A/N okay been wondering about continuing this and seeing as the story seems to be liked, thought I'd give it a go. Unfortunately don't get much time to write though these days, so hope you'll forgive slow updates. Here's one to be going on with though. Cheers!

Chapter Seven

The Morning After

When Christine opened her eyes some hours later the bedroom was still dark as always. Lying on her back, she felt along the sheets beside her and found that her husband's place was empty. It did not bother or surprise her; Erik often disappeared during the night, sometimes for more than a day. After last night's exercise, Christine guessed the enigmatical man had holed himself away some place private till he felt his usual tyrannical self again. She sighed into the air above her and drew up her knees.

Last night…

It was like an old forgotten memory belonging to somebody else. Christine lay quietly and let her mind drift through the vale of painful feelings, groping as through a mist. There was no Christine in this place, no Erik, no Opera. These were facts, events, episodes from some horrible tragic play, and a cold, resistant shudder broke upon her with each scene; hands thrusting a young woman's head into the water… the woman being carried out to the lake… a charming voice singing that awful dirge… The truth about Raoul… Raoul! With a jolt of pain Christine sat up, her palm clasped to her mouth. That hideous confession! She remembered it!

It was horrible, unforgivable! Erik, kneeling impotently before her, pretending he had never meant to hurt her only Love! Throwing herself over onto her side, Christine thrust her head into her pillow and groaned like a tortured animal. Raoul was dead, truly dead! And that beast of a man had killed him! How had she ever found it in her heart to take the pathetic creature again to this bed last night as if nothing had happened? But at least she had not given herself to him, not this time!

There were tears wetting her face and her nose was full. Her breathing slowed. Her limbs felt heavy. The sheets were tangled about her.

Oh, what was Erik all about? Rolling again onto her back, Christine stared up into the darkness, resting her palms on her forehead. What was to become of them both? What was to become of herself? Where was Raoul? Did she dare ask Erik where his body lay? A deep frown formed on Christine's brow as she remembered how she had abused her dear boy in her thoughts. Raoul had not abandoned her at all. How could she have imagined it? Raoul had been here all the time… lying at the bottom of the lake, no doubt.

The flippancy of that last thought sickened her and the old anger began to simmer in Christine's breast. And to think, Erik had promised only yesterday that he would let Raoul take her away as soon as he came! What lies! What hypocrisy, when he knew Raoul was never coming at all! The cad! The insufferable, lying, revolting cad! Christine sat up in bed, threw her feet over the side and slammed a fist into the mattress beside her. An ugly grunt made spittle fly from her lips. She wiped her hand across her nose. Why had she ever been so kind to that despicable man? The savage brute deserved to be hanged! In the darkness, Christine stumbled her way to the chest of drawers and scraped open the topmost drawer. Feeling through it, her fingers seized the first article that felt small enough to be a handkerchief and blew her nose into it. She pushed the drawer closed and hurried carelessly to the bathroom door in the opposite wall. Locating the door knob, the wretched girl turned it and felt for the rope just inside the bathroom which operated the electric light. She pulled on it and the room blazed with yellow light from a fizzing bulb suspended from the ceiling.

Now in the bathroom, Christine caught her reflection in a small mirror and grimaced. Her hair was a dishevelled mess, her eyes sunken and dark. Christine drew closer to her reflection, fascinated and repulsed by the terrible change that time and terror had wreaked upon her. Her skin, once rosy, was now pale and blotched. Instead of a pretty young actress, the face gazing back at her looked like a degenerating corpse.

Giving her nose one last wipe, Christine dropped her handkerchief into the laundry basket by the door and sat down heavily upon the edge of the large bathtub. She wondered whether it would be worth her while to take a bath. Her knees were hurting. Drawing up her nightgown, Christine examined her knees and found they were scratched and bruised from being pushed down on the edge of the lake. She stood up then, and pulling her nightgown off over the head, tossed it aside to examine the rest of her. There were bruises on her arms where Erik had gripped her last night. She could see the individual marks of his fingers, etched upon her body in thin blue lines.

The faucet squealed as Christine released a flow of water into the bath. Soon the room was steamy and noisy as the bath filled. When the water was as high as she wanted, Christine turned off the taps and climbed in, feeling her skin tingle with heat as she lowered herself into the water. She held her breath until she was seated comfortably and then breathed a long sigh as she relaxed. Steam rose from the water all about her and the dazzling electric light glinted in the ripples on the water's surface. With her knees bent, Christine crossed one leg over the other and watched the droplets fall from her raised heel. The soft plinking as they met the water reminded her of the constant dripping of the cellars.

Where exactly was Erik at this moment? Was he lurking in that wretched lake of his, waiting for another victim? Why did he do it? Why did he drown people? Did anybody ever cross the lake for anything but to maintain the building or to dispose of the rats? Nobody wanted to disturb the madman who was living in the cellar. Nobody even knew he was there, except perhaps the Persian gentleman who had been with Raoul. And now Raoul was dead. And she was a prisoner. And the Persian gentleman was presumably dead also, although it was not possible to say.

Christine lowered her foot again into the water as her thoughts dwelled on the Persian. That he had known of Erik for some time was plain enough. Christine had spotted him for a sort of friend to her long before the final disaster. He had often appeared in the passages of the Opera to warn her to avoid one place or another when the monster was afoot. And he had apparently helped Raoul to find his way to the creature's house. But now it was not clear what had become of him. Perhaps Erik had dispatched him along with Raoul. She had certainly never seen or heard of him again since that murderous night. Perhaps, if he was still alive, he might yet rescue her from Erik's grasp. He might inform the police and bring an army to outmanoeuvre her husband. There would be bloodshed for a certainty. Christine was hardly sure if she cared. After all, so many had already died, what did a few more matter?

Christine felt her brow crease. Was she really becoming so heartless? Was this how Erik had begun his bloodied career, by rationalising death? Christine sat up straighter, took the soap from the dish in front of her and a sponge, and slowly lathered it. She did not want to become like Erik.

Water trickled from the soapy sponge as Christine squeezed it down the length of her outstretched arm. No, she would never become like Erik. At least, not unless Erik changed. There was something good in him sometimes; but it was always so fleeting. Last night… Last night, after his seizure by the lake, when his eyes had looked at her, for just one brief moment he had looked as if he was truly human…

Christine finished washing herself in silent reflection, rinsing away the imagined dirt and grime of the cellars, leaving her skin soft and warm. When she was done, she released the plug and stepped out of the bath to dry herself. She returned to the bedroom to dress, lighting the room to do so. How she longed to see the sunlight again!

Feeling oddly calm and detached, the grave young woman quitted the bedroom to make herself some tea. The hall was only softly lighted by gaslight. She passed Erik's music room on her way to the kitchen and dining-room but the door was closed so she did not look in. The house on the lake was deathly still. As she waited for the kettle to boil in the kitchen, Christine sat down at the dining table where she had listened to Erik's horrid singing the night before. She was seated in precisely the same place. While she waited, she let her eyes wander over the small proportions of the room, the antique cabinet, the few utensils and meagre stove. She stood up as the kettle began to bubble and steam and it was then that Christine noticed her husband standing in the doorway.

He was shrouded in his great black opera cloak and was wearing a full black mask. Christine hated the mask and turned away to pour the water into the teapot.

"Will you have tea?" she asked coldly without looking at him.

Erik remained standing where he was and did not speak. He merely watched as Christine set the kettle down and covered the little teapot with a warmer.

"I have no idea of the time," Christine said, taking two cups from the cupboard. "I suppose you'll tell me that it's mid-afternoon again."

"It is eleven o'clock," Erik replied. His voice sounded hollow.

"Then I am having a late breakfast," his wife remarked.

Of course, she was not his wife, not exactly. Christine thought of it as she set two places at the dining table. Here she was, keeping house for a man who was not her husband; being regularly bedded by a man who was not her husband, and worse than that, the murderer of her love! This was not the life she had planned for herself. This was madness! Everything was so very wrong.

"Where did you go this morning?" Christine asked, sitting down. She jiggled the teapot a little to hasten its brewing.

Erik stepped closer to the table, drew back a chair and sat down opposite her. Christine looked up to see his yellow eyes watching her steadily. She refused to repeat her question but went on jiggling the pot.

"Will you be sad to leave me, Christine?" Erik asked at last in a low, emotionless voice. Christine felt her skin tingle with irritation.

She drew a small breath. "After last night I wonder that you can ask me such a question. I suppose you remember what you told me, and what happened afterwards."

Erik let his chin drop. Christine poured the tea while Erik sat quietly like a boy who had been chastened.

No more words passed between them for some time. Christine added the sugar to the cups in two lumps and stirred them. The teaspoon grated in the bottom of the cups and clinked on the side of them when the agitated young woman was finished. Christine pushed one of the cups across the table at her husband. He did not touch it.

"Have you eaten?" Christine asked tersely.

Erik's answer did not come immediately. "I am not hungry."

"Well, that makes two of us," was Christine's brusque reply. She lifted her teacup to her lips and sipped at it.

The black form opposite her only stared down at the hot brown liquid in front of him. Christine refused to ask him any more questions, or to urge him to drink his tea. Erik was old enough to decide for himself.

Presently, he lifted a gloved hand and touched the teacup tentatively, toying with the curved handle, pushing the cup round slightly on its saucer. Christine took another sip of her tea in silent irritation.

"Where will you go Christine," Erik murmured at his teacup in a voice that sounded perturbed, "when you are not here?"

The young woman put down her cup with a clink and looked hard at her companion with dogged eyes. "What are you talking about?"

Erik pushed his cup and saucer away from him.

"You will not always be here Christine," he explained, still not looking at her face. "So where will you go?" There was something unsettling in his tone which Christine did not like, and her irritation increased.

"To Heaven I should hope, although I doubt it," she replied in an acid voice, glaring at the madman who dared frighten her. Erik looked up at her at last.

"Christine, you... do you think on Death?" he wondered aloud, seemingly with genuine confusion.

Christine blinked. "Do you not?" she countered. "I thought that's what you meant."

Erik sighed. "You are right to say it," he agreed with her first statement. "But no, I am speaking of you leaving Erik, leaving this place," he slowly elucidated, "alive."

They looked at each other for a moment, Christine nervously touching her cup. Erik's black mask gazed back at her, his yellow eyes glinting coolly in the dim light.

"And why do you speak of that?" the young woman quietly asked after a time.

Her companion dropped his gaze. "You cannot wish to stay," he said in humble tones. "And Erik cannot help you anymore."

Christine hardly knew whether to breathe. She pushed her cup away from her also, sliding it an inch across the table.

"When... should I be leaving?" she uttered tentatively, watching Erik for his response.

"The Time is decided," the stolid man replied, his head lowered. "But is not today. Tomorrow perhaps."

Christine's hope diminished at the sound of this uncertainty. She let herself heave a sigh. "Well then, I don't know," she said with a careless shrug. "I don't suppose I care where I go, or when."

"You do not wish to stay?" Erik glanced up hopefully.

"It does not signify what I wish," she answered without emotion. "You will have it your own way, Erik, as you always do."

"Erik does not always have things his own way," the black man argued forcefully.

"Then let me leave!" Christine threw back at him, jutting her chin forward with an impatient gesture. "Let me set the day and the time!"

"No, Christine."

"There! It's as I said."

Christine slumped back in her chair and reached for her cup again. She lifted it to her lips and drew on it slowly in angry silence.

Erik remained seated opposite, staring down at the table between them as if beaten.

"I don't wish you to go," his words came quietly as Christine finished her tea.

"Then I shan't, shall I?" Christine answered coldly. "You have me a prisoner here. What else can I do?"

"Why do you hate Erik?"

Christine saw her husband gazing intently at her, slight moisture in his eyes. He looked smaller somehow, sitting slightly stooped and watching for her answer like an errant child. She felt her anger subside.

"I don't hate him," she told her companion in a simple voice. "But he hates me."

"No, Christine!"

"Yes!" she insisted, standing up. "Look at me, Erik!" she pointed savagely at herself. "Have you seen what a fright I've become? My liberty taken, my confidence abused! My very best friend in all the world murdered! What else do you call it, Erik, except hate?"

"It wasn't Erik!" the masked man shook his head furiously.

"Then who? Tell me that!" Christine demanded, towering over her companion. "Who killed Raoul, if not you?"

"He wasn't strong..."

"Oh, so that's the excuse?" Christine turned away in disgust.

"You don't understand..."

Christine span back on her heel. Erik was leaning his elbows on the table, his head in his hands.

"No, I don't!" she fired at him bluntly. "I don't."

Pausing for a second, she expected Erik to speak but he did not. He seemed determined to endure her anger. The exhausted woman swept a stray hair from her cheek and swept her hands down her bodice. After a little while she pulled up her chair again and sat down facing the silently brooding man.

"Do you know, Erik," she went on slowly in a quieter tone, "when I first told Raoul about you, he wanted me to run away. He wanted to kill you. But I wouldn't hear of it. Because, fool that I was, I pitied you. And I thought you could never do me harm."

Christine saw Erik's shoulders rise with a regretful sigh. She continued patiently as one reciting a lesson. "I thought you were obsessed but kind. I thought I could let you down gently, that you would understand. And then all of this happened." She paused for a moment, wet her lips and struggled on. "It all seems so... so surreal and bizarre now that I... I hardly know what's real anymore." Erik nodded slightly though Christine did not see it. "I did... love you, in a way," Christine murmured at the space between them. "But you abused it. You made me into some creature for your own pleasure and I ceased to be Christine at all. Sometimes I'm not sure who I am anymore. And I think you like it like that... I don't understand why you do this to me. If you say you love me, then why am I still here?"

Her words hung softly on the air, a challenge that could not be answered with any argument Erik might conceive. Christine could hear the browbeaten man breathing behind his mask.

Presently he spoke, uncertainly and with much effort. His words seemed to cost him dearly. "I wanted... you... to teach me... something that I do not know." His voice was mellow and he let one hand drop gently upon the table whilst the other supported his head. "Did you truly love Erik?"

Christine waited and then nodded softly. "I did... yes, I did."

"Erik still loves you, Christine," he returned shyly. His hand reached cautiously across the table to her. "I still love you," he quietly amended.

His fingers sought her touch but Christine only looked down suspiciously at the proffered hand. She did not move at all. "I know you love me," she gently answered instead.

Erik slowly withdrew his hand and sat up straighter. He gazed at his companion with calm resignation. Christine gazed back at him. His yellow eyes blinked.

"You have to go," he stated simply.