"It was suffering and incapacity that created all afterworlds - this, and that brief madness of bliss which is experienced only by those who suffer deeply.
Weariness that wants to reach the ultimate with one leap, with one fatal leap, a poor ignorant weariness that does not want to want any more: this created all gods and afterworlds."
― Friedrich Nietzsche
Christine stepped into her dressing room, a space so very dark, it was a disorienting blackness that held far too many uncertainties for her upon entering. and she once again silently cursed herself for not having the foresight to ignite the gas lamp before making her exploration. The blinding hollowness of the room engulfed her as she floundered in the air to feel for the lamp, and finding it with a hectic, shaking palm, she lit it. Suddenly, a burgeoning single flame illuminated the space, it sputtered umber waves of subtle golden light upon the brocade walls and crafted shadows on the narrow angles of the room.
As she moved further into that space, her eyes adjusting to the dim, slowly forming light, Christine was greeted by the strange sound of something smashing under her heel. For she could sense every single tremble of noise, the room had been so deathly still when she had entered. Surprised, she closed the door soundly behind her and stooped to discover what item she had tread upon, pushing her voluminous skirts to the side with one hand and reaching for the sought after object with the other. Her fingers found purchase upon a slight and rigid slip of parchment. Intrigued by its mystery, Christine stood and fumbled to turn up the gas lamp. The room soon flourished with the vibrant orange glow of the flame Christine had awoken, a quiet, fragile fire. Squinting as her eyes adjusted to the illumination, she held the scrap of paper up closely to her face and began to read.
"We are all at the mercy of the life we choose, the winds of fate we sail upon hold no mercy. Nature makes a victim of us, indiscriminately. She does not cater to our wants and desires. But Music always caters to us, Christine.
To you and I.- E"
She mouthed the words as she read them, and with each syllable, her heart clenched as if suddenly wrung through a rusted and merciless mechanical vice, one made to crush and tighten immovable objects until they had no choice but to succumb to a stranglehold. How could she possibly fathom the strength of her feelings wrought by his words, how deeply they affected her? A fire built within her soul, it was a desire and love she had not yet stoked but still burned in flaming shimmers of violet and vibrant reds. She feared the unharnessed power of this burning might choke the air from her lungs and steal the words she wished to utter. Was she secretly thankful for that?
Erik had crafted and then stolen her voice. But, had he really stolen it, for he had created her instrument, and she had always sung only for him. She still wished to sing only for him.
Christine found herself unwittingly arriving at the truth of her soul in his bleak absence. The almost tangible haunting of his shadow loomed behind her with every thought, as if he could sense each feeling- no matter how subtle- that she endured. Did he realize that her heart fluttered like the wings of a frightened bird: doomed to crash from the sky? Could he see her wings flapping in a steady desparation, feathers drifting to the ground like the leaves falling dry and stiff to the ground on a windy autumn day? Christine's heart stuttered to navigate the next game on the board Erik had laid out for them, the next move to play . . . Did she dread that? Playing these games with him? Did she relish the clench of passion he stirred within her? Did she wish for him to scalpel his way into her throbbing ribs and find the narrow, collutted path to her pulsing heart, the place where she had carved a sacred niche only for him? Christine was uncertain if she held the strength to speak her convictions and the truths she knew to her dear maestro.
For, her soul was Erik's to craft and reap, a full harvest of emotions she had not dared to acknowledge or touch. . .
We are all at the mercy of the life we choose. . .
Those were the words her Erik had written to her. Were they simply his statement born of the sorrow of her rejection the previous night? Or was his message a challenge to her to find within herself the courage to accept and embrace him, as she so wished to do?
Christine was so very afraid to follow the coordinates her heart had mapped, the compass needles of her soul, they shook and wavered, but always landed on one point in the end. . . the compass needles that never faltered found their home in one name.
Erik.
Always Erik.
The love she held for him was an unfathomable and violent thing she could not understand. Nor could she hold it in her hands, for it was far too alive. The intensity of her feelings for him reverberated in her far too deeply.
"Damn it all," Christine muttered aloud, as the tears stung and began to fall fresh and salty down her cheeks. "Damn you, Erik. . .I do not wish to feel." She inhaled sharply, her throat uncomfortably raw, as she attempted to force herself into a pathetic, quivering semblance of composure, for she must sing tonight. And sing the most important role of her entire career. Of her life. The gravity of her situation sank into her stomach like a heavy stone pulling her to the ground. Christine fell to her knees in a wretched silence. Her sore legs did not relish the hard and cold wooden surface of the floor under the thin fabric of her chemise, but she was beyond caring about that triviality. She knew the path her heart must take. "I do not wish to feel...I do not wish to feel anything. . .Erik," her words and tears were a mingling of muddled emotions, a disconnected map to her heart she could not navigate.
Christine rose from her knees and slowly sat down on the flimsy stool at her dressing room vanity, unsure of how to proceed in her preparations for the performance. She held her hands out in front of her eyes and watched them shake. She was not ready. She would never be ready for this night. When she thought of Erik, Christine's heart-that of a fragile nightingale- blossomed forth achingly warm tendrils of love, of desperation, that curled and throbbed in every sensitive nerve of her body. She was all too aware of the absolute fullness Erik's presence could create in her slender being. The unbearable thought of not having him in her life, the raw gash his absence would carve through her soul, was a frightening emptiness Christine did not wish to entertain. For, Erik would always be a part of her life if she asked it of him. Without him, she would grow hollow; a dull, haunted thing crafted of clouded glass and ready to shatter at the first provocation, the first unkind word at a rehearsal, the next disappointment.
Christine shivered with the impossibility of her choice.
Could she betray this man, this tortured genius, that fed her an obsessive and unquestioning love? The power of his passion for her was so very beguiling and overwhelming in its fervency. How could she continue to deny him? Perhaps her hesitancy was the fear of the unknown, an unwillingness to be so completely consumed by another human? And this human was so unlike any other. Magnificent, dark, dangerous, sensual, a genius sculpted of an untold history and an immeasurable pain Christine could not touch and did not know. But, her soul reached for her strange angel, screaming the cry of a ghastly banshee made of the cold wind and floating on the uncertain currents of the air. Her unuttered song begged of him to come to her, to be hers, if only she would let that otherworldly howl she wished to offer him resonate in her own voice. Christine put her shaking palms to her breast, attempting to quell the tell-tale thumping of her heart, to hold the painfully throbbing organ in her body, as if it might run away from her and follow its true path. She bent her head low and cringed, biting her bottom lip to the point of pain. She felt she might sob, but this was not a time for pathetic tears. . .
"Don't cry, little dove."
And then that all too familiar voice played a tinkling melody in the shell of Christine's ear, causing her to lift her head of vibrant, unruly curls, and her eyes to search the dimly lit room for the figure she sought so desperately. Oh, how she hated her all-consuming need for him! Erik's perfect voice teased her mercilessly, and she caved to it, as always, like an opium addict eyeing the poisoned needle dangling before them. Erik was her drug, her deepest temptation, and if she allowed herself to do so, she would sacrifice all reason for him.
Christine would never admit that truth. He could never know her weakness. Not tonight. Not ever.
"Erik, I know you are here. Please reveal yourself. We must speak!" Christine launched herself off the flimsy dressing room stool, almost upending it, and slammed her hands on the vanity table in a show of fierce frustration, her head whirling around in a frantic search for the owner of that sublimely dangerous voice.
"Hush, Christine. I am here. All you need do is pull the lever on your mirror. I would beg to call on you as a gentleman and not as a specter this evening, if that is acceptable." His words held a humble plaintiveness, the humanity revealed in them served as a siren's song that brought Christine to the cliff's edge of her reason. She opened the mirror to reveal him. Her dark angel stepped inside her dressing room very slowly, no feline grace. His footsteps were that of a shy child seeking approval from one that he loved. A man was entering her room, and he removed his hat as he did so, offering her a view of his face not obscured by shadows. No longer an omnipotent ghost. She saw his facade of threatening power slink away from his long, lean form like a black cat the instant his gaze met hers in the lamplight.
Christine was glad of it.
As Erik, the man, came before her, Christine's eyes grew wild and anxious, her slight body stiff with the uncertainty of what her limbs should do upon his arrival. To grasp at his ebony velvet jacket lapels in a frenzy of urgent desire as she had done the previous night, or to lift an open palm and slap his unmarred cheek? She could not decide, so she simply stood stock-still, arms hanging dumbly at her sides, her dressing gown sliding limply down her arms. Erik moved forward hesitantly and placed his fingers upon her shoulders, pulling her close, immediately causing a tantalizing shiver to course through her form from head to toe. What was it about his touch that caused her to abandon all reason?
His large thumbs rubbed circular caresses into her shoulder blades then, and Christine sighed into his touch, unable to resist the physical pull she felt towards her dark angel. "Yes, little dove, you are correct. We must speak. Our fates may be sealed tonight, and I no longer wish to keep any secrets from you." Erik released her and gestured for her to sit on the crimson velvet chaise lounge behind her. As she did so, he nodded, his mismatched eyes silently asking for permission to join her. Christine nodded, her voice caught in her throat, her white limbs quivering like ghost wings. She had only to lightly pat the spot beside her before Erik took his seat.
The silence in the room was deafening as they looked at each other, both afraid to move or taint the air between them with an awkward word or forced admission. But, after a seemingly infinite moment, in which the two of them stared at each other with a wild and unnamed yearning, Erik spoke in a whisper that caressed Christine's ears in deep, satin tones.
"It has occurred to me, little songbird, that I have asked you to care for a man you barely know, and to love an angel that was never real. I wish to rectify this. All the lies and secrets I have forced upon you. . .My dearest girl, I want for you to know the whole of me, and how I became the shadow that you see before you." His eyes held the stirrings of deep, startling emotion as he searched her face then, a quiet storm raging within them. Erik fought the urge to reach for her hand, his body craving the reassurance and courage only her touch could release within him. He was not prepared for the hostile nakedness his confessions would bring.
Christine's ever compassionate heart sensed his need and she met Erik's eyes as her pale little hand slowly moved across the chaise lounge to find his, timidly, tenderly covering his broad fingers with her own.
"Please," she muttered, her voice barely a whisper, it was the crisp, breaking sound of that slowly shattering glass she would become if she lost him. "Please, Erik."
She squeezed Erik's fingers as she felt the waves of emotion violently pulsate through her, their delicate pitches rang in her nerve endings as she touched him and felt his cool skin on her fingertips. His body was hers to map and compose. To nurture. The subtle notes pushed forward, the wrenching tones of his honesty rising to the surface, the music of bare and painful truth.
She would listen. She would hear him, and then she would find her voice tonight. And her voice would resonate off the walls of the Garnier, would resonate with every audience member, but it would not belong to anyone else this evening, not even to her Erik. Her poor Erik sat distraught, broad shoulders stooped and at her mercy, finally vulnerable and willing to share with her his history.
As Christine looked at her teacher, her friend, her love, she did not weep. Her pain had become her power now... Its limbs wound around her like a molten, protective shield that threatened to hurt, but no longer punctured her. Christine would hold her own.
"Please, Christine?" Erik's eyes beseeched her, and his voice roused her from her reverie. Its beauty bestowed upon her the strength to combat him. His voice always brought her strength. His words were so carefully measured, that she was outraged at the singular perfection of them.
"Tell me. . .tell me why, Erik! Why for every single brutal action, every violent, selfish choice! Tell me why we're sitting here with our fates weighing on the balance? Why does this pendulum between us constantly swing back and forth with no resolution in sight? Why do your choices make this all so difficult? "
He looked upon her fully then, his eyes glistening with the welling of fresh unshed tears, as his spidery, beautiful fingers reached for the ties of his mask. Erik, the man, hesitantly worked the fastenings, stripping away the Opera Ghost and all of his disguises. When he had released the object from its lacings, he wordlessly presented Christine with the mask, his gaze lowering in submission. Christine took the porcelain covering without question, her hand trembling as she placed it on the vanity table with the utmost gentleness.
He was offering himself to her as a man. Simply a man. And she loved him for the vulnerability he now gave to her.
Christine took his hand, then, her own trembling as she did so, alarmed and strangely comforted by the honesty he was placing before her.
Erik gasped in a low whisper, his face bare and eerily beautiful as he lifted his marred features to meet her eyes, "Forgive me," He stammered pathetically, his hand going limp and cold in her grasp. "Forgive me for all that I have done and all that I will tell you, my Christine."
"Oh, Erik," she sighed. "I am here. I am listening." Christine rubbed the top of his hand with her small thumb and guided it to rest in her lap. The intimacy of her gesture was not lost on him, as he stared briefly at where his palm, joined with her own, now rested on her thigh.
"The truths I must share with you will make you hate me, my angel. So please, let me hold your sweet fingers for the last time before you turn away from me forever. Let me feel your soft hand in mine. For your touch is the only touch I have ever received that has not been laced with blood and pain." Erik tensed and straightened his broad, angular back, the crisp ebony fabric of his impeccably made suit taut about his shoulders, as he sat at his full height. He would not share his story in weakness, his truth would be revealed as that of a man, no mask, no layers, no dark facades.
He would present himself as an honest and tender man, one that had made terrible choices, a human that wished for love and redemption.
For that was all he was, Erik was a man offering his confession- he would bow down on his knees if he must.
"My dove, there was once a very young boy whose mother kept hidden away and forced him to wear a mask. A mother that took all the mirrors from the house. A mother who would not offer a single touch of affection to her child. . ."
Christine wanted to weep at the brutal honesty spewing forth from Erik's malformed lips, but she held to her strength and squeezed his hand more firmly. He spoke of the unendurable pain of being a child exposed as a carnival freak, of every sin he had to commit in order to merely survive. She listened as he spoke of his travels, and as she held his fingers, she wondered how their singular beauty had exacted so much death and violence in the Shah's opulent lands. The hand she held was one of two that could both craft equal parts of unimaginable beauty and immeasurable pain.
Erik's voice, always so strong and deliberate, quaked and shivered like the flame in the gaslight Christine had lit as he closed his confession. He held his head low, for he could not look at the face of his beloved girl as he unraveled the repulsive truths of his past, the ghosts that he would never escape.
"Christine. . .oh Christine," he wept miserably, "I am a monster."
When he finished speaking, a tenuous silence pervaded the room, the space only permeated by the sound of the shared breathing of two tortured souls. Christine lifted her tear-streaked eyes to Erik then, and she understood.
"No, you are no monster, phantom, or beast," she stated simply, "You are a man."
Christine released Erik's fingers and stood, her heart covered in the strength and beauty of his honesty. Instead of looking at him, her angel, her tortured maestro, she looked up at the vaulted ceiling of the dressing room and its ornate crown moldings. For what seemed an infinite moment, Christine considered the amount of effort and craftsmanship that must have gone into the construction of every single ceiling and wall in the Garnier, wondering just how much of its beauty was the product of the man, the genius, who sat on her chaise lounge, his head bent low in penitence. Without turning her gaze to him, she spoke, "I have much to think about, Erik. I am asking you to go now, please. I have an opera to perform." Her words were laced with an icy tenderness.
"Yes," he muttered weakly, his heavenly voice caught dryly in his throat, it was the sound of a man defeated but unbroken. And then, he was gone, the rippling of his cloak as he left the room was the flitting of a swallow's tail.
She did not watch his exit, the horrible silence of his absence always rang in her ears. She did not need to see that he had left her.
It was then that Christine first heard the little sounds.
Erik had mentioned them the previous night, those little sounds, but Christine had not grasped his statement then. Understanding echoed in her head now, like the deafening, drowning rush of a tidal wave, and she was the swimmer trying to fight the crushing current, trying to keep her head above water. The little sounds were faint, but beautiful, their melody guided her to the shore she sought and filled her with a courage she had not yet realized she possessed. Until this moment.
Tonight, her voice would be heard, and her triumph would be for the both of them, For her and Erik. He simply did not realize it yet.
Dear readers, I am so very sorry this has been such a long time coming. Thank you to all of you out there who have been patient and stuck it through with me, I promise, the best is yet to come. Please let me know your thoughts in the comments.- Jess