Chapter 7
It was growing late, and Adalyn was getting nervous. She was supposed to have met Christine three hours ago, but she had yet to see her. Every time she saw a short, spindly girl with radiant yellow hair, her heart leapt to her throat, hoping against hope that it was the young girl she was searching for, but to no avail. The girls would turn around to show that it was not Christine's face.
The sun began to set behind a mass of stormy clouds, casting the streets in gloomy shadows. Adalyn knew that she could no longer wait for the girl—she would have to get a cab to get back to the Comte's manor on her own. She rushed back to the cab, avoiding any stranger that passed her on the sidewalks. The driver of the cab saw her at a distance and rushed to her to take her shopping bags from her. He glanced around, looking for the ex-diva to be trailing after the maid.
"Where is Mlle. Daaé?" he asked.
The maid shrugged her shoulders nervously. "She said that she was going to meet a friend by herself, and I was supposed to meet her three hours ago, but there is no sign of her."
He stood still for a moment, trying to register what she just said. "What do we do now?"
Adalyn looked away. "I'd prefer not to think about that."
"He could fire us for this!" he exclaimed. "Why did you let her out of your sight? Don't you know how obsessed he is over her safety?"
"I know," she said shamefully.
"He'll ring our necks for this, Adalyn!"
"Please, I know…"
"How could you be so…so…stupid as to let her out of your sight?"
"I know, Jacque!" she snapped. Her face was red with fury that the driver would blame this all on her, and it was not as if she were stressed already. "You don't need to keep saying that! You shouldn't be worrying as much as I should! You aren't the one who lost her!"
He looked up to the sky helplessly and ran his fingers through his hair. "What do we do, then?" he asked again, this time softly, like an anxious child.
Adalyn was frightened—frightened that she would lose her job, frightened that she would not find another one, frightened that she would not be able to pay for her sick mother's medical bills. Her lips were pale and trembling as she looked up at Jacque with tears glistening like diamonds in her eyes.
"I don't know," she whispered.
Erik was incandescently and completely filled with ecstasy. He could shout, he could play music for hours, he could weep—he could do everything. He was brimming over with exquisite and breathtaking joy. He took Christine back to her room, his heart light and happy. There was a new purpose to his gait, and he hardly noticed the dull pain in his leg. Nothing could bring him down; Christine had lifted him from his dark and miserable state. He was saved! Never again would she leave his side—never again. Nothing, not even her tears or her fear of him would guilt him into letting her go again. This time, he gave her the chance to leave, and she chose to stay. If, sometime in the future, she should change her mind, he would never let her go. No, she promised that she would stay. She promised!
As she was about to disappear into her room, he caught hold of her hand and pulled her back to him. He ignored her feeble attempts to escape his grasp and brought her fingers up to his lips. When she saw that all he wanted to do was to bestow one of his cursed kisses on her hand, she stopped struggling and hoped that her compliance would satisfy him.
It did.
He lingered long upon her hand, as if it tasted sweeter than anything else he had ever tasted. Her skin was fire beneath his lips, and he wanted to go farther, kiss her forehead, her cheeks—even her lips. But he knew that she would not allow it. For love of her, he would not push her too far.
After a while, he released her and she withdrew slowly, as if in a trance. She stared at her hand oddly, as if it had grown an extra finger on it. Erik desperately wished to know what she was thinking, but he took some comfort in the fact that she had not recoiled away from him, disgusted that he would even dare to touch her in such a way. He could not decipher anything from looking at her face. It was blank as a slate.
The fact of the matter was that she did not know what she was thinking or feeling. Her thoughts were all jumbled as if there were a thousand voices speaking at once, and she could not concentrate on any particular voice. She knew for certain that she was confused—confused that she would have chosen to remain imprisoned with Erik than return to the earth above with Raoul—safe, wonderful, beautiful Raoul. Why did she care so much that Erik did not die? He was supposed to be a monster that no one was supposed to care about, and yet she worried about him. Why?
"Christine."
She was snatched out of her reverie with that single word, and she looked up at Erik expectantly.
"I know that you may not love me, but…" He paused to take a deep breath. "I have no place to sleep since you destroyed my bed." He chuckled darkly at that, but stopped immediately when he saw how pale she suddenly became. He hung his head dejectedly.
"Never mind. I can see that you would never agree."
He slammed her door and slithered away from her door to his organ.
Christine shivered when she heard Erik start playing his organ furiously. She never thought that she would ever hear it ever again, but she thought wrong. If she had known better, there would have been no way she could have avoided this. Erik would have always found a way to take her away, whether or not he forced her to stay. He always had that strange power over her, though she doubted that he was aware of it. He had looked genuinely surprised when she demanded him to take her back with him, that she would stay forever by his side as his wife.
And what in heaven's name possessed her to say that she would stay with him? His life was wasted, and she still had her own to live. Why couldn't she have just left him to die while she went to live happily with Raoul? It was just as it was that night with Raoul on the rooftop, underneath the gilded safety of Apollo's lyre. He had urged her to run away with him that night, but she refused. She felt that she had to stay and sing one last time, else she would break his heart. It was strange; for all the times he hurt her, she felt that she could never hurt him in return. Not because she was afraid of what he would do to her (he went mad when he found out she was leaving him. That was an incident she was not eager to experience again), but because she could not bear to think that she was causing him pain. Why must she be so softhearted?
Why did it have to be her?
The music that Erik had been playing softly suddenly burst forth, exceeding any sound barriers, and surrounded her. The music was wonderful and frightening, and Christine felt the need to go to Erik, while at the same time, she only wanted to cower in a corner with her knees drawn up to her chest.
In the end, she retreated to her corner, eyes wide with the feelings that the music was invoking upon her. She had to block it out of her mind, force it out of her memory, plug up her ears—anything to make her not go to Erik against her will. It was too strong for her, and if she listened long enough, Christine doubted that she would have enough will to withstand the power of his music.
The music suddenly changed, and Christine looked up at the door in surprise. It was vastly different from anything she had ever heard him play before. Instead of fiery and passionate, it was quiet and full of love—true love. The kind of love that was shared between people who truly loved each other. Calm, safe love, like the love she felt for her dear Raoul.
Oh, Raoul!
She bit her lip and fought back a sob; this music reminded her too much of him. She almost wanted to get up and tell Erik to stop playing, but she was not sure if that would please him very much. After all, all of the music that he wrote now was written for her, and it would devastate him to know that she did not want to hear it.
Instead, she covered her ears, though it did little to block out his wonderfully tragic music, and crawled to her bed. The satin sheets enveloped her, and she could have sighed blissfully if it were not for the pain she felt deep within her chest. She felt like she could die, as she knew that she would never see Raoul again. She would never be sheltered in his loving arms, could never hear his soothing voice murmuring in her ear. His kind face would never appear before her again; Erik would never allow her to see him. No, she was prisoner to the Phantom now. She was doomed to live forever in his oppressive shadow, feel his obsessive love through his music. Soon, she would forget everything that was good and beautiful and her every thought would be of darkness and eternal night.
It rained that night, but Christine would have never known. She was shedding tears of her own, unaware that the heavens wept for her, too. Nothing could dull the pain except for her tears, so she let them rain down her cheeks and wet her pillow. Perhaps she could die. But, no. She had given her whole heart to Raoul, and she could not die if she did not have her heart with her. Some other organ beat mechanically within her chest, but her heart, all her love, was with Raoul. When she was done here, once Erik died of natural causes—surely it would not take long, as he was nearly twice her age—she would return to Raoul and reclaim her heart. If only he would safeguard it and keep it from harm, then she could live through this season of grief and pain.
Until then, she would be trapped in this never-ending darkness.
When she finally fell asleep, long after Erik's music ceased and was now doing who knew what; when her rivers of tears ceased to flow, the rain outside slowly pattered to a stop. But she would never know that. She was alone.
