Erik comes to terms with his losses; or perhaps it's simply a trick of the light. Rating for, well. You'll have to see. Along with Erik and his various vices.
This is an experiment in first-person. I assure you, I took this quite seriously. I'm a big girl, so feel free to review honestly. I mean it. Book-inspired, along with Nuns' Anita and too much Massive Attack.
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I never planned on losing.
Oh, don't misunderstand: I wasn't a fool, I knew the possibility was there. I simply ignored it. After all, the idea of losing to a child such as the Viscomte seemed laughable at the time, and Christine – dear, sweet Christine – showed no evidence of understanding the events she had set in motion.
A pity I forgot the worst of my defeats had always been by my own hand.
The opera seems so silent now, without her voice to fill the halls, the light the empty shadows. Oh, the regular bustle continues, the rehearsals chatter on, the prima donnas shriek their gratingly sharp notes, the ballet rats stumble around where they shouldn't, giggling with their usual unbridled enthusiasm. None of this reaches my house the way she did. My heart goes without question.
I have left behind my profession as a ghost, in any case. The silence suits me decently most of the time and when it doesn't, I have my music to keep me company. And when that's not enough, well. That is not often. Sometimes I will play the minuets of my youth, the mazurkas and waltzes, preludes and operas, but usually I find my fingers gravitating to the melodies she inspired, the sheets I scribbled out in the weeks following her abandonment.
Even while I play, there are times I would like nothing more than to burn the notes from my mind, erase the memories they recall. They way she flinched at my touch, the sad acceptance in her eyes that sent me reeling, the intricate beading of her dress, flushed, trembling lips. I can still see every detail, hear every stifled sound, taste the sharp dissonance of overheated flesh. I wish I didn't, but as it is all I have left, I play, and I remember.
I could have gone mad in those strange, long hours after she had disappeared with her boy; sometimes I think I did. Folding and re-folding dresses just so, laying on the bed, feeling the remnants of her skin left on the cloth. I packed painstakingly, carefully, laying the clothing lovingly inside the luggage, only to frown and unpack everything all over again in my own closet. I knew she would not be back.
Until one day, she did come back.
I watched her approach from the shadows, hesitant but not afraid. She was still beautiful and I could see the impressions my hands had made on her, the mark of our one kiss. My heart, the ticking time bomb, stilled for a moment.
She called out for me. Opened the door, expecting to find cold and death. Instead, she found warm candlelight and an empty foyer. And when she smiled – really, truly smiled for the first time I can remember – I knew she understood.
"Thank you," she murmured, removing the ring from her finger. With a kiss, she set it on the threshold and shut the door. I turned and fled into the far side of the labyrinth before she or I could change our minds.
I was not Orfeo. I did not look back and she walked free.
Since then, the years have passed in relative quiet and comfort, marked only by the performances upstairs and the visits of one, inimitable Daroga, who never comes past the fourth cellar. It seems he has finally learned caution in his old age; perhaps too late – he still favours his lungs during the colder seasons.
I wear her ring, loose on my shrunken hand. My appetite, never grand, has dwindled away to nothing. What little hair sees fit to grow on my head has not seen the steel of scissors for nearly a decade. And sometimes, after one too many drinks, or that one last hit, or the extra half finger in the syringe, I can see fleeting glimpses of her out of the corner of my eye, reflected in the piano, the glass of a door. Head thrown back in laughter, crimson velvet warm against her skin, her ghost taunts me yet. I look for her yet.
It has become a ritual, the hours – days – of music, trying to drive her out. Trying to drive me away from her. I see all the faces, hear all the voices that have snarled, jeered; I try to think of what my mother would have said. That horrible, hated, sought-after woman. She would have sneered at my weakness, basing myself to just another circus act. Christine would turn in disgust, that idiot of a husband would laugh; finally secure in the knowledge that he is the better man. I know all this, and I still give in.
Then it is the brandy bottle, the cloud of opium, the clinical detachment of morphine, the slow uncurling of hashish. Soothing my ravaged fingers, my jagged thoughts. This is when the fear melts away, to be replaced by anticipation; the mask is discarded to be replaced by a quiet indifference. I hum along with the melodies spinning in my head as I fill the basin with hot water to wait out the first, acute rush of feeling, to savour the last moments of lucidity.
As the water cools, I slip into the clothing set out, fingers efficient apart from the occasional fumble as the fabric slides over my skin. I wonder at the clothes she wears now – does her boy keep her comfortable? Of course. It is not important; I forget it.
And so I wander, looking for her in corners, the glint of polished glass. She does come and we smile and dance around the shadows in the room, in our minds. I talk to her of the passing days and she listens, never saying a word. I don't mind.
It is when the soft edges begin to sharpen that she disappears, just as quickly as she came, and I am left in front of the mirror alone. The first time, there was a feeling of shame, of disappointment, but by now I have become resigned to my lot. The loosening of seams, the letting out of hems, the hours of preparation, it all leads to this, the rush of feeling that chases away the last hazes cobwebbing my mind.
I let my fingers follow the lace bodice and grimace. Blue always did look better on her.