Chapter 13- A Blessing or a Curse?, part 3

Christine tried everything she possibly could to make sure her voice sounded as good as possible. She did not want to disappoint the monstrous Erik again, not just because he was frightening, but also because her own sense of pride would not allow for failure.

She got out of bed and tried to keep a straight posture when possible. She put on a gown that wouldn't confine her torso. She drank from the pitcher of water that had been left on her nightstand and warmed up her voice with a few soft scales.

But when she tried to leave her bedroom, the door was locked.

Erik had locked her in her room.

"He can't be serious!" she fumed, yanking the door handle up and down, rattling the frame. It was useless. Frustrated, she pounded once on the door with a tiny scream of rage and then collapsed on the floor, tears spilling down her face. Why wouldn't all of this just be over?

Mwah ha ha ha ha! She heard the strange laughter in her head again. She tried to shake it out, loosening her hair in the process.

"I'm going insane," she muttered, "That's probably what all of this is. I'm locked up in a cell somewhere." The thought made her nauseous.

She stared across from her, at a blank part of the wall. For some reason, she felt that it was calling her. Maybe she really ought to be in an institution. Especially after what she did next.

She rose to her feet, brushed off her gown, and took a deep breath. Then she ran towards the wall like a bull in a bullfight, keeping her head lowered. She was either going to prove that this was all a horrible hallucination or she was going to erase this reality from her memory. Or be dead, but that didn't quite occur to the soprano.

Before she could make contact, the wall opened and a man stepped out. The shock of it caused Christine to stumble back and onto her rear. She moaned and rubbed her posterior, wondering why she had been about to do that to her head.

The intruder was tall, not as tall as Erik and certainly not as lanky. This man had a body that reflected years of physical training. He seemed to be foreign, Middle Eastern, she guessed and looked to be almost fifty.

"Mademoiselle Daae," he greeted, bowing.

Christine gasped. "You're that man Erik was talking to! What are you doing here? Didn't he threaten to kill you or something?"

"Yes, I am an old friend of Erik's. I am the Persian."

"The Persian? That's it? Don't you have a name? Wasn't it "Daroga" or something?"

"That is my title, Mademoiselle. My real name is Nadir Mohammed Barack Hussein Reza Carewe Ringo Atem Genghis Kahn-Darogason-Squarepants. No one calls me that, though."

"You don't say."

The Persian tiptoed over to the door and listened. Then he returned to Christine's side, offering her a hand to help her to her feet. She thanked him.

"Now, Mademoiselle, it is urgent that we leave."

Christine's eyes widened. "Leave? Why?"

"I overheard your argument yesterday. I don't think Erik would intentionally hurt you, but I fear for your life as well as your personal freedom."

"Erik would never hurt me. He loves me."

The Persian gave her a look that was both disparaging and pitying. "If I noticed, then someone as smart as Erik certainly noticed. You are not yourself, Mademoiselle Daae. You are a different person."

"H-how did you know?" Christine asked.

"I'm the Persian. I just somehow know everything."

Christine was relieved to know that someone else knew her secret. "My name is Christine Daae," she told him, "But I do not think I am this Erik's Christine Daae."

"Are you saying you're from a parallel universe or alternate reality or some such thing?"

"Based on my experiences, yes. I've been experiencing different versions of my story for the past week or so. Here, Erik is a walking skeleton who hates my voice, but elsewhere, Erik is a muscular man with a mild deformity and a gruffer voice who loves the way I sound. My Erik would never lock me in my room."

The Persian seemed to be shocked (and/or horrified) at the possibility of other versions of Erik. "So you are not made for this Erik but are somehow trapped in his Christine's body? If I hadn't spent nearly twenty years trailing a musically-gifted carnival freak, I would find this story unbelievable."

Christine shrugged and gave a half-hearted smile.

"But if Erik finds this out, you could be in trouble. I'm a plot device. I can help you out of the opera house and we can go to the Comte."

"I can't hurt Raulph again," Christine said, "And I can't hurt Erik. I think if I leave, he'll die. Besides, he might not exactly be my Erik, but he doesn't deserve to be abandoned. He scares me, but I know I'm strong enough for him and I'm the only one who understands him. He needs me. I'm sorry, the Persian, but I can't leave."

The Persian studied her for a few moments and then bowed. "You are a brave and foolish lady, strange Christine Daae. It is a shame that my suspicions are likely correct and we shall never meet again. I fear too much for my own life. I also wouldn't worry too much about this passage into your room." He stepped through the wall and pulled the hidden door shut. Christine could not even tell that there even was a door there. She felt for a seam, but the wallpaper was smooth. How was that possible?

Another door opened, this time the main one. Christine saw the imposing figure of her supposed husband standing there. At first she smiled, but then she realized he must have heard something. Oh criminy.

"What did you hear?" she asked boldly.

"The fool tried to persuade you to leave the opera house with him."

Christine's heart stopped racing so fast. That was all he had heard? He hadn't heard her confession about being from another reality?

"He seems like a very nice man. He was only worried about me." Her gaze fell to the flowered comforter on the bed.

She felt two bony arms around her waist squeezing the breath out of her.

"Erik?" she asked, puzzled.

"You said you wouldn't leave!" he said. She could tell he was crying. "You don't know how happy that makes me. Oh, Christine, I know I don't deserve you and that I treated you horribly, but despite that, you didn't leave when you had the chance!"

Christine wrapped her arms around Erik's waist. It was like hugging a coat rack. "Of course I won't leave you. I love you."

They were silent for a while, both crying, just holding each other.

"Who names their child Ringo?" Erik asked finally.

They spent the rest of the day together, speaking tentatively, nervously playing music, and awkwardly exchanging embraces. Christine was mildly disturbed by his tendency to be overly apologetic whenever he felt he did the slightest thing to displease her. This was coming from a man who had thrown a piano and locked her in her room.

This reality would be far from easy. She missed not having to walk on eggshells around her Phantom. She couldn't wait to be back with a more sane version.

"Tomorrow we can resume music lessons, Christine. I promise I'll try to help you instead of breaking the piano. I spent all morning fixing it."

"I'm happy that it was salvageable. You still have the organ, though."

"Indeed." He went back to his newspaper and Christine went back to her knitting. She didn't remember learning how to knit. Erik had sheepishly given her a bunch of things that he thought a proper wife might like to have. This included a knitting kit and she didn't want to waste his gift.

"How's your knitting coming along?" Erik asked.

Christine held it up to the lamp light. "I think I've made an excellent… lumpy square."

"Oh, you're missing a step," he told her, taking the project from her with all the grace of a toddler. Yet his work was much smoother and more professional than hers. It was hypnotizing to watch his long fingers work with the needles, effortlessly forming long chains of loops.

Christine let out a frustrated sigh. "Perhaps you should be my Angel of Knitting." They both laughed. Christine pulled a chocolate out of the box he had given her as part of his proper wife package and continued to study his fingers. "Would you like a chocolate?" she asked him, holding out the box.

He looked at her strangely, his eyes having that way of expressing his every emotion, and timidly picked a piece out of the box. "Oh, pardon," he murmured, lifting his mask up just enough to show his lips. He ate the chocolate and quickly slid the mask back in place.

Christine smiled. "They're delicious. We should get more."

"They are delicious. Unfortunately, for this brand, we would have to travel to Switzerland." She sensed more shame in his voice.

"You don't have to apologize, Erik. I was just complimenting the gift. I'm sure local chocolate would be just as good. I don't even need the chocolate at all. You don't have to keep giving me things."

"You deserve more than I can possibly give you."

"Just love me," she told him, borrowing a line from Webber once again. Really, such a useful line. "Besides, now I feel like I should get you a gift."

Erik held up the rather ragged part of the knitting project that she had started. "Practice more before you make it a knit gift."

Christine laughed but it turned into a yawn.

"Are you tired, my dear? You can go prepare for bed and I'll bring you some tea."

She felt the bed was too far. Besides, the way he reacted when she curled up beside him on the couch was priceless. The only thing that ruined her mood was thinking about where she would wake up in the morning.