I watched as she entered the room, barely drawing breath, out of fear of discovery and dread of what her reaction may be when she found my message. She was resplendent and heartbreakingly fragile as she removed the costume jewelry from her hair and neck, placing the pieces aside on the vanity table and humming an aria. I could have watched her complete these simple tasks forever. Even the seemingly mundane routines of her daily life at the Opera held an exquisite beauty for me, allowing me a glimpse into what a REAL life, even one in the theatre, could actually be.
She flitted about the room, and I stepped away for a few moments as she changed out of her costume. I may be a monster, but I am not a man that would succumb to perversion. I would not watch her undress, Though I love the sight of her body and can trace every curve and crevice of her form, I allowed her this privacy. For she had not invited me to observe her.
I gave her a few minutes to step into her dressing gown before my avid curiosity caused me to again face her through the mirror. As I turned to look at her once more, she was padding quickly on her tiny, white bare feet towards the divan, her lace dressing gown flowing in her wake.
She had noticed my letter. As she picked it up in her hands, she paused before opening the seal, to glance about the room. I am sure she was searching for my presence in the candlelit space, but I would not yet reveal myself. Assuring herself that she was alone, she broke the seal. My heart stopped as she read my missive, half to herself, half whispering aloud, as if to say the words would make them a reality, I steeled myself as my words escaped 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, and did not wish your voice to wither in darkness without adulation and applause.. . ."
She paused in her reading and inhaled deeply, turning to look at the mirror before emitting a deep sigh, her hand that holds my letter was trembling.
I have caused this sweet child too much pain.
She continued 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 gasped and sighed again, taking it all in. She looked to the mirror and I had the false hope that she wished me to materialize in front of her at that moment. She grabbed the red rose, tied with the familiar black ribbon that was left beside my note, sniffing in the sweet fragrance as she held it,, thorned as it may be, to her delicate breast, before reading the last line of my missive.
When she whispered the final words of my missive aloud, they were my undoing,
"I am yours, Christine. I am your Erik."
My breath halted in my throat as I watched the rise and fall of her chest. I was undone. Christine folded my letter up very gingerly and pressed it close to her heart,, sniffing the rose once again, before placing both on her vanity table. Her eyes took one more lingering glance at the letter, perhaps assuring herself that every word I have composed was true, as she set it aside. She sat down on the divan, pulling out the remaining hairpins from the night's performance. And then she did something quite unexpected.
She called for me. Tears in her eyes. She called me by my name, so that I might simply have broken apart at the mention of those two syllables.
"Erik?" She breathed again, and there was a tense desperation in her voice. Again. "Erik?"
The 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 did not answer her, as she once more picked up my missive and held it to her breast. I would leave her to wait. I had to compose myself, for I did 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 have never been able to express themselves adequately in simple words.
And, Christine Daae, I had no words for you that night, but I knew that I would see you at the Gates of the Rue Scribe that evening. I knew that I would.
Conceived in hell and borne of strife….