changed. He didn't know what he'd done wrong, but it was growing ever more apparent that their marriage was cursed. Perhaps he should have left her with that loathsome beast. He ordered one more drink, slamming it down as quickly as he had the four he had already consumed before paying his tab and leaving.
He stumbled out into the twilight, just as the street lamps were being lit on the cheerful little street on which his favorite bar took up residence. It was a short walk back to the main road, where he was able to flag down a carriage to take him the home. He was so tired of the life he lived with his wife.
By the time he paid the driver and stumbled up the front stairs to his and Christine's home, the sky was dark, and he could almost see Christine scurrying from room to room to light the lamps. For a moment, Raoul lingered at the front door, listening intently. It almost sounded like Christine was singing!
His heart rose at the idea. He hadn't heard her sing in months, not since they had been newly married and her heart had still been light. Now she was a sullen shell of what she had been, though he couldn't say much better for his own state.
Her singing stopped abruptly as the viscomte opened the door to announce that he was home, but the memory of her sweet voice lingered in his mind the rest of the night.