Disclaimer: Erik is not mine (pity, actually).
Note: Updated, revised, & edited on 4/13/2008.
Question: Does anyone know why when I upload files the first sentence gets repeated twice and I have to go in and manually DELETE it? It's SUCH a pain and it does it EVERY SINGLE TIME!
He left the parlor. Returned to his room. Hesitated between the coffin and the organ.
Death. Death was still the easy way out, but it was, apparently, slow in coming. He considered how to hasten it but discarded all options as too painful and resigned himself to wait—perhaps equally painful, but a pain he had endured long enough already and, at least in part, knew how to deal with. Back into the coffin to await death in that most appropriate place. He would die soon; he could feel it. The woman chained outside would die eventually, too if no one discovered her, and no one would. He would surely be blamed for that, but he would be dead—where no one could hurt him. It bothered him some, though. Not dying. He welcomed that. It was the death of the woman, not that she didn't deserve it, but he had not killed a woman before—at least, not recently, not in this manner, not for such a reason. As a matter of fact, he had not killed anyone—save Joseph Buquet—in a very long time. Buquet had been a necessity, to avoid discovery, for he had learned too much. He had committed the act with dexterity and finality, but it had troubled him nevertheless, for he was not truly as ruthless as perhaps some have believed. He had done only what was necessary to survive. But to kill a woman... All right, there had been a woman who had died beneath the chandelier that night, and the result was not entirely unpleasant—for she had been meant to replace Madame Giry, which would have made delivering messages and being paid quite difficult—but he had not intended to kill her exactly. He had been thinking more along the lines of making her first opera experience so dreadful for her as to be her last. Well, he had succeeded in that anyway, injuring a large number of others along the way and entirely destroying quite a lovely chandelier as well. Yes, he certainly deserved to die, and soon he would. Yet in doing so, with the woman chained outside now, he would be responsible for yet one more death. He could comfort himself with the thought that if there was no heaven, there was no hell either. Yes, death was the easiest way out, but it was slow... so very slow... in coming.
Music. Music had once been a refuge from loneliness, the only joy that revived him after harrowing days, succored him through lonely nights—for all his nights had been lonely—so lonely. No love, no tenderness, not even a soul to listen to him bemoan his terrible existence. No lover. (Ha! The thought would have been amusing if he did not so desperately wish for it!) No friends. Only music for so very long. But then it seemed there had been a single chance—his one and only chance at escape—through music he would find his passageway out of his solitude! But in the end it had failed him; he was yet alone. He slumped into the seat by the organ but did not touch the keys. Of what use was music now? Instead he leaned his elbows on the edge and put his head in his hands. Of what use was life, lived entirely alone? Of what use was music, composed solely for one's self? None. There was no purpose to life if this was what life was to be. And that led him back to death, which was so slow. Oh, which was worse, the waiting or the isolation? Together, they were more than he could bear. Even music could not heal these wounds. And if music could not help him, of what use was anything? Was he?
Well, that at least he could answer. He was of no real use to anyone at all. He had written an opera and shared it with no one. (Well! Did sharing it with her count if she had rejected him? Besides, she had only really listened through the wall, and that wasn't quite the same as willingly sharing...) He had built an intricate maze of hidden passageways, but no one knew he had done it save a select few, one of whom had rejected him entirely and the other had had ulterior motives. He had designed a palace for a king once, and for that, upon its completion, he had been sentenced to death. He had created elaborate inventions—which had been used to commit torture. He had entertained people simply by being sickening. He had threatened the woman he loved. He had nearly killed her. Not that he cared for the world much at all, but it would be far better off without him. Perhaps, had he cared more for humanity, it would have strengthened his resolve to end his own life. As it was, he was simply sad and dejected at the organ, too distressed to create anything, too numb to cry, too lonely... Why must he always be alone? Yes, he was terrible... but he had been alone first, before he had deserved it. He was hideous, certainly, but he could hide that away. Oh, he would hide everything of himself away for just one chance to be treated as though he were normal! Just for a moment!
At present, he was not alone entirely, though. There was this strange intruder. Of course, there was a great difference between alone and lonely. At the freak show, for example, he was never alone. There were not just spectators but other performers, the owners, employees and so forth, but it was, perhaps, the loneliest place on earth. Of course, the opera house itself could be a very lonely place as well, especially on opening night with a full house. No, one couldn't be alone on opening night, but box five was always very lonely, for no one ever entered and sat beside him, no one threaded her arm through his while she watched, no one spoke softly into his ear, her breath hot and moist against his neck during intermission, no one left on his arm, no one let him help her into the carriage to go home... Home. Could there be a place lonelier than home? It was not just the home beneath the opera house, either. His childhood home had been terribly lonely as well. After all, what could be worse than—and now! Sitting here, completely and utterly alone.
Except he wasn't. Damn her, who was she and what was she doing here anyway? For once he'd actually been content to be alone. Well, not content exactly, but resigned to it, accepting of it at least, and, as though the universe had utterly conspired against him, at the moment he had resigned himself to aloneness, his privacy had suddenly been invaded by this strange creature who seemed to not quite fear him as much as the others. How strange. All this time he'd wished for some reprieve but being so constantly and completely alone, and now...
This is one of the chapters I added some stuff to. Any thoughts? I love reviews!
