Disclaimer: I own nothing apart from my own characters.
Note: Sorry it took so long – I have exams coming up and a lot of course work on the go. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed – it is all really appreciated and please read and review this chapter!
4. Can I ever escape from that face?
"This constant longing for your touch,
This bitter ocean of hatred and pain,
This loneliness I need to be who I am . . . "
He stood on the bridge, seeing no one but the beautiful young woman in front of him as he held her close to his body. He could almost feel her heart beating next to his – they were beating to the same rhythm . . . they almost seemed to be one being instead of two. She was utterly his . . . no one would take her away from him . . . they would be together throughout the years . . . he knew that's how it was meant to be.
He stood slightly back from her, took her small, delicate hands in his and he held them to his chest so that she could feel his heart beating wildly in his breast. She stared up at him. Her eyes were large and doe-like, so full of kindness and love that he almost didn't dare to believe what he was seeing. He took a deep breath to steady himself and he began to sing to her . . . it was quiet and shy at first . . . he didn't feel that he had the right to say those words to her . . .
"Say you'll share with me one love . . . one life time . . . lead me, save me from my solitude . . . "
A small smile began to unfold upon her flawless face as he stepped towards her, singing to no one but her.
" . . . Say you want me with you here . . . beside you . . ."
Tears began to form in his eyes as she slowly raised her hand to his masked face, running her fingers along his cheek, caressing his skin.
"Any where you go let me go too . . . Christine . . . that's all I ask of-"
Before he could finish his plea, she had ripped the mask from his face, along with the wig that covered his balding head. It was so unexpected and sudden that he could do nothing but look at her in dismay, trying to decipher her reaction.
He was utterly vulnerable to her now. He had nothing to hide behind . . . if she fled from him now he would know that he would be alone forever . . .
She simply stared back up at him. He couldn't see any horror in her eyes . . . in fact all he saw was, to his own horror, amusement. She was . . . she was laughing at him. She stepped back from him and just stood there laughing at him. It was the cruelest sound that he had ever heard in all his years . . . and he had had to put up with constant jeering and screams at his visage in the past . . . but this was much worse than any of that.
In despair he tried to cover his face with his hands, feeling the tears flowing down his deformed cheeks. He fell to his knees and tried to disappear from the world. He couldn't look at her . . . he couldn't listen to that awful sound any more . . .
But then the laughter stopped.
Slowly he looked up. She was still there, standing but a few feet from him as he crouched before her. He looked into her eyes that had been so drenched in love before. Now there was nothing that looked like love in them . . . they were filled with hate and a strange triumph at watching his pain.
"Christine, please . . ."
But she did not go to him. Instead she simply turned around and walked away from him . . . leaving him . . . abandoning him . . .
Erik groaned and rolled over as he was awoken by the sound of breaking glass. He immediately tried to put the images of the dream out of his mind, but it was impossible . . . they had been so terribly real this time . . . they were always so terribly real . . .
He slowly sat up, brushing away the shards of the bottle that lay newly broken beside him. He had fallen asleep on the floor again and now a dull, throbbing pain was resounding in his body. He looked around and slowly stood up, trying to ignore the screams of protest that rang out from each of his exhausted muscles - he wasn't getting any younger and this was particularly obvious in his tired limbs.
He pushed his hair back from his face, pulled on his black, velvet robe, which had been lying on his bed, and picked up the white mask from the small table by the curtained entrance. He didn't know why he still bothered with the mask. Whenever he left his home beneath the Opera Populaire he did so at night with a cloak concealing most of his disfigured face anyway . . . but he still wore it. It seemed part of him and he would never again see the one person who could bear to look at him without it. And perhaps even she had been concealing her disgust as she had ripped it from his face.
He slowly made his way out of his bedroom and across to where he had, in a rage, thrown all the portraits he had ever painted of Christine. Not a single one of them was intact. He picked up a small one in a gilded frame and examined the distorted face, anger welling up within him. He felt no remorse in having destroyed all of these images of the girl – he couldn't bear to look on that face again. Whenever he looked upon her eyes he noted how at first they seemed innocent and loving but, because of the memories that haunted his mind, he could soon see nothing but malice and a cold cruelty in them.
He had painted the one that he held in his hands when she had been quite young – perhaps twelve or thirteen. Even by that age she had developed such a merciless beauty that she seemed to be a grown woman within the fragile body of a child and he hated her for it.
He hated her for ever coming to his opera house and he hated himself for allowing himself to become entrapped by the child . . .
For the next eight years of his life whatever he had done was done for that child. He was always with her, nurturing her ever developing voice and watching her make the transition from a child to the woman that he had loved beyond anything in the world. He had loved her as a child but not in the way that he had grown to love her as she had matured and blossomed in the last few years that she had been at the opera house.
He would have given her anything – that was to the extent that he loved her . . . in fact, he had given her everything that he had possessed. The night that they performed his opera and she had torn off his mask. He had given her his very soul that night and it seemed to him that she had ripped it in two the moment she returned the ring that he had given her.
Or perhaps it had been when she had kissed him. Had that been the moment when his entire world had been shattered? It had been the very first time that he had felt the touch of a woman's lips against his and sometimes he could still taste her sweetness upon them . . . but the kiss had been tainted. It had not been out of love, but out of fear and pity.
'Pitiful creature of darkness' – that's what she had called him. He had never wanted her pity . . . he had wanted her love, but she had been unable to give it to him. That kiss had been to save the Viscount's life, not his own.
He had sent her away after that. He still wasn't sure why. Perhaps the affection that she had shown him made him realise that he couldn't condemn her to a life with him . . . but perhaps the reasons had been more selfish. He could tell from that kiss that she didn't love him – not the way that he utterly had loved her – but perhaps he had been wrong at the time . . . maybe he had sent her away to see whether she did love him. If she left he would know the truth – she didn't and had never loved him.
And now he knew that truth. It haunted his every sleeping and waking moment. He had given her everything that night but for nothing – he had left himself hollow and utterly empty. Alone . . . as he had always been.
I doubt that she even thinks now of what she has done to me, he thought bitterly, returning the picture to its place among the other ruined portraits, why would she now that she is happily married with that boy?
He sat down on the stone steps and placed his head in his hands, feeling the ever-present torment of the mask against his fingertips. He realised that he was starving- he hadn't eaten in days. He had drunk more than his fair share of spirits though – a habit that he had taken up shortly after that fateful night three years ago.
He stood up and pulled on his cloak and covered his face with his hood. He didn't even know if it was night, but if it was he would go out into Paris to retrieve what food he could get at that time. He was still a wealthy man – he had saved much of what he had been given by the various managers of the Opera Populaire all those years that he had lived beneath them, but he rarely bought anything but food and drink any more. He had no need to – all of his money had been spent for her before. And she didn't need it now . . . not now that she had a rich Viscount for a husband.
Christine sat silently in the De Chagny's parlour, staring distractedly at the intricate marble fireplace, following its patterns with her tired eyes. She couldn't believe that she was in Paris, the city that she had spent most of her life in. As soon as she and her husband had arrived there the previous afternoon she knew that she was home again. The sights, the sounds – they were all so familiar to her. It was a great comfort to her troubled mind, but it also heightened the memories that already haunted her.
Raoul's mother had greeted her warmly, but Christine could immediately tell how distraught the woman was, no matter how strong her exterior appeared. Christine had only met the woman and her late husband two times since her marriage to Raoul and she never felt completely comfortable with her. Christine knew that it was not accustomed for Viscounts to marry orphaned chorus girls, but she hoped that Raoul's mother was happy for them and did not disapprove too much of Raoul's choice in a wife. It was important to Raoul to please his parents - he was their only child after all.
But if the old woman had had any ill feelings towards her son's young wife then she had concealed them well when they met. She had kindly told Christine that she was to call her by her christian name, Marie and that she should feel completely at home while she was staying in her large Parisian home. But Christine immediately knew that Marie could tell that she was still unwell, even if Raoul had been somewhat fooled. But to Christine's relief, she made no mention of it to either of them.
Christine continued to sit silently for many minutes while Raoul dealt with various papers and dealings that his father had left behind. Christine didn't dare ask to go out into the city, especially after Raoul's anger that she had seen a few days ago. But it soon seemed that she would have no need to ask.
Marie walked quietly in, breaking Christine's current train of thought. The woman smiled at the girl and sighed.
"My son shall be busy at work for most of the day – there is no use for you sitting around doing nothing. You should take out my carriage and see some of the city, I can tell that you wish visit the places that were once so familiar to you."
Christine smiled but shook her head, despite how much it pained her. "It is a kind thought, Madame, but not today. Raoul wouldn't like me going out without him."
Marie laughed shortly and walked back towards the door and the hall, replying to Christine as she did so, "Nonsense, he cannot expect you to stay in all day. And I do not mean for you to go out alone of course – your young maid seems like a trustworthy companion. I will tell Raoul myself that you intend to go out."
Christine stood and followed the woman into the hall. "Thank you again, Madame, but truly I am fine here. You need not disturb your son, I-"
But Marie had already called her son out of the study and the three of them stood at the foot of the staircase. Christine smiled weakly at Raoul, who replied with a look of confusion and concern.
"What is it, mother?"
"Raoul, I have just been telling Christine that she should be out seeing the city today. The sun is shining and it is doing her no good to stay inside all day doing nothing," she replied, determination across her face.
"Mother, I would really rather that Christine waited until I could take her out. Perhaps in a couple of days we could, but-"
"Don't be silly, Raoul, you do not have to chaperone her every second of the day. She can take my carriage and will be accompanied by the young maid that you brought along."
"Mother, I-"
"Raoul, you are her husband, but not her dictator. Your father never told me what to do and that is why our marriage worked so well. She is a grown woman, boy, remember that," she scolded, speaking to him as if he was a child again.
Christine could see how Raoul hated his mother talking to him like she was and she felt awful for starting it all, but a small part of her was glad. She knew that he would never be able to say no to his mother.
Raoul turned to face Christine, a look or defeat on his face. "Where would you go?"
"To see Meg Giry, Raoul. I haven't seen her since we left," Christine replied truthfully. She hadn't seen her best friend in so long that it seemed like an age.
Raoul sighed and bowed his head. "Fine. Go, but you will be back in plenty of time for dinner, yes?"
"Of course, Raoul, I am just going to see Meg and her mother . . . that's all."
Raoul smiled grimly and placed a cold kiss upon Christine's cheek. "I will see you later."
She nodded as he turned and went back into the study, closing the door firmly behind him.
Christine and Marie stood there for a moment in silence. Christine knew what she was putting her husband through and she was sorry for it, but now that she was in Paris she knew that it couldn't be avoided.
She'd go and visit Meg today, but who knew whom she would find tomorrow?
All reviews are really appreciated. Chapter 5 should be up within a few days – I am nearly finished on it.