You, as the reader, would perhaps, like to know exactly when it was, and what it was precisely that caused the fall of Paradise for Christine and myself? Hmm? Though these words I write shall, no doubt, be buried with my putrid corpse, I am compelled to finish this chronicle-which has hardly begun. I have hesitated on recounting the events that led to our crisis, in all honesty, because painful emotions are exhausting...their memories have a tendency to suck the life out of one's body. Pride will do me little good as a dead man, so to hide the 'facts' of the tragedy will serve little purpose. Onwards to the second act, then, for all audiences love a heart-wrenching tale.
It was not easy for us to part ways, but after a fortnight together, I thought it best that Christine should spend some evenings with the rest of the opera chorines-and not slinking out of the dormitories midst the gas-lit night to crawl into the bed of a masked gargoyle. A life more fanciful than any on-stage illusion. True, she had been ever diligent in her attendance at daily rehearsals and other necessary functions, but her whole life could not revolve about the Opera Populaire. No matter how much the thought enticed my selfish sense of desire, I forced myself to propel the gondola to the opposite shore on that fifteenth morning.
As I offered my gloved hand to the girl to step off of the boat, she turned to me with abrupt determination. "Erik, why do you wish me to leave?"
The question baffled me. How could she imagine that I wanted anything other than her constant company? I could not begin to comprehend the inner workings of the young mademoiselle's mind, deciding at that moment that a woman was the one mystery I would never conquer. Yet, I was not unpleasantly shocked by her inquiry. Stuttering quite uncharacteristically, I spat out, "Christine, it's nothing to do with me wanting you to leave." I managed an affectionate chuckle.
"Then, why, Erik, are you forcing me to leave as if I were some pestering child?"
"Forcing you! " I had not intended to raise my voice, but I was frankly astonished by her allegation. "How can you imagine that I want you to leave?"
"Then, ask me to stay."
Christine made it sound so simple, tantalizingly so. Gradually, the world above would forget her-an act I was completely incapable of performing. "Now you are being unreasonable,." I chastised her, smirking as I did so, "You can not miss rehearsal. The managers and patrons will grow even more suspicious of your whereabouts...the curious affairs of their new ingenue, Mademoiselle Daae."
Her eyes darkened with desire and excitement at the image of her growing fame, though she tried to mask her giddiness. Only the promise of glory upon the Parisian stage seemed to tempt her to return from whence she'd come. "You exaggerate my importance, Erik.. ."she blushed, hiding her eyes from mine.
"I never flatter. You. . . and your career, Christine, are of the highest importance to me." I attempted to dampen the depth of my ardor, but to no avail- she could sense the intensity of my feelings simply from the way I breathed. With slight hesitation, still unsure of myself, I took her palms in my hands and kissed them both. The meeting of my twisted mouth to her soft flesh still evoked the most euphoric of sensations within me, and I continued to question the reality of the woman I held close to my body.
"When shall I return?" She asked nervously, as a child might inquire as to an expected punishment.
"You may come and go as you wish, Christine. I have no hold on you."
"You underestimate yourself, Erik. You possess far more than you hold in your hands."
I should never have allowed her to leave my sight. Should never have trusted in her loyalty. I ought to have reminded myself that she was very young, very impressionable, and perhaps unable to make wise decisions regarding matters such as marriage. She was merely a child at the time, and I have noone to blame but myself for the collapse of our betrothal. I had unknowingly shown Christine that she was disposable to me. After a fortnight of sleepless evenings, our bodies pressed together in a delicious, craving heat, a fortnight of lazy mornings, feeling the sighing whisper of her breath as she slowly awoke in my arms, I had asked her to leave as if she were simply a passing infatuation...the typical chorine mistress to an opera benefactor.
Yet, at the time, after we parted on the shore of the underground lake, I did not curse myself for foolishness. Instead, I felt some level of joy and peace, and believed she would happily come back to me after all we had shared. Though I was not young in years, I had not been any less naive than she in the matters of the heart. To the contrary, I was elated-and I had never before experienced such an inner joy- that Christine was reluctant to leave, that she openly shared with me her regret at our parting.
Our last kiss along the shore that day was brief, as if we both fully expected to share more intimate moments, even desired-filled evenings, in the very near future. As if it had been a certainty that she would marry me, I bid her goodbye not as a hopeless lovelorn youth, but as a gentleman, collected and sure of his lady's affections. In short, we behaved as a couple in love, living only in the present moment, the future and the past remaining inconsequential in the glow of one another.
Immediately after her departure, I set about composing, my muse flourishing. The melodies and harmonies ran through my mind faster than I could scribble them onto the page. I crumped leaf after leaf, as new themes rose out of those I had just documented. My soul was alive and it asked to speak. Music was its only language, but at that, it was a master. I composed fugues and choruses, massive amounts of recitative, until my fingers felt raw from holding the pen, my vision blurring from writing under the dim candlelight.
I felt her absence as some gaping abyss surrounding me, a darkness that was not fond or familiar, but one that held the loneliness of the unknown. Waiting for the hours until our nightly voice lessons-in which we agreed not to see one another face to face, but act as we had before Christine knew me as a man- I quelled my anxiety with the opium and morphine parcels Nadir begrudgingly delivered to my hasty hands. The needle in my veins, the warmth of that drug coursing up through my bloodstream brought Christine back to me in a dizzying, palpable haze.
After tasting her, having the girl wholly, there was nothing to be done, within reason, to stave off my longings for her-except to chase that damned dragon. The best gift I received from the Orient, a beast more alluring than any harem girl. If only the morphine had held quite the allure as a certain Mademoiselle Daae, my situation may have ended far more satisfactorily, and without the characteristic dramatics known to theatre folk. But there was no intoxication in all the world-I knew without a doubt, for I had traveled the most exotic nations to the far corners of the Earth- like the love of a woman. Not even the invigorating, and lethargic pull of opium could tame my emotions. Instead, the morphine served as a mere whip crack, a temporary distraction and deterrent from seeking the girl out from her chambers.
My evenings began to pass very slowly, and I grew angry at the stand-still workings of the clock. For so many years, I had prided myself on the fact that I could never be mastered by any desire, never be conquered by any pain or challenge. Erik was ruled by no man, no God, and certainly not a woman. Yet, a girl, not a domineering, omnipresent God, held my every thought and action in her trembling hands. Those thin, graceful, little fingers were unaware of their power over an aging, stubborn monster. I had to confront the truth of the matter: The night Christine gave herself to me, I had eagerly sacrificed all my control, and the rest of my miserable years over to her.
I resumed my old habit of walking the streets of Paris, quietly illuminated by gaslight and a gleaming moon. In the past, such sojourns had served as mental journeys in which I would craft a new melody, or visualize the construction of some palace or labyrinth. As I walked, my gaze to the sky and no longer the gutter, Christine and how to keep her affections remained my focus.
Wandering the nearly deserted Parisian banquettes, I could almost believe I was a normal man. No one roamed the streets to offer a curious glance, baffled at the masked shadow stalking the city. No, it was a quiet world of comforting solitude at such a late hour as I chose to venture from my underground home. My only companions being the subtle patter of my own footfalls and the occasional buzz of insects.
I was not a dreamer, but at times such as I found myself on my lonely walks, I let my mind travel to the furthest reaches of imagination. So far that the truth would never meet the trajectory of my wistful illusions. Creatures such as myself had no right to dream of beautiful ingenues in crisp satin wedding gowns, of waking to the smile of one loving woman, the sunlight sneaking through slits in the shutters to wash over her bright face.
No, romantic thoughts were not for monsters. I should, instead, be content with my lot. Unselfishly, I ought have sacrificed my life to Hades as a favor to the rest of my species. But, I was not a giving sort.
I still wished for the woman in white silk, skin as soft as a whisper. . .pliant to my touch, accepting of my sordid sins and all too human lusts.
Not entirely due to coincidence, I found myself one evening at the very church where Christine had pleaded with me to let her in...to allow her into my darkness. My furthest reaches.
I leaned against the massive doors of the chapel once again, my mind's eye creating her lithe form as my companion. I was fatigued by the notion of dreaming a false happiness, and shut my eyes simply to rest. Not to dream, nor to think.