Disclaimer: Same as before applies…

Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

Chapter 6: The One Who Waits

Erik had brought her the dinner he had cooked, as carefully and deliberately as everything else he did for her. Christine only managed to get through half before he noted the paleness in her face and her lack of appetite. He watched her suffer through one more bite, debating whether to ask if everything was alright. To his knowledge, he hadn't poisoned anything. He abstractly wondered if his cooking was really that bad. She swallowed, pausing for a moment, before she timidly said,

"I don't feel so well…" No sooner had she spoken than her stomach convulsed, her hand rushing to cover her mouth. Without a word, Erik retrieved a tiny bucket from the other room. When he re-entered, her panicked eyes watched him move to place it in front of her. Wordlessly giving his permission, she leaned over and let herself be sick.

Once Erik brought the now cleaned bucket back, she was sick again. She then lay down, still feeling slightly nauseous and too weak to move.

Throughout her entire ordeal, Erik did not speak a word. It was oddly gratifying to watch her suffer. It made him feel as though his own anguish had been embodied in this physical illness, and was finally being purged. He cleaned up after her, and placed the empty bucket at her bedside. The cold silence in which he worked offered no comfort; yet it clearly contradicted the gentleness in which his sickeningly pale hands caressed her forehead in search of fever. The air of brooding dejection, accompanying him endlessly, evaporated as a wet cloth was put across her brow. He even carried in a fresh glass of water now and then, breaking his habitually overbearing indifference. Once he felt as though she had been sufficiently tended to, he remained in her room, feeding the fire when it became too low, and sitting silently on the edge of a chair. Despite his intimidating presence, Christine felt comforted by his being in the same room as she. Now that Eric was not allowed to leave the Opera House, she was alone, except for this stranger taking care of her. His white mask blurred as her heavy eyes shut; the purity of it striking out the black he wore and the orange of the fire. His corpse of a body was bathed in snow and she could almost swear that as he turned to look at her, the mask disappeared and she saw the face of an angel.

* * *

Erik sat glaring at the sheet music. It was wrong; he didn't like it anymore. It had been fine until the very last section, the final triumphant swell that would drown out the human consciousness with a mixture of emotions so powerful it would be overwhelming. But no matter what chords he chose, what manner it was arranged, it remained blatantly wrong. It refused to tie the piece together, what had been written in those blood red notes no longer held. It was like a glue that had lost its adhesive properties. With a snarl he tore out the page, ready to begin again. It would be the fifth time, and it was getting rather late.

He let his hands float over the ivory keys, his eyes closed. He waited for his instinct to prick his fingertips when they glided over the right notes. He played the introduction, hardly aware of the music that tickled his ears. His deformed brow creased in concentration as his fingers quicken their pace, the pulsating of his heart hastening the tempo. He was vaguely noting that the thirty-second notes there would have to be changed slightly - more shrill, more anxious - he would come back to them. His left hand pounded out the lower notes, a driving force throughout the entire piece thus far. He reached the point where he had torn the page out and bravely forged onward. His fingers danced frantically, his breathing heavy as he reached the pinnacle - and then it was lost. All the energy, all the emotion slowly drained from the piece as he continued playing. There was that gap, that moment of imperfection, that ruined everything he had worked so hard to achieve. He slammed his bony wrist on the top of the organ, his frustration building. He would get this right; he would complete his Don Juan Triumphant once and for all! Correctly, this time…

As he sat in silence, he became aware of a faintly muffled sound coming from Christine's room. Light and delicate whimpers, as though anything louder would break her in two. He sat there, enraptured. It was so different from his harsh, ragged sobs… the sobs that spewed forth whenever his tormented existence suffocated him. He picked up his mask and ventured from his room, wondering if she was going to be sick again. She had been alright the entire day, but sometimes things worsened as night fell.

He softly opened the door to see her brushing away the remainder of her tears and sniffling pitifully. He approached her and she looked back at him, unashamed of her puffy eyes and the redness in her face.

"What's wrong?" The emptiness with which the question was asked was unintentional, and yet he had no desire to attempt to be compassionate in any way. She did not seem particularly offended, at any rate.

"I was lonely." She looked at him, her eyes tired and glassed over, like she was intentionally hiding something. He did not reply, so she continued. "I couldn't fall asleep…"

"I apologize, my playing must have been disruptive. I should have taken that into account."

"No, no, it's not that. I just… want Eric here, that's all." He made no reply to this, apparently pondering some dark thought. She averted her eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"He would tell me stories, you know, to pass away the time, and then sit here until I fell asleep. I miss him." She finished, simply. He stood silently for a moment, before he deliberately made his way to her bedside, elegantly sitting himself beside her.

"My child, you do not understand the true feelings of loss and loneliness. There's many a soul who claims to be lost and alone, but it is nothing - absolutely nothing! - compared to what I have heard." He paused, thoughtfully. "It's the story of a man, a man who wanted nothing more than to be like everyone else. His name was Erik."