I watch as she enters the room, barely drawing breathe, out of fear of discovery and dread of what her reaction may be when she finds my message. She is resplendent and breathtakingly fragile as she removes the costume jewelry from her hair and neck, placing the pieces aside on the vanity table and humming an aria. I could watch her complete these simple tasks forever. Even the seemingly mundane routines of her daily life at the Opera hold an exquisite beauty for me, allowing me a glimpse into what a REAL life, even one in the theatre, could actually be.
She flits about the room, and I step away for a few moments as she changes out of her costume. I may be a monster, but I am not a man that would succumb to perversion. I will not watch her undress, Though I love the sight of her body and can trace every curve and crevice of her form, I will allow her this privacy. For she has not invited me to observe her.
I allow her a few minutes to step into her dressing gown before my avid curiosity causes me to again face her through the mirror. As I turn to look at her once more, she is padding quickly on her tiny, white bare feet towards the divan, her lace dressing gown flowing in her wake.
She has noticed my letter. As she picks it up in her hands, she pauses before opening the seal, to glance about the room. I am sure she is searching for my presence in the candlelit space, but I will not yet reveal myself. Assuring herself that she is alone, she breaks the seal. My heart stops as she reads my missive, half to herself, half whispering aloud, as if to say the words will make them a reality, I steel myself as my words escape her lips, clutching my cloak between tight fists and fighting the urge to breathe too loudly.
"My darling nightingale,
Your Erik has not left you. I beg your forgiveness for my weeks of absence and my neglect. I did not desert you out of malice, scorn, nor did I intend to reject you. The last thing in the world that I would ever desire would be to separate myself from your sweet presence. Your touch. . . I asked you to leave, as I did not want you to wilt in a world without sunlight, did not wish your voice to wither in darkness without adulation and applause.. . ."
She pauses in her reading and inhales deeply, turning to look at the mirror before emitting a deep sigh, her hand that holds my letter is trembling. I have caused this sweet child too much pain.
And now, she continues to read aloud. "Your talent deserves more than I could ever give to you, save my instruction. I simply ask that you come back to me, forgive me, meet me at the gate to the Rue Scribe this evening, a few minutes before midnight. I will explain everything. And, it is my greatest hope and desire that you will find some compassion in your delicate and true heart to listen to and understand the dark tales of your broken angel. "
She gasps and sighs again, taking it all in. She looks to the mirror. I have the false hope that she wishes me to materialize in front of her at this moment. She grabs the red rose, tied with the familiar black ribbon that was left beside my note. She sniffs in the sweet fragrance and holds the rose, thorned as it may be, to her delicate breast, before reading the last line of my missive. When she whispers the words aloud, they are my undoing,
"I am yours, Christine. I am your Erik".
My breath halts in my throat as I watch the rise and fall of her chest. I am undone. Christine folds my letter up very gingerly, and sniffs the rose once again, before placing it on her vanity table. Her eyes take one more lingering glance on the letter, perhaps assuring herself that every word I have composed is true, as she sets it aside. She sits down on the divan, pulling out the remaining hairpins from the night's performance. And then she does something quite unexpected.
She calls for me. Tears in her eyes. She calls me by my name, so that I may simply break apart at the mention of those two syllables.
"Erik?" She breathes again, and there is a tense desperation in her voice. Again. "Erik?"
This intense fragility between us. I would hold it in my hands if I could. But a monster is not allowed such a privilege.
"Erik? Erik? Are you here? Or must I wait and catch you like a mouse in a trap at the Rue Scribe?"
I do not answer her, as she once more picks up my missive and holds it to her breast. I will leave her to wait. I must compose myself, for I do not know the navigation of love, the intricacies of desire, the balance of my ruined face against the wealth and beauty of the Vicomte de Chagny.
Music was created, because people could never express themselves adequately in simple words. And, Christine Daae, I have no words for you tonight, but I know that I will see you tonight at the Gate of the Rue Scribe. I know.