A/N: I'm not trying to be too cliché in Christine's reason for coming back to the Opéra. Unfortunately, I started this story more as a sketch rather than a full-blown story, and I'm writing this chapter the same night I finished chapter three and I couldn't make it too non-cliché. But I decided not to use that "Raoul goes evil" plot, and I decided to give Erik a little bit of compassion in this chapter (it may seem a little out of character but I wanted Erik to learn something). Anyway, I hope you enjoy. (Still burnt out. Hopefully next week will bring better writing days. We'll see.)

OH YEAH! I SAW PHANTOM TODAY! (August 11, 2002) WHOOO!!!!!! It was AWESOME! Ted Keegan played the Phantom and he was very good. ^_^ I had a great time. Too bad it was matinée... And I had not-so-great seats because the seats we were supposed to be getting were second-hand and the person forgot our order. That sucked. But oh well, I got to see it anyway, and it was awesome! I wish I could see it again without it being in another four years. . . . -_- Alas, I might see it again next summer, and this time we'll get good seats if indeed it happens. (Mum suggested we see it again, so . . . we might get to!)

CHAPTER FOUR
Bitterness Endures

"Leaving flowers on your grave, show that I still care. But black roses and hail Marys can't bring back what's taken from me...
—The Offspring, "Gone Away"

Raoul was dead?

Christine hadn't married him?

How?

That question . . . how? How had he died? How had she managed to come back to Paris? How had she managed to snare a position as the lead in the opera? How had she created a semblance of a life without someone by her side? How?

Christine wasn't the independent type—she had always been hopelessly in need of a man beside her to protect her, to shield her from the real world. And yet it appeared to me now she had somehow—somehow!—been able to fend for herself, if only just to win a role in the opera. But she had said Raoul was killed months ago! How long ago? What had she done afterwards? Who had taken care of her? How had she made it?

How did Raoul die?

I looked into her face with my mouth hanging open. I was at a real loss for words. Once again, I had lost the upper hand and was now left without anything to say or do, and I was very uncomfortable with it. I hated this feeling! I absolutely hated it! Yet I could think of absolutely nothing to break the tense silence.

Finally Christine spoke up. "It . . . it was about four months ago. . . . He was riding by a river in the country and something scared his horse. He was thrown into the water. Apparently his head struck a rock and he drowned."

I seemed to recall that Raoul had gone to naval academy, so the notion that he'd have drowned seemed slightly silly, even foolish. But apparently it had happened, and I hardly thought it fit to laugh when she was so obviously hurt by remembering it. Still, I felt overjoyed (and a little guilty for feeling overjoyed) that this had happened. For a sweet moment my dreamer's voice screamed, Even the best are not immortal! It was encouraging to realise that. In this overall hopeless life, a flicker of hope is pleasant, even exciting! But as usual, hope burned out after about two seconds, and I knew if I didn't keep my mouth shut, I'd let my cynicism overtake me and I would say something cruel and hurtful to this woman whom I loved with all my soul.

Thankfully, I managed to keep my mouth shut, and Christine managed to continue in a very stiff voice, as if she'd rehearsed this line a hundred times. "I had to come here. I have nowhere else to go and no one to return to. Singing was the only thing I knew of that I could do on my own."

"Thanks to me." There was a long pause, and then I continued. "After all, you seem somewhat, ah, incapable of doing things on your own, hmm?"

She lowered her eyes guiltily, as if aware of her inadequacies and humiliated by them. I certainly was aware of and humiliated by mine. After another silence, she mumbled, "It was . . . hard for me, Erik."

"Losing Raoul?"

"Losing my father."

"Oh." That I knew. "Isn't that why I decided to become your angel in the first place, my dear?"

She shrugged weakly and did not respond. Glancing anxiously at the papers on her dressing table, she looked at me and sighed wearily, "I need to return to my work, Erik. . . ."

I nodded. "Very well. And congratulations, my dear—you were fabulous out there."

"Thank you, Angel."

I bowed to her, closed the mirror-door and began the descent to the hell I knew as home slowly, feeling both euphoric and bleak at the same time. Christine had returned and I could enjoy her performance nightly—that was cause for euphoria, wasn't it? We'd had an easy conversation (perhaps easy is an exaggeration) and she wasn't married to the Victome. That was damn good cause for euphoria, wasn't it?

Yet, for probably the first time in my life, I felt real guilt as I walked away. Raoul was dead. Christine was alone, with no one to take care of her. Even a boy who'd probably do the whole thing wrong was better than no one. And as I trudged to my underground lair, down all these flights of stairs, I began to wonder if it was really so bad that Christine had chosen him in the first place.

She needed so much care, for she was all but helpless by herself. I began to question if I could have given her all she needed. Oh, I was wealthy, yes; I loved her, yes; but could I have been good enough to be a husband to her? I didn't have any idea what I was supposed to do to play that role. Heavens, before that last night that Christine had left, I'd never even been kissed! Before I'd met Christine, I hadn't even known how to love! So how could I have been her caretaker, her lover, her protector effectively?

And yet I knew I needed it. I needed someone to love now . . . I needed someone to love me . . . it seemed to me that I deserved somebody's love for putting up with the world's hatred and cruelty for this long! I needed it and I deserved it. But if I couldn't have Christine, did it matter?

I could have had her, however, if that boy hadn't come into the picture. I hated that boy. I hated him so much. I hated him for interfering. I hated him for taking Christine from me. I hated him for everything he'd ever done. And now I hated him for dying and leaving Christine alone.

As I looked over it all, I realised I'd never forgive him. Even as he lay in his grave, I would continue to hate him. If he were going to steal Christine from me, couldn't he have at least finished the job and taken care of her instead of dying and leaving one less person for her? I knew I could never even begin to forgive him.

I would always hate him, for bitterness endures.

But what had Christine said as we parted? "Thank you, Angel."

Angel?

Suddenly I had an idea...

To be continued...