Disclaimer: Okay. No joke. Now this story owns me, not the other way around. Phantom of the Opera is only the inspiration. (Neither of us can lay claim to it.)
My Note to all of you: To those who have been pretty faithfully reviewing, I just have to say that you all are tremendous. It's been obvious all along that a group of regular reviews were all highly educated mature folks, and I just want to say that I LOVE reading your messages--ESPECIALLY the ones with corrections, suggestions, typo alerts and plot or character inconsistencies in them. Seriously. If I get something wrong, tell me FAST (Thanks Dernhelm for that last bit about the hospital. That was utterly critical. I knew I should have left it the old way... but I was afraid the change had been shortly after it was established rather than recently. Can you believe I could not find the date? Then again, it was midnight. I didn't look that hard. But it's fixed already. Couldn't leave a glaring error like that for more than a day! But honestly. Jump all over my grammar and typos, too. I was just re-reading a couple of early chapters (which I thought I had already CORRECTED!) and I found more typos. I know, I could get a beta, but it slows the process down (and no one wants THAT, right?) so you can put it in the review or PM me and I SWEAR to you I will go back and fix it. I used to teach English. I can't have grammar mistakes here! The sooner I know, the easier it is to fix--while the chapters are still saved on FFN as "documents." Okay, y'all... there's not a lot of action here, but plenty going on anyway. Let me know what you think so far...
When she awakened and removed the covers from her head, everything was (more or less) as she had hoped. Erik had changed into the other pajamas (funny he was being so compliant even while acting so incredibly irritated) and the tray remained but the food was gone, suggesting someone (other than herself) had eaten it. Sadly, the mask was neatly in place. She hoped he'd spent some time without it while she was sleeping though. It looked so dreadfully uncomfortable. She remembered something he told her in the house on the lake. I wore it... though it was terribly uncomfortable... it impaired my vision... it hurt my face. How could he bear it? She wanted to tell him It is not needed, but she didn't dare broach the subject with him now. She glanced at him.
He was reading her book.
She folded back the sheets and sat up. "You read German?" she asked.
He looked at her. She could almost feel him thinking up sarcastic remarks. No, I'm just looking at the pictures. German? Is that what this is? No wonder it makes no sense! I thought it was Hindi! But he said nothing of the sort. "Indeed," he replied icily. As if she should have known all along.
All this time she had been struggling with her French when they could have been conversing in German all along! She sighed heavily. But it wouldn't do to change it now. She'd become accustomed to speaking French to him. Indeed, to everyone, but especially to him. She tried to imagine any of their conversations in German and they sounded awkward. It would be prudent to remember this, though. At some point she might need to tell him something that was not to be understood by others. The Comte, perhaps. Or even Christine. Idly she wondered who else among her understood German.
"Surely you read this only for amusement and take none of it seriously," he said. His voice was still harsh and raspy, but better nonetheless. But did she detect a note of derision?
"I'm sorry?"
"It is quite ridiculous, don't you agree?"
Well, she hadn't yet had the chance to begin reading it. And now, it rather looked like she wouldn't. The book was open on his lap, but his countenance was one of holding it protectively. "What is?"
"This nonsense about mothers and sons. It can't be true. It's a wonder anyone reads such drivel at all." She was taken aback. Was that a personal affront to her?
A true analyst might have turned the focus back upon him with "You seem to have strong feelings about that…" but Elizabeth glared at him. "I guess I wouldn't know much about mothers and sons," she said coldly.
"Nor I," he responded in a softer tone, and she felt her anger ebb away again. Still, he seemed determined to provoke her. "But this Doctor Freud seems to be rather out of his own mind I believe. Hard to imagine he helps anyone." He coughed lightly.
She laughed. "Never say that aloud where anyone can hear you," she replied.
"It is a rather remarkable piece of work," he said. "If you regard it as fiction." Was he irritated with Freud? Or with her?
"Erik?"
He glared at her over the top of the book as though she were repeatedly interrupting him. Why was he talking to her if he didn't want her to answer, she wondered.
"I thought, perhaps, if you're feeling well enough to sit up and read perhaps we might instead sit up and discuss the situation with Christine?"
He regarded her distantly. "It is late afternoon and you are still in bed. Are you feeling well enough to discuss Christine?"
He was deliberately putting her off, pushing her away. Fine. Wilhelm always said women didn't make good analysts because they were too willing to get close. If distance was required for analysis, so be it. That made this the best time for discussing Christine, for she had not felt more distance from him since the moment she met him—not when he was merely a skeletal figure she thought left for dead. Not when he dragged her by her hair to thrust her face into the light of the lantern, nor when he thrust his face into hers with a horrific look to deliberately disgust her. Not even the night he shut her out of his room and his life and locked the door to creep out to stand beneath the window of one who was disgusted by him while she placed trays of food by his door.
She glared at him, stalked to the closet for a dress, rummaged in a drawer for her undergarments and stomped into the bathroom. Really, he was behaving quite childishly. Actually, they both were, she amended. No more stomping. Her pain was her own fault. She hadn't been up front with him about her feelings. True, she hadn't been entirely aware of them until recently, but nevertheless. That's life. She remembered a promise she'd made herself long ago that she had almost broken. If she wouldn't break it for Wilhelm, who had done so much for her, why break it for this shattered excuse for a man? That's it, she told herself. It stops here.
Even as she thought this, she realized she was dressing because he had suggested it was necessary, and she was angry with herself for it. She looked at herself in the mirror and scarcely recognized herself. Where had all those lines come from? When did she come to look so tired? She remembered looking at her reflection the night before and shuddered. She remembered the terrible heaving of her stomach just before that and the bitter acid taste mingling with the salt from her tears. She splashed her face with cool water. It isn't worth your tears. She dabbed a towel against her face. It is almost over now. She tucked up the wisps of her hair that had escaped while she was sleeping. Finish this and move on. She rearranged her features into a blank analyst's mask. There now. Perfect. She exited the bathroom.
He looked up from the book, marking his place with a bony finger, as she entered. My, he read fast, she thought. She found a mesh bag in the closet beside the bed and gathered up the clothing that she had piled up the night before prior to having realized he was gone. She added the soiled pajamas to the pile and placed it all outside the door for the hotel staff. She didn't care if anyone noticed men's garments in the bag. Scrutinize my laundry and be damned, she thought savagely. She did the same with the soiled linens, then turned back to the room.
He gazed across the room at her. She looked so tired, he thought. This, regardless of everything else, was his fault. It was not his fault she met him, not his fault she felt it necessary to bother about him the first time. But he had come here. He remembered that. He had bound her to a promise, which she had kept... and still he could not trust her. What was wrong with him? Why was it so easy to be cruel today? Ah, yes, she looked tired. She was rather lovely when she wasn't tired; he didn't deserve to have anything to do with her. He'd be going. Just as soon as he could walk further than the end of the hall without stopping for breath.
She felt his stare and looked up. His eyes looked so cold and heartless. How could someone so full of passion and love act so unfeeling and cruel? And yet it made sense. Strong emotions went in both directions. And what did one expect to be the result of a life lived without affection. But she had not done this to him. She would not bear the brunt of his anger at the world. She knew she didn't deserve that. Still, she was a woman who kept her word; she never made promises unless she could keep them and never broke them once they were made. It is almost fulfilled.
"Erik," she said. "It's about that promise I made you. I could easily say that Christine is fine, my promise is kept, my obligation complete. But I would be remiss if I did so because leaving things as they are now leaves it apt to happen again."
He regarded her without expression. Even his eyes revealed nothing. It was as though he were wearing a mask beneath his mask. He did not speak but waited for her to say more. She was going to have to give more. It simply wasn't right. But she did it anyway.
"When we went out that night, I don't think you intended to see Christine. Maybe I am wrong. I know I didn't intend to see her. I didn't make my intentions clear to you, and perhaps that was dishonest of me. Perhaps I simply didn't think it was important to discuss it. Whatever the case, I'll tell you now. We met by accident, Erik. That wasn't intended either. I was on vacation. I was bored. I wanted an adventure and I went exploring. Meeting you was entirely unexpected—but wonderful. I mean that. I don't regret that for a moment. I hope you don't either, though maybe I wouldn't blame you if you did; it's not been easy for you, has it? But what I thought was that you seemed much less melancholic on the way to the carriage ride than you were the day I met you. Or any of the other days, as a matter of fact. Something went wrong along the way and I don't know why, but before that, as we were climbing up from the cellars, you seemed almost…happy."
He didn't deny it. He thought back on that night. Yes, she was perhaps correct. He had rather enjoyed it, for a moment. Enjoyed it and instantly felt guilty for it. Or felt afraid it would be snatched away without warning. Whatever. He had enjoyed it for a brief moment before the ugliness crept back in.
"My intention that night was that perhaps you would enjoy yourself. I thought perhaps if you did, we might try it again—or something else. Perhaps over time, we would enjoy ourselves so much that you would wish to journey above more often. You spoke before that of being tired of your way of life, of wanting something different, though you weren't sure exactly what. Isn't it so? I thought perhaps such a thing were actually possible. I got the feeling you once believed so, too and—"
"Many people have once believed foolish things. What I may have once believed, years ago, means nothing."
"Understood. I won't argue with you. But at the time of the carriage ride, this is what was on my mind. My intentions were to take a small step towards making that possible. I was thinking this and I did not tell you. Naturally, I have no way of knowing what you were thinking. You did not tell me. It is possible that you absolutely intended to see Christine that night. But I doubt it. Because if you had intended it, you would likely not have acted so intensely disturbed immediately following."
He glared at her. "Of what relevance is it that?"
"The relevance is that it upset you greatly. Whether you admit it or not, it did. And things left as they are, it could happen again. You could easily encounter her again."
"Not if I do not come up here anymore," he said angrily.
"So you'll hide yourself away then? She goes free, and you lock yourself away in fear?"
"I would be locked away even if she did not exist. She set me free for but a moment. I should be grateful to remember that moment for the rest of my life, even if locked away."
Oh, how to remain detached in the face of such bitterness, such hopelessness, such torture! But she would not open herself to pain again.
"If that's what you choose to do with what's left of your life, so be it. If you choose to live without hope, I can't force it on you. But imagine if you change your mind! Oh, unrealistic, perhaps, but humor me! Let's imagine you change your mind, you wish for more, you decide to make it a reality and you come above—successfully. Nothing is ever perfect, but lets say things are good. Then you run into her. Her reaction is not what you would hope. It shatters all your dreams. You go below again, but this time, it is not a choice. This time, it is a life sentence. Think on it. It is a tragedy and it can be so simply avoided! If things were left better between you, if everything were out in the open, if the two of you could agree on some certain terms, then yes—do as you wish. Go back to where you were and stay there. But someday, when you change your mind, you will be entirely free again."
His voice was skeptical. "How do you intend to accomplish this bit of magic?"
"You two need to get together and talk."
He visibly tensed. "No."
She felt herself weakening. "I'd stay. I'd be right there with you."
He must have been weakening too, for his shoulders slumped forward dejectedly. "What can I possibly say to her?"
Without meaning to, she shifted to a gentler voice. "We'll come up with something," she said. Damn. She said we. She cursed herself silently and went on. "Don't worry for a moment about what to say. Just say you'll try it."
"I—" he struggled. "She would come to see me then? She would…sit here? And listen? If I talked to her?"
"I haven't suggested this to her yet. I wanted your approval first. But I feel very certain she would. She wanted to come inside and visit last evening."
"Last evening!" he said in a whisper. "What could I have said to her then?"
"That's why I sent her away."
"You sent her away?" His voice was barely audible. Then there was a silence. A long silence. Finally: "She only learned I was here last night. She wanted to come in then. It was a sudden decision. She did not think it through. She will not want to see me when she comes to her senses."
Elizabeth cast her eyes downward. It might be true. All she could do was ask Christine. But regardless of whether it was true or not, it pained her to hear him say it, for she knew it reflected upon his perception of himself, and she knew that in the brief time she had known him, her impact had been insignificant. It seemed so simple to her. Surely, there was a way to live a normal life—or something closer to it. Regardless of whatever had happened before, he had yearned for normalcy and apparently tried to bring it about in whatever way he thought possible—up to the point of begging Christine to marry him. Her rejection was the final blow, it appeared, that convinced him effort was entirely futile.
"Erik... What shall I tell her?"
"About what?"
"About… you? She asks me questions. Shall I tell her the truth? Refuse to answer? Tell her to ask you herself?"
He stared at her, still confused. "About… what?"
"She wants to know things that sound simple like how I met you and what you've been doing. Of course, there are certain things I wouldn't tell her anyway." She cast her eyes away. Like your condition when I first saw you. "Things that aren't necessary. That wouldn't benefit either of you any." …because it would make me feel like I am disgracing you. It still mattered to her. She couldn't shake it.
He met her eyes. He seemed to have steeled himself against all emotion. "I don't care what you tell her," he said.
:gazing at you plaintively while holding a sign that reads "Will write chapters for reviews":