Erik:
It's silly of me to have expected her to come that night. How could she - why would she? Christine obviously had a good many suitors after her triumphant return to the stage. And her viscount was there. . . I had seen him in the box across from mine, and I had to dig my nails into my palms to keep myself from jumping clear across the room and wrapping my fingers around his throat. No doubt he'd wish to see her - from what I understood, he still loved her, perhaps as much as I. No doubt she would wish to see him as well. And yet. . .
And yet I left that rose anyway. It was easy enough; there were so many starry-eyed young men and giddy ballerinas in that small room that they wouldn't have noticed if a horse suddenly galloped in. So under their eyes and noses, I left the note despite all of my misgivings. I can't help but think that if I hadn't left it for her, maybe I wouldn't feel so miserable now. It's funny, isn't it? I'm much too old to be fawning over a woman - a girl - her age. But here I am, and my love for her seems to grow with every passing moment. Even during that desolate night on the banks of the lake, I couldn't bring myself to be angry with her. . .
The music refused to come to me as I sat down before the great, black organ lining the wall of my chamber. Ayesha cajoled me into stroking her soft fur, and for only a few fleeting moments did her purring comfort me. She, too, began to bore and soon dozed off on the bench beside me. I smirked somewhat and left that house on the lake.
Soon I found myself in Box Five of the opera house, all of the lights shut off, not remembering at all the journey I had taken to this place. Everyone had gone hom - even the firemen who checked the doors had long since left. My voice filled the theatre, ringing with the sighs that I didn't know had escaped me. She had stood there, I remembered with a smile, on that great stage; the lights had made her smile all the more brighter. . .
Moments later I was on the roof top, sitting beneath great Apollo's sheilding arms as he raised his lyre up to the star-studded sky. I found refuge under the towering image of the God of Light and Truth, which fought back the groping shadows.
And here, too, I thought, Christine had sat, with her young lover, scheming like a small child who was planning on stealing sweets. . .
I reveled in the irony that I should find peace beneath something that brought back so many awful memories of deceit; of treachery. This was the place that she thought she was safe from me. This was the one place in my whole kingdom in which I could not deliberately affect what would unfold; I could not change what had happened with a simple angry letter written in red ink. I could not change what had happened with simple feats of ventriloquism. It was completely out of my hands - and that lack of control was what had pushed me over the edge.
"Beyond the edge," I echoed dully, staring up at the sky where once I had met my Master, "there is no pain. . ." Well, I had gone beyond the edge, and there I was greeted not with pain. No, not pain, not pain at all. Instead, I was met with utter torture and agony.
The gold ring glittered under the moonlight as I stared at it in my gloved palm. I remembered how it had looked on her finger. . . how right it looked; how right I had wanted it to look. And I remembered the wedding veil I so often held in my hands - once so pure a white that it seemed to glow, now stained reddish-brown from the blood that had covered my fingers. She had come to me as my living bride in what I was sure to be the first and last time I would have a wife; even if it was only for a moment of make-believe. But in the dark it is easy to pretend, I thought, my bitterness doing nothing to overshadow my sadness, that the truth is what it ought to be. . .
I let the torrents of cold rain wash over me, and soon it would have been useless to decipher the tears on my unmasked face. I had removed the mask from fear of suffocating, but then I wondered if I would drown instead. The icy water somehow made it down my neck, though I wore a fedora over my head, and sent cold shivers down my spine. But I was beyond caring and refused to even acknowledge the precipitation that drenched my clothes and soaked my skin.
The rain receded to a soft drizzle by the time the sky turned grey with the light of false dawn; the oppressive porcelain mask was soon back in its rightful location on my face as I made that grueling trip "home" in solitude.
But it wasn't home - far from it. My home would always be with her; with Christine.
I began to cough as I gave Christine her lesson, trying to cover it by pretending to clear my throat; how unlucky that my infernal cough return as I was singing my half of the duet! I could have sworn I had gotten rid of it earlier today. . .
Clearing my throat once more, I brought the bow down and lowered the violin with unsteady hands. "Excuse me," I murmured, cursing my throat and the weak voice that it produced. It was ironic that I was going against my own teachings in that one shouldn't sing with a sore throat; I remembered forcing Christine not to talk when she had had that cold, a small, wry smile tugging at my lips. But I decided to ignore my discomfort and came to her dressing room despite it. As subtly as I could, I pulled the thick cloak closer around my shoulders and raised the violin again.
"Erik," she interjected suddenly from where she sat on the divan, her blue eyes watching in what seemed like a mockery of worry. "Erik, are you feeling all right?"
"I'm fine. . ." I muttered dismissively. I stared at her from the corner of my eye and was tempted to ask what she did last night; but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was with Raoul de Chagny. I thought she had cut-off all contact with that infernal viscount! But of course not - it was never meant to be. And why make myself suffer through that rage of hearing that cursed name?. . .
"Aren't you hot, though?" she inquired with childlike innocence. "It's awfully warm in here; they must have all of the furnaces lighted and at full-blast."
I tilted my head slightly and watched her in confusion. Hot? I mused. That's odd. . . I'd say it was cold. . . Bemused, I ignored the question and directed her to begin the aria we had worked on earlier. It was obvious that she wasn't listening as I stopped and corrected her on her wording; I could feel her gaze on me the entire time, when usually her eyes were clouded in a dreamer's trance as she sang. "You're not concentrating, my dear."
"Oh. . . I'm sorry. . . it's just. . ."
"If you're distracted," I said slowly, trying to moderate my voice into even tones, "then I'll leave you to your thoughts - "
"You're shivering, Erik. . ."
" - because obviously our lessons aren't as important to you. . ."
"Why are you shivering?"
I ignored her again and stood - that proved to be a bad move on my part. Suddenly the room began to spin and I tried uselessly to reach out for something. My hand only grabbed air and I was vaguely aware of an abrupt, stinging pressure on my forehead; the ground quickly came rushing up, and I remember hearing someone crying my name as blackness overwhelmed me. . .