CHAPTER 29- Who I AM
It was in an instant that memories of his years filled his mind like pages in a book. Disturbing memories mostly, memories that sent Erik teetering on the border of insanity; memories of a life without love, a life of rejection, of hatred, of death.
It was too much all at once, and he was drunk with rage when he fled London. Erik had been too distraught, too dizzy with madness. All of a sudden he could not stand being in her presence, this woman he had practically worshipped, and for whom, at one time, would have killed every man, woman, and child in Paris if it meant receiving her love.
And now he had it…
He had come directly home, lost between the darkness of the past, and the reality of the present. Before his reflection he stood, staring at the man in the mirror. Who was he?
Who was this man with the sandy blond hair and sculpted features? Who did he think he was, that he could assume a new identity; that he could simply start over with a new face, a new name, and smile happily at a world that had existed only to mock him…
It was NOT okay, he concluded, and as Erik shunned the perfection of the face in the mirror, he wondered if it would be okay ever again…
Carelessly, he grasped his remote, hitting the small blue button, and activated the mechanism that caused the entertainment center to revolve. His eyes rested upon the Christine doll that he had so lovingly reassembled, then he tore his gaze away as though he would be blinded by the vision. There, hanging from a hook, was the suit that he had worn that fateful night of Joseph Buquet's death. His gaze wandered the small room, and his hands tore through an assortment of odds and ends for no reason in particular, but paused over the locked box. Don Juan Triumphant…his opera, a dramedy now, at Christine's suggestion. He had locked it up the morning after he had confessed his true identity to her. Erik had not realized that in doing so that he had been locking away who he was. Quickly, he removed the lock, and pulled out the opera that had so tormented him. Feeling unusually calm, he brought it into the music room, the replica of the lair, and for the first time in the nine months that he had lived there, he truly felt like he was home.
Somehow, Meg had talked Christine into staying for the audition, which Christine felt now was a foolish mistake. Her whole life was in an uproar, the love of her life had left her, in a rage. Just how was she expected to give the best of her voice to a stranger in a theatre she was completely unfamiliar with? Given the circumstances, she did her best, but some of the notes came out unfortunately flat. She dared not care about that right now, not now, when her world was in shambles. That afternoon, she boarded the flight for Paris, and prayed, prayed for Erik's mental health, prayed for her own, prayed that God would see fit to grant them back the happiness that had been only recently discovered.
Erik.
He was her angel of music…her lover, her teacher, her friend…the other half of her soul.
Losing him again would be like setting fire to that soul. The first time he had disappeared, she was sure that her heart had died that very day. No, she told herself resolutely, she could not lose him again.
Meg watched, unseeing, as Christine's plane left the runway. She had done her best to console her friend, lending an ear in which to listen, and a shoulder on which to cry.
Meg had not told Christine about her own previous infatuation with their tutor, or how he had been injured. Infatuation. That was all it had been, she reasoned. Having lost her temper and thrown a fit comparable to that of a toddler, she had unwittingly caused the man serious injury.
It was unnerving, and though she had been careful not to show it, Meg had been a complete mess those first few days. It wasn't until she found the e-mail from Nadir to her mother that Meg finally came to terms with the consequences of her actions. Erik had amnesia, and it was all her fault. She had never meant to physically harm him, and even now she could still feel the sting of his rejection.
Erik had not wanted her. The man she loved had wanted Christine.
It had always been about Christine…
Now that his memory had returned, it was hard to predict what state of mind the formerly masked man had settled into. Things never would have worked between herself and her tutor, Meg knew now. Erik had saved her that pain. And now, because of her actions, there was no way of telling whether Erik and Christine's relationship would have progressed naturally had he not lost his memory. Her heart went out to her best friend. Drowning in a sea of guilt, Meg did the one thing she could do to help without ever leaving the airport. She made her way toward the payphone and pulled a phone number from her purse.
At this critical time, there was only one person she knew who could help.
His work had led him out of town for the night. Though, he rarely chose this type of assignment, he still took them on occasion, mostly for the money, but usually for his own personal interest. Being a private investigator certainly was less trouble than his previous occupation, and he found he rather enjoyed the freedom that came with the job. At the moment, all was right with his world. Antoinette had agreed to marry him, had, in fact, initiated it. He had waited a long time for that woman, waiting to share a life with her; he was a patient man, after all. Looking forward to accompanying his fiancée that evening to London to see Meg, Nadir scrolled through the images on his digital camera, making sure he had every detail of his case accounted for.
An unfamiliar ring tone startled him, and he flipped open his cell phone. On the other end of the line was his soon-to-be stepdaughter, her worried voice relaying the news of that morning.
Under the direst of circumstances, Nadir Khan had been known for his unworried nature, having the ability to stay emotionally detached and deal with matters in a calm fashion. But as the young blonde filled him on the details, Nadir found he had only two words for her. "Oh, SHIT!"
Rosa stood apprehensively outside the door of the room adjacent to the music room, startled by the sound of wild pounding on the piano's keys. His voice bellowed and echoed, and she winced at the noise of objects slamming into walls. The cook normally kept to the kitchen, as it was her job only to purchase groceries and prepare the meals, but today she was in a panic. The staff had been informed that Monsieur Windsor was to be out of town for a few days, and Daphne had taken the liberty of spending that day in the city.
It had not been the master's first rant, supposedly, but she had never before had to deal with it herself, and at this moment was very tempted by the idea of hiding in the kitchen's oversized pantry. One thumbnail rested in her teeth nervously as her other hand poised to knock, but before her knuckles could make contact, the door flew open before her.
His eyes looked wild as he ran fingers through his hair in frustration. "What?!" he demanded, slamming the door shut behind him, and then striding past her. You've come to stare at the madman?!
She was at a loss for words, knowing exactly how it must have appeared to him, as though she were spying. "I…I…wanted to know if…if…"
Erik stopped before he reached the front doors. "Speak, already!" he shouted to the grandmotherly figure, repressing his disgust at his own actions.
"Would you like some tea, or coffee?" she asked. It was as good an excuse as any.
Poor thing, he thought. She had been so kind to him these past months, always eager to please, and now his abrupt behavior had the older woman shaking like a leaf. What a fiend he was… Erik forced himself to mentally count to five, unable to make it all the way to the usual two-digit number. "No, thank you," he replied, his voice sounding much calmer. "I'm leaving."
A storm tore through the city of Paris, with pounding rain, and bright streaks of lightning. Christine removed the drenched hood from her head as she faced the woman at Erik's door.
"Monsieur Windsor left over an hour ago."
Christine's face fell as she looked into the brown eyes of the rotund cook. "He's gone?" she asked in disbelief.
This young woman with whom her boss had been involved had just shown up, soaked to the bone. Rosa could not resist showing Christine in. "Didn't say where he was going or when he was coming back," she told her as she headed toward the powder room, her voice fading as she slipped inside.
Christine glanced toward the music room, and though the door was closed, she felt drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
Rosa reappeared with a large, fluffy towel and handed it to her. "You don't want to go in there, Mademoiselle."
"Thank you." Accepting the towel from her, Christine's eyes met hers questioningly.
Rosa had opened her mouth to say something when the ringing of the telephone distracted her. "I'm going to answer that, now you stay here and dry off. I'll be back with some tea," she told her, her maternal instincts in overdrive.
She waited patiently as the cook left the entryway for the kitchen, rubbing her long wet tresses with the towel, but as soon as Rosa slipped out of sight, Christine moved to the room, and opened the unlocked door, gasping at the mess before her.
It had been a puzzle to her as to where else he would be. His former dwelling had been closed off, condemned. She thought for sure that he would be here at his home, brooding, or at least insisting that his staff not allow Christine in. Staring at the broken candlesticks, the pages of sheet music scattered all over the floor, the bench turned upside down, and various other items tossed about, the young diva realized exactly where to find him.
That song played over and over again in his head, the words were like the sting of a scorpion.
Meg had been right, he recalled, as he had indeed witnessed Christine and that ridiculous vicomte on the rooftop of the opera house the night Joseph Buquet had died, singing their declarations of love to each other. Now, anger consumed every bone in his body, poisoning every artery, every vein. He did not notice the icy chill of the water as he trekked through the dark lake leading back to his lair. And his heart sank as he found the ruins of his former home. Christine's voice was still fresh in his mind as she sang.
"My god, who is this man, who hunts to kill, I can't escape from him, I never will, and in this labyrinth where night is blind, the phantom of the opera is here inside my mind."
Determinedly, he found the lever, and found it required much more force than before to turn the wheel. Finally after much struggling, he opened the portcullis, and made his way inside, Christine's voice still playing in his mind.
"Raoul, I've seen him, can I ever forget the sight? Can I ever escape from that face so distorted, so deformed, it was hardly a face in the darkness, darkness…"
There was debris, some still floating on the lake, pieces of wood, candlesticks. Apparently, no one had cared enough to clean up. For what purpose, he wondered ironically. After all, who was crazy enough to want to come back to this place, with its depressing dampness, musty odor, and haunting stigma? This realization served him well, because there was still hope now, hope that he might find what he was looking for.
Amongst the piles of rubble, Erik had to edge along what was formerly the rock shelf, and a small hand-carved doll drew his attention. Picking it up, his eyes examined the upper half of the tiny Christine figure that he had created for his puppet theater. And even now as he looked at the carefully etched features, he could still hear her mocking voice in his mind.
"All I want is freedom, a world with no more night; and you, always beside me, to hold me and to hide me."
His first instinct was to pitch it into the lake, but still he held onto it, as he moved forward through the wreckage, and now to his disgust, the pair of love birds voices sang in harmony, so sweetly, so perfectly inside his brain that Erik thought he might want to slit his own throat.
"Love me, that's all I ask of you."
"No!" he bellowed, throwing the small figure with full force into the dark waters. His heart pounded, and as he fought the insanity that threatened to consume him, he forced those memories away.
She could still hear Meg's voice as she handed Christine the medium-sized velvet pouch.
"Give this to him," she had told her.
Puzzled, she looked to her friend. "What is it?" she asked, readying her fingers to separate the drawstrings and peek inside.
Taking it from her, Meg told her, "Don't open it." She stuffed it into Christine's backpack. "Make sure he gets this," she directed, her blue eyes as serious as death.
Christine had not questioned why. She had not questioned so many things. All she could think about now was making her way safely down to the lair, and with flashlight in hand, she moved as quickly as her feet would carry her, down the slippery flights of steps, her backpack weighing heavily against the muscles of her back. She was tired, physically and emotionally, and remembering now that the gondola had been blown to bits, she trudged through the cool water, its level meeting her waist. The portcullis was open, and her heart began to pound excitedly at the thought. The residents of the opera house were given strict instructions to stay away from the condemned area, and though some had tried, once the police had secured the portcullis, no one had been successful in budging it…except now, of course, for Erik.
It did not take long to spot him, and she could see the ripples of the water moving away from him as he plodded through the glassy waters nearby the rock shelf. He seemed to be feeling for something with his feet, and then bending down and reaching around with his hands. He startled her as he cried out in pain, lifting his hand to discover a long gash bisecting it.
"Are you okay, Erik?" she asked automatically, now recoiling from the deadly glare he shot as his eyes met hers. With his hair sticking up in different places, his blue eyes wild, and his disheveled appearance, he looked like a madman.
"What are you doing here?" he asked angrily, putting pressure on his bleeding fingers with his other hand.
"I came to see you. I'm worried about you," she said, moving in his direction through the water.
He waved a hand at her dismissively. "You have no need to worry for me."
"Erik? Please, I want to talk…"
Continuing his search in the water, he interrupted her. "I don't want to talk to you. Now leave," he told her brusquely.
Christine had endured his harsh words before, but, she wasn't about to run away now, and especially if there was a chance he might listen to what she had to say. There was only one thing that now she thought he needed to hear.
"Please listen to me, Erik. I love you…"
The former opera ghost stopped, and straightening his posture, he moved his eyes to hers once again, and laughed as though someone had told the most humorous joke. How could it be true? Now, he had begun to see the manager's point of view. She was so young…doesn't know what she wants…
She moved closer to him still. "What?! Why don't you believe me?" she asked, feeling tears welling up in her eyes.
"You," he began angrily, "were going to marry that ridiculous fop!"
Christine shook her head, now beginning to sob. "It's not true, Erik."
"I saw the ring on your necklace at the Bal Masque, Christine. I heard you and Raoul singing on the rooftop!" he yelled, his voice echoing loudly through the catacombs.
That realization gripped her like a noose, restricting the air from her lungs. "I was confused and scared that night about what happened with Joseph Buquet. We all were," she tried to explain, her body racked by sobs. "I didn't know what you were capable of…"
He turned away from her then, refusing to look at her; refusing to be affected by her tears. "You thought I was a monster."
Wiping her tears, she forged forward until she was behind him, and set her small hand on his shoulder. "No," she said calmly. "I doubt that I really believed that."
His voice became very soft just then. "You were going to marry him," he said again.
"No. I broke off the engagement. I loved you…"
Angrily, he turned around to face her, and her hand dropped back down to her side.
"You lied to him, Christine." He grasped her shoulders with hard fingers. "You told him you were a lesbian so that you wouldn't have to marry him. If you really loved me, why didn't you tell him the truth?"
Christine's face went white, and she felt her courage draining from her body. Opening her mouth, she found no words as she stared at his stony expression.
"That's what I thought," he said, removing his hands from her body in disgust, as though he had touched the most vile, slimy creature.
"Erik…" she pleaded again, but with no words to follow.
"I'm asking you now, Christine," he began, his voice returning to normal, "in the most gentlemanly way possible, to leave, and kindly, do not come back. I do not want to see you ever again."
Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Please," she whispered.
His voice rose loudly, and boomed through the cavern. "Leave!" he shouted, pointing the other direction.
She could barely see through her tears, and thinking that he would physically remove her from the premises, Christine turned around, and slowly made her way back to the edge of the lake. Her heart had been stomped on, crushed, shattered into a thousand pieces, and the only thing she wanted to do now was to hole up in her room and never come out. Pulling herself from the water, she remembered the backpack, and removed the velvet sack. Too distraught to care, she simply left it on the stone floor, picking up her backpack and hurrying up to ground level.
Nadir crossed paths with the upset young woman as he rapidly descended the stairs to the cavern. She would not speak a word to him, and when he inquired if Erik was down there, she only nodded, hastily seeking her destination.
Maybe I AM insane, Erik thought. Christine was gone. That was what he had wanted, wasn't it? She had left something for him, and as he tried not to be curious about what it was, he forced his thoughts away from her. He began to think about his new beginning with Nadir. His gaze moved back to the surface of the lair, to the bits of shattered glass, to the dusty, torn draperies, and seeing all the rooms that were caved in, he began to lose hope of finding what he was looking for.
On top of it all, he had considered what a complete fool he must have made of himself over the past eighteen months with his memory incomplete - an image of thongs, and Hawaiian shirts, daytime TV, and just all around bad taste flooded his mind…in spite of himself, he had to laugh at all of his crazy suppositions…his "composer money"…wondering if he had partaken in acts of perversion with his mannequin.
There were mistakes- going home with Carlotta had been one, a HUGE one, now that he realized that she and the woman at the bar were one in the same. Bile rose to his throat at just the thought of her lips on his…
But what was worse…how badly he had treated the daroga.
"Dammit," he cursed, his thoughts racing a mile a minute, once again turning his attention to the object Christine had left as he made his way to the edge of the lake.
He stared at the royal blue velvet pouch and lifted the surprisingly heavy object, his heart pounding now, wondering what it held inside. Could it be?
Hoisting himself out of the water, he sat and gingerly set the sack down. Hunched over the pouch, he separated the drawstrings, and to his surprise, found the very item he had been searching for. The stone monkey figure…
He did not know how long he had been sitting there, happy to be reunited with this treasure. It still looked just as it had decades ago, when he had admired it in the gypsy camp. Only now one of the piano's metal corners were dented, and the bottom stand had been slightly cracked. He had modeled the monkey music box after this very figure, sitting atop a delicately etched box. The piece he now held in his hands had inspired his first meaningful creation, the one thing that made him feel human in that God-forsaken camp where cruelty and punishment were the norm.
"What have you got there?"
Erik looked up, having immediately recognized his old friend's voice. "It's a treasure," he replied simply, his eyes returning to the figure, admiring the brown scruffy molding once more. "What are you doing here?"
"Rumor has it that your memory has returned," he remarked, looking down at the former opera ghost, wondering what Erik's state of mind was.
"It's true," Erik replied simply.
Considering the state that Christine had left, Nadir wondered exactly what had taken place. "Christine seemed in a hurry. What did you do to her?"
He kept his gaze on the figure and sighed. "I hit her with my monkey."
"What?!" Nadir asked, his blackish brown eyes wide.
"Gotcha," he said sadly. Looking up to his relieved friend, he had to ask. "Why are you here? No wait, let me guess, you thought I was going to revert to my deadly former habits."
"Well, YEAH!" Nadir exclaimed.
Erik was silent for a moment, cradling the monkey figure to his chest and sighed. Too many years of his life had been spent in anguish, hatred, and violence. He shook his head finally, and met the daroga's eyes. "No, old man. I'm afraid to say, the opera ghost is truly dead, and all that is left is me."
A/N: It was so wonderful to have your feedback last chapter, thanks so much! I know this chapter was a bit on the heavy side, but it had to be this way, and I hope you will forgive me and stay tuned, as we are getting closer to the end. Check back for updates. Please stick with me, and as always let me know what you think!
