"Erik," I began, mustering up my courage. He looked at me quietly, waiting for me to continue. "May I see your face?"

The question was merely an innocent request, but it became clear that I should have never opened my mouth. He turned around sharply, covering his mask with both hands in a protective gesture. I noticed that he was shaking with a terror I could not fathom.

"You must never ask me that," Erik moaned, his intense pain evident in both his voice and posture.

I was confused. "Why?" I inquired, ignoring the warnings of my instincts.

"Christine, I would not wear this mask if there were not a reason. Please do not ask anymore." His voice attempted to sound calmer, but his trembling hands gave away his shaken emotions.

I was silent for a moment, not knowing how to proceed. I moved closer, trying to repair the damage I had evidently caused. "Erik, you care for me, do you not?" I inquired softly.

He turned around slowly. I knew that he could not lie about his feelings toward me, and he knew that I knew that. He looked down, unable to make eye contact.

"Christine, I love you more than anything in the world, and there is nothing I would not do for you," Erik said quietly.

"Then why not show me your face?" I countered gently. "Why not let me know you as you truly are?"

"Because the truth is ugly, Christine," he replied, bitterness creeping into his resonant voice. "I do not want you to know such horror."

"Erik, I thought you had faith in me. I'm not so easily horrified as you may believe," I said.

"Your words are brave, but--"

I interrupted him. "Oh, Erik, let me see. I don't intend to gawk or scream; I only want to know. I promise I won't be afraid."

He sighed deeply, sadness combining with his fear. Very slowly, he untied the ribbon which held the mask in place, and I nearly shook with anticipation. When the mask was removed, I gasped and placed a hand over my mouth. Tears trickled down my face, and I was at a complete loss for words.

Erik's face was like nothing I had ever seen before. Nothing he could have said would have prepared me for the astonishing sight which I beheld. His eyes, I noticed for the first time, were mismatched, one green and one brown. The cheekbones were too high, causing the eyes to look sunken in his skull. The worst part of his facial physique, though, was his skin. Yellow and gnarled, it seemed to stretch too tight over his bones. Dents and bubbles landscaped the surface of his face, and I could also detect permanent scars from the constant use of a mask.

Erik watched my reaction, no doubt expecting disgust and terror. I felt nothing but intense compassion. "I'm sorry," I whispered at last, knowing it was a trivial thing to say. "I'm so very sorry."

I did not know what else to say or do. The silence of the room suffocated me, and I trembled with emotions I could not identify. Confused, saddened, and ashamed of myself, I ran to my room. I collapsed on my bed with a sob, hiding my face in the soft pillows.

I thought of what a dreadful solitude he had lived, and the cruel, vicious reactions he must have encountered from those who had seen him. I understood now why he was so hesitant to show me the truth; he no doubt expected my rejection. I wondered if he had ever been touched with kindness or felt the warmth of true happiness in his lifetime.

My heart was full of great pity and sadness, and at length I changed my clothes and washed my face. The cool water soothed my hot, tear-stained cheeks, and I looked up into the mirror critically. I chided myself for being caught up in beauty when Erik never dared to keep a mirror lest he see his reflection.

I gathered my thoughts and my strength and returned to the music room. Erik was not there, and I continued to walk through the house in search of him. I found him in the library, writing furiously in a black volume at the golden oak desk. He had replaced the mask, and its presence made me sorrowful.

"Erik."

He glanced up at me and quickly slipped the book into the desk drawer. I moved closer, sensing that he felt uncomfortable moving toward me. I heard him sigh, as if he had been dreading this moment for some time.

"I suspect you want to go back," he said quietly. His eyes, which stared down at the grain of the wood, seemed unable to look at me.

I was taken aback. "Do you really think me so superficial?" I asked. "Your friendship means a great deal to me. I would never relinquish it for the sake of your face." My mind involuntarily went to thoughts of the Vicomte de Chagny and the loss of our friendship due to social standards.

It was his turn to be surprised. "You are not horrified...appalled?"

I shook my head vehemently. "No, Erik. I am only saddened."

"What makes you sad?" he inquired softly. He looked up, a feeble glimmer of hope flickering in his mismatched eyes.

"What a life you must have known! It makes me cringe with shame to think that I had felt sorry for myself when you have experienced nothing but rejection." I placed a compassionate hand on his, and his eyes filled with tears. It took me a moment to realize that he was weeping because I had shown him kindness.

"I'm sorry," Erik stammered emotionally. "You are the only person who has shown me compassion. I do not know how to react."

I was deeply touched by his display of feelings, but I sensed his embarrassment. I turned to admire the hundreds of books that were neatly aligned on the shelves which covered the walls. Many were quite old and written by foreign authors who I did not recognize.

"Do you like to read?" Erik asked me. He had collected his thoughts and was now calmly standing behind me.

"I used to read with Father when I was young, but I haven't read much since," I replied regretfully. "You have so many books. I've never heard of most of these titles."

"Reading can take you on the journey of a lifetime," he declared thoughtfully. "Books draw you into a marvelous new world, one that can last long after the final page has been turned."

"Charlotte Bronte, who was she?" I inquired, examining a book with a red cover.

"A great English authoress," Erik replied. He noticed the title which I held. "Jane Eyre is a wonderful novel. You would enjoy it, I believe."

I brought the book to my face, inhaling the warm, papery aroma of the pages. "May I borrow it?" I asked.

"Certainly," he answered, pleased. "When you finish that one, feel free to help yourself to another."

"Have you read all these books?" I wondered, staring at the vast sea of volumes which lined the room.

"Yes. Some once, some twice, and others I can quote word-for-word. One must do something in perpetual solitude." There was a hint of bitterness in his tone. I frowned, unsure how I should reply. I was once again aware of the thick gloom which enveloped his world.

"You must be hungry," Erik said suddenly. "Wait in the drawing room. I shall bring you something."