What Doesn't Kill You…

MissCyraf

50

"She is Not Perfect"

Erik was pacing before his organ, indecision ruling his thoughts and actions. Where will I go? I cannot possibly stay here…Damn that girl! And damn myself, I fall in love again only to once again wound myself! I am a fool, I have completely lost my mind over her. He ran his hands lovingly over the keyboard of his organ, one of the few things in his life that had been constant and forgiving, always understanding, always bringing him peace and pleasure. I shall miss this place…He grit his teeth in a fierce grimace, collecting his music, a newly written opera with the lead a beautiful, but altogether different soprano than the one he had written for in the past. But not as much as I will miss her. Her crackling wit, vibrant laugh, understanding eyes…forgiving heart. I will never receive any of those gifts again, not from another human being.

He shoved his music, only his most precious, into a carrying sack, adding to it several pieces of clothing, and all of the money, millions of francs that he had collected over the years. He hesitated, pulling the money out and replacing it in the chest he had kept it in, and shoving it back into its hiding spot. I will start again, I want nothing from this place. Nothing to remind me of her…I will never get to experience this bounty that I have harvested, never get to share it with another…it is useless to me now. If she could but stay with me, I would need nothing else, want for nothing else…Bitter, crushing sorrow enveloped him, he groaned aloud with the pain of it, cringing into himself. No more. No more…

Getting himself under control, he promised himself that he would have his breakdown later, release all of his grief when Gwen was gone. She still needs me, I must be in control. He glanced up at his clock, he only had a few minutes before he was to meet her in the room beneath the stage. Throwing the sack over his shoulder, he went to his gondola, stepping inside and pushing off from the bank. Taking a last glance back, he bade farewell to his home of the past fifteen years.

Arriving on the bank, he stepped off of the gondola, slinging his pack once again over his shoulder. A barely audible click, like the softest of footsteps, caught in his ears, he spun towards the direction it had come from. If it weren't for his brilliant eyesight, he would have never seen her, the slim, willowy figure of the brunette beauty that had very nearly destroyed him. A gasp caught in his throat, leaving him speechlessly silent, rigid. Every cell in his body froze at the sight of her, back here, back in this place, with no one but him.

"A—Angel?" Her voice, the same voice that he had been so in love with, rang out, clear, soft, as if nervous. The same words she had spoken a thousand times before, tremulous and tender. Angel…Angel…She calls for her Angel…He couldn't form words, his mouth worked gapingly, his brain completely blank with utter and complete shock. Angel…She called out again, fearfully, reaching out for someone, for him. She calls for her Angel, she calls for me! He felt like his heart had stopped beating, his senses flared into a heightened state, his breath caught in his throat, stunned to the very core. Never had he ever expected to see her again, not in Paris, not in the Opera Populaire, never here. Never looking for him. Never wanting him. But she was, glorious, beautiful, perfect Christine, the Christine he has devoted his life to, his inspiration and world, his angel of music.

She called out once more, he tried to respond this time, only choking out a guttural grunt, his mind seemingly frozen solid. Her head lifted towards the sound, curls bouncing over her slight shoulders, eyes widening. She approached him, reaching out in the pitch, even in the darkness looking stunningly beautiful. Most of her hair had been pulled back, into an upsweep, a few tendrils hanging down, her powder-blue gown enhancing its rich color, and her porcelain skin. A light blush stretched across the porcelain, her lips a captivating pink. Her eyes, the same deep cinnamon that had so enchanted him, stared into the darkness, searching. She is so very beautiful, just like I remember her…He stood still as stone, taking her in. She looked as beautiful as she always had, innocent, trusting, calling out to him. Calling to her Angel…I am her Angel…He took a step towards her, she was so very familiar…

Then he paused, something didn't make sense. Her lower lip trembled, a slight movement that had enraptured him before, now it did nothing. The way she batted her big, brown eyes no longer inspired. When she nervously touched at her curls, a gesture she always did when she was upset, he wasn't moved to praise her, to worship her. Even as she stood before him, calling out to him, wanting him, needing him, he felt nothing. It was something he had dreamt of nightly, wanting her to want him so desperately he had literally gone out of his mind. Now, though, he felt deadened, heavy, uninspired.

Continuing to take in her features, things he had never noticed before, flaws, caught his eye. She was too thin, scrawny almost, with a flat chest and hardly any hips. He had thought at one time that she was the epitome of feminine beauty, that she was all grace and poise, delicate and perfect. She is not perfect. The realization struck him to the core, Christine, formerly his Christine, the love of his life he had thought, was just a girl. She looked like a child to him, lacking the development that an adult woman had. He saw too easily her weakness, her fear, her selfishness, and her immaturity in all senses.

Unintentionally, he compared her to Gwendolyn, who was very much Christine's opposite. Gwen seemed fearless, grown up, and while she had experienced pain that still hurt her occasionally, perhaps even held her back, it had also forced her to mature and continue on. He remembered the first time he had even seen Gwen, how he had looked on her with contempt for not looking like Christine. Over time though, he had come to realize and appreciate her different beauty. He had fallen in love with her different beauty, her strength, her will, everything Gwendolyn. Unlike Christine's soft, fragile grace, Gwen was fierce, bold, strong. She was not shy or delicate, rather striking, with vibrant coloring that matched her temperament. She was not classically beautiful, like Christine, but a rather unconventional, unique, exceptional beauty. Everything about her radiated, and Christine, he saw now, paled in comparison. He smiled then, to himself, momentarily forgetting about Christine completely. Mon églantier…

"Angel, are you there?" At the sound of Christine's voice again, he snapped out of his thoughts, no longer enraptured, no longer hers, only angry. Looking at her again, he felt nothing of the worship and pure adoration he had felt only months before, only a blinding fury and deep, boiling contempt. She dares—she dares come back here after what she did to me! What could she possibly want but to use me again, to use me and leave me! NO!

"What are you doing here, Christine?!" He hissed, seething, trembling with rage. She winced back, afraid, cowering somewhat, and gasping. Just like she always did. She fears me even now. She is only a child, a selfish, spoilt child that has been given everything she has ever wanted. And still wants only more. She reached out, unable to see him, trying to clutch at him. He pulled away, feeling violated, disgusted at the thought of her touching him.

"Oh, Angel! Please! Do not be angry with me, I have only come to warn you!" Utter surprise momentarily overcame his anger, he let out a harsh bark of a laugh.

"To warn me? My dear child, whatever about?" He sneered, she trembled slightly. Gwen never trembled because of fear of me, she did not ever cower.

"They—they are planning to capture you, to hang you, tonight at the performance! You must not attend!" He snorted then, brushing past her. I am done with her. Enough of this.

"Do you think me a fool, Christine? Of course I know what they plan!" She pelted around him, standing in his path.

"But—But Angel! Raoul said you are—are sacrificing yourself for a woman! You must not, she will betray you!" Never. Gwen would never betray me! Her comment stung more than he thought it could, the fact that she could still insult him so deeply only irritated him further. Gwen is nothing like Christine, they share no trait in common. His anger, hot and irrational, cooled, his mind focused on Gwen. I let Christine irk me once again, no more of this. I must help Gwen, I have no time to waste on this child. Straightening up to his full, intimidating height, he bore down on the girl, tears starting to pool in her eyes. Then, using the commanding tone he had taught her with, he spoke, coldly.

"Leave me, Christine. The only person who has ever betrayed me is you, I have no reason to believe your words." She began to cry now, like she always did.

"But Angel…please…" What little patience he had was now gone, she knelt in front of him, beautiful and pathetic.

"No, Christine! There was a time I would have given everything for you, everything! But you left me, left me here to die. I have found someone who can truly love me for what I am, even if I do have to sacrifice myself. You would not understand that, you never have. Now, leave me, I do not have time for this! I must get to the stage!" He barked at her, his voice like blades of ice, giving away the rage, hate, and hurt he had been nursing since she had left. She whimpered as he strode by her, leaving her alone in the darkness as she had once done to him.

o o o o o

It was pitch black, the only light streaming in from the cracks in between the planks of the trapdoor. Just as Erik and I had planned, I blindly stepped backwards into the storeroom, until I hit some objects behind me. Then I waited, the door was unlocked, and the Inspector would be with me soon. Erik would be waiting behind his secret door for the moment to come forth, handing himself over to the Inspector. I wondered idly if he was there already, having seen or heard me enter. A light noise, like a foot scraping against the floor sounded, I glanced around in vain for the source, hoping desperately it was Erik.

"Erik?" I whispered into the blackness, but received no response. It must have been nothing, he's not here yet. I chewed at my lip, all I could do was wait. It wasn't long before the show began, literally above me. I could hear everything, the voices, the footsteps, the props being moved, that happened above me, but could see nothing. It was freaking me out a little, it put me on edge. The thought that at any moment, the act would end, and Fauvre would walk down to greet me also wasn't comforting. Masses of people began to move overhead, heavy grumbles of prop pieces being wheeled across the stage sounded as well. I couldn't see a damn thing, but followed the direction of the sounds with my eyes, knowing that soon, very soon, the trap door would open. It's intermission. Anxiety crashed down around me, I had calmed somewhat during the act, but now I was terrified, hoping, praying that the plan Erik and I had concocted would work and that no harm would come to him. When another sound, even lighter than the first occurred, I leapt at the hope that it was my ghostly rescuer.

"Erik?" I still received no response. It's not him! Where is he? He should be here by now! Light abruptly burst from above yards away, I could see a heavy silhouette clomping down the stairs. Oh my God, he's here! He hefted a large, rectangular figure with him as well, I knew it to be the mirror.

"Erik!" I hissed into the shadows, he absolutely needed to be there. Another light broke my shield of darkness, I squinted towards it. Fauvre had lit a lantern, lifting it above him so he could see me. The light highlighted every wrinkle, discoloration, and flaw on his face, his grin was crooked, malicious. I took several steps backward, although I had seen the man many times, he seemed even more hateful.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Shepherd." His oily voice cut through the commotion that sounded above us. He scooted the mirror around him, lifting the cloth to brandish it. The nasty smile hung on his lips, eyes glinting, sharpened on me. "Your mirror, as promised. I have fulfilled my end of the deal. Where is yours?" I tried to remain placid and cold, sheer will preventing me from trembling out of anxiety. Eyeing him as blankly as I could, I shrugged.

"He is always around, Inspector. I assure you, he will make his presence known when he feels ready." The nasty grin that had split the Inspector's face pinched into a vicious scowl, his face a mask of ugly displeasure.

"If this an attempt to play me a fool—" He began, nostrils flaring with his vehemence.

"It isn't! Of that you may be sure." My voice, though strong and confident, almost commanding, gave away none of the dread that was boiling over in my stomach, my breaths shallow and tight. "He will be here." Please, Erik, I need you! The Inspector reached into his pocket, withdrawing an object that gave the lustrous glint of metal in the dull lantern light. He held it up further, waving it slightly. It was a pistol. The smile stretching lazily across his face yet again, his black eyes fixed on me, intent.

"I sincerely hope for your sake, Mam'selle, that you are correct."