Path into Darkness

For too long she had endured the fever, the coughing, the viselike grip on her lungs. How could that much suffering have departed so abruptly, leaving her feeling so utterly euphoric? Christine braced for the gritty struggle to open her eyes, only to be puzzled by the effortlessness of the actual reality. Her focus sharpened on Raoul's head and torso, draped over the edge of her bed. Oh, what sly amusement she would enjoy in teasing the habitually fastidious Raoul for his tangled hair and unshaven cheeks. Yet, there was something more in his face, a twisted grief that the oblivion of sleep had not erased. This time the struggle was in earnest with her lips to form the words to waken him, to reassure him; but they died at the sight of his right arm draped over a still body.

Her body.

Floating, falling… So this is death.

Christine's spirit hovered over the bedroom, disconnected from the setting below her. She allowed herself a moment of heartache for what would become Raoul's suffering before slowly being drawn away. As she drifted, scenes of her happy childhood with Father raced before her eyes at blinding speed only to gradually halt at the one memory that she did not wish to relive. This time she was not observing a nine-year-old Christine at her Father's deathbed. She literally felt her eighteen-year-old knees on the cold floor, as she prayed for his life to be spared. Christine tasted the salt of her tears as they coursed down her face. What kind of merciful God was forcing her relive this moment at which her life unraveled? Then her father spoke again; she strained to hear the words that were in part at war with her childish memories of that dreadful time.

Child, when I am dead I will send you an Angel of Music to protect you.

Christine, you will be an Angel of Music.

Mary, Mother of God, how could she have forgotten the Angel of Music? In an instant, she felt her spirit flung to the rooftop of the Opera Populaire. Why was she here? The turning of the doorknob caught her attention. Out raced a perplexed Raoul and her distraught self. The night she pledged herself to Raoul? Why? In life, she had treasured this memory of feeling safe and loved. Was there something more? She felt herself being gently pulled back to a vantage where she could see the entire rooftop. Something was different.

Who was that shape in the shadows?

He was concealed behind the far right statue of Pegasus, occasionally venturing out enough to view the unfolding events below. Christine focused all of her being on her Angel's face. Its mixture of dawning realization and pain of revelation slashed her to her core.

He had been there all the time. He had heard her panic-stricken description of his face-"-so distorted, deformed, it was hardly a face". Had the murder of Joseph Buquet so overwhelmed her innate compassion that fear was allowed to rule in its stead? Was this the same fear that drove her into Raoul's embraces, to give him her first kiss? A kiss that once was intended for her Angel that first night in the lair.

Order your fine horses.

Christine recoiled at the light-hearted callousness of her remark. All the while, she had been basking in her newfound security, her Angel was suffering the tortures of rejection and humiliation. She watched as he picked up the rose she had carelessly dropped in the dusting of snow. God, did their relationship always resonate with her acts of childish thoughtlessness? He held the rose to his cheek, whispering through his tears of his gift of Music to her and her betrayal in turn. She drew closer, longing to comfort him, to dry his tears with her kisses, but recoiled as his face twisted into rage, as he crushed the rose petals and dropped them on the snow.

Angel, forgive me, did my cruelty make your heart bleed?

His answer was to curse her to the night skies from atop the Victoire Alles.

"Christine, Christine!" Raoul's frantic pleas sounded so very far away. Why was he shaking her? She did not wish to return; that final night in the lair was waiting for her. She needed to remember. Why was she unable to grasp it?

Christine

She felt her spirit plunge back into her body with thunderous gasp of breath. The coldness was unbearable.

She opened her eyes to Raoul sobs of agony as he embraced her. It took every ounce of strength for her lift her hand to smooth his hair by way of reassurance. He lifted his head, his face glowing with love and relief.

"Christine, you did not leave me."

§

Christine spent the next few days in fitful sleep and irritated consciousness. She found herself increasing annoyed by the Dr. Baumgartner's visits, preferring the ministrations of the no-nonsense Mme. Terreux and Jeanne. Moreover, he ordered that visitations from the de Chagnys be limited in order to assure her full recovery. Raoul vehement protests at such a restriction were overruled by a combination of bartering and threats from his mother and the doctor. He would be allowed to share meals with Christine. His mother was satisfied a brief daily visit.

Raoul was all care and solicitude during his visits. After tempting her to eat as much as possible, he read poetry and sang to her to raise her spirits. It took much coaxing on Christine's part to persuade him to relate the events of her night of death. He had wakened to discover her not breathing and had shaken her in an attempt to revive her. She held him tightly as he shed tears of pain and relief into her curls; her heart was in turmoil but silent.

For the time, the infrequent visits suited Christine. She desired solitude to examine her flirtation with the afterlife. Her initial inclination was to dismiss the encounter as a misleading dream sent to torture her. That was upturned by Raoul's admission. Had she truly died? What had Father meant about her being an Angel of Music? Had her Angel been on that rooftop with them? It would explain the madness that followed.

Why was she having so much difficulty remembering that final night in the lair? It was as if a dark shroud covered the experience, shifting occasionally to allow her fragmented glimpses.

Her progress, much to the astonishment of Dr. Baumgartner, continued to the point that she was fully recovered within two months of fleeing the opera house. During meals, Raoul was overflowing with wedding talk, not noticing his mother and fiancée's restraint on the subject. Christine attempted to enter the gaiety of plans for her future life but felt a cold aloofness clutching her heart. She found herself a frequent visitor to the family chapel thereby winning some small favor with Madame, as she, herself, was rigorous in her religious observances. Raoul was content in allowing time for her spiritual healing; the girl had been through hell with the Devil himself. If devotions cleansed that pollution from her soul then he would give prayers of thanks himself to God for His Mercy on her.

§

How many times had she knelt in this Holy Quietness begging for direction? A wonderful future lay before her yet she felt like a stranger in a strange land. Was there a purpose to her miraculous rebirth and why could she not grasp it? Had her life so degenerated into a horror of betrayal and pain that she found herself incapable of unreservedly embracing her promise of a loving and peaceful future? Was her uncertainty her punishment for her association with a murderer? No, he killed but he was not a murderer.

Christine jerked up from her prie dieu and strode toward the altar. She bowed her genuflection and sank to the cold marble floor in a prone position of supplication, her arms outstretched at her side.

It ends now. Tell me or take me.

I am your Angel of Music. Come to me, Angel of Music.

Christine rose, fighting down the hysteria that was rising from her quaking midsection. Go to Him? Mother of God, no! It was inconceivable. Had she slipped into insanity even to consider such an action? Was God punishing her for her arrogant demand by taking her mind instead of her body? She would escape this House of Madness dressed in the false trappings of Worship. She had run from the Devil once; she would run from God now. No one would find her.

The fragrant blast nearly knocked her back into the altar. She resisted at first but found the overwhelming aroma seeping into her pores, into her mind, into her soul, providing welcome balm. The scent of roses. She sank to the floor in an ocean of tears.

How long had she lain there, was it hours or mere minutes? It did not matter. Her spirit overflowed with the suppressed memories of that night, of the fear and rage, but more so of the wordless promises made that had yet to be kept. Quietly closing the chapel door, she fled to her room to wash her face and re-pin her hair. Raoul must not see her tears. It would not do to raise questions that must not be answered. But, perhaps Raoul could lead her to the answer of the only question that now mattered in her existence. Where is He?

Author's Notes: To avoid disturbing the continuity of the story, I will post explanations/responses in the review section.