What is it like to row in the dark? Well, painful, wet, calm…deafeningly still. It was very uncomfortable struggling with one arm as the boat shifted side to side—when I guided the ore with my left hand, a rush of wetness slid secretly down the shoulder, drenching the white shirt sleeve beneath my cloak. It was too cold to feel the pain and the ripples of the lake killed the silence. I could not think, but rowed unsteadily forward until I reached the shore.

With an exhausted arm I dropped the ore into the boat, leaping onto the ground with a speed that insisted too quickly to Christine that I was not very much my normal self. As steadfastly as possible I walked towards my bedroom, ignoring her presence with a forced indifference that I was afraid she thought less than convincing, for she followed me eagerly, still in her magnificent dress like a servant rushing with tender-hearted concern towards her Master who she knew only to shield in her nurturing care. I stopped suddenly, holding my left arm deep within the cloth that hide it, and held up a hand of defiance which motioned for her to stop in her advancement.

"Please allow me the privacy to attend to myself in my bath, my dear."

I kept my face averted from hers so she could not sense the intense fear and irritation behind my mask that she might follow me and unveil my injury. I had no intention of letting her see what her lover had inflicted upon me, nor did I think it was significant enough of a wound to call for her care. But I knew the moment I rejected her advances, I had fully reeled her into my secret.

"You are bleeding!" She gasped, her eyes misting in horror at the sight of the blood which trickled from the tips of my fingers onto the ground. "Oh God, Erik, it's everywhere!"

As she ran to face me and reached to lift my cloak I shifted a step to the left to duck her hand, and then to the right when she attempted again. I avoided her touch again and again until with an irritably exhausted sigh I fell into the couch behind me and removed the cloak, throwing it in the chair besides me in exasperation.

"Yes, it's bleeding very badly, my dear. Very human of me, don't you suppose."

Her hand flew to her mouth and for a second looked as though she were about to faint. Then, as if fighting with some unforeseen voice in her head, she swallowed very determinedly and knelt before me. Her lower lip began trembling as she raised both of her small hands to roll up the sleeve of my blood-soaked dress shirt. I watched with unharmed fascination as she steadily creased each fold until the large gash was revealed in all its crimson glory. Single tears fell from her cheeks, landing with quiet warmth on my arm. I watched her from behind the mask as she opened her mouth to speak. She attempted, several times, and at last she found her voice.

"Tell me what must I do…"

I smiled grimly and leaned back from her, taking my eyes off the sorrowful gaze of the lost little girl that I hated to love. Why must I always tell you what you must do? Why can you never find the answer within your heart that would save me from my solitude? Why must I always guide you?...

I closed my eyes. I could feel the life leaving my arm, and then slowly perhaps, tomorrow, my chest, my legs, and lastly my mind…Perhaps the boy had saved me from having to face my own destruction by offering me his shot—a shot in the back nonetheless. Even if I did not deserve to die under the misguided bullet of an ignorant assassin, I could use this chance to let myself go.

I had pulled Death from the stack of Tarot cards, hadn't I? Death and Lovers, they were. Though I never did receive my Lover's end fair and squarely, I could always take Death as a greater cover. The Greeks thought Death and Love were as one, didn't they? If sex could annul the fear of death, why couldn't I use Death to annul love? I would never have to suffer from the absence of love if I let Death consume me. The Black Widow who has always been kind to me should take me now…before it was too late.

I must have fallen into a state of extreme delusion and unconsciousness because when I awoke, I was lying in my mother's bed, in a clean set of new trousers and dress shirt. The bandage on my left shoulder was tightly wrapped and bound, almost tight enough that I could feel the veins beneath my muscles pulsating to the flow of blood. I awoke several times during the night, only to quickly surrender to the heaviness of my lids and fall into a deep sleep again. This time, there were no dreams, but each time as I half parted my lids, I was faintly aware of a still white figure sitting besides me…I heard nothing, but I felt hands on my face, caressing. My arms, stroking.

When at last I awoke, Christine was holding a cup of herbal syrup in her hands. I pushed myself into an upright position feverishly and leaned against the coolness of the hard headboard. It only took a moment for me to realize that my mask was gone and I turned away from her immediately, aghast at the sudden anxiety that I felt towards her suddenly oppressive presence.

"What are you doing?" I muttered through clenched teeth. Suddenly the sting arrived with a jolt into my left arm, running up and down from my neck to my fingertips with merciless stabbing.

She pushed the foul smelling potion towards me with her hands. "I made it with what I found in the cabinets…I tried to mix the ingredients from your herbal book of remedies on your drawer."

I let my gaze slid down to the cup in her hand. I'd never seen a remedy like it—but I suppose if I drank it, it would satisfy her and send her away immediately. I took it.

The think liquid sank uneasily down my throat but I swallowed. I wanted her to see that it pleased me that she attempted at something useful. I wanted to give her the satisfaction of seeing me take whatever she made into my mouth. But I knew it would do nothing. I kept my face turned to the right side so only half of the rotting corpse head was available to her searching eyes.

"How long have you been sitting there?"

"Two nights." She set the cup on the table beside the bed. I heard her bit her lip until she tasted blood. "You were, not yourself Erik…"

If I could I would have shrank into the ground and never emerged. I wanted so badly to have my mask back…yet I could not summon up the strength to ask for it.

"I hope I've sufficiently amused you during my stupor."

She lowered her head and continued to bite her lower lip. "No."

I sat up straightening my shoulders and leaned slowly towards her, making sure to keep the distance within arms reach between our bodies. She looked up at me with a look that seemed to beg me to take her in my arms, but I could not…There was a repellent anger in my chest that rose when I saw my reflection in those watery pupils that might have looked so pristinely into the eyes of my half-brother. They were not the eyes that I wanted to trust…my body ached to hold her, but my hands suppressed the urge to strike her.

I was in physical pain. What is a man suppose to feel when shot in the back by his own brother and then nursed to life by his lover? I wanted to spit in her face and tell her that she did not deserve my forgiveness—she did not deserve this Erik, the one who could not bear to send the lasso around her wretched neck so those vocal chords would cease to produce lies! She did not deserve the Angel of Music but the Angel of Doom—the unforgiving demon that would end her misery on a whim because he was able to overcome his moral tragedies through reason. Simple reason.

But no, here is your Don Juan, Christine, sitting before you like the savage beast that he is, nursed by the beauty who adores and loathes him—and he knows not whether to take you or to strike you!

"Oh Christine," I sobbed suddenly, unable to contain my frustration any longer, so that I leapt up from the other side of the bed and sat as far away from her as possible. In the chair behind the desk that faced the bed, I leaned back into it and rested my head on my unharmed hand. My temples pounded with incessant drumming, but I let them pound, for any noise was better than the noise of her insufferable breathing.

"Leave me."

She sat perfectly still and watched as I sank my head into my hand and glided it through my hair in a strained movement of aggravation. My hand smoothed behind my neck and around my collar to the top button of my shirt, which she must have clumsily buttoned because it came apart easily and I could feel the sweat in my skin welcoming the cool air against its pores.

I was no longer breathing heavily, but shaking from fury and astonishment. How did this happen? How had I allowed myself to be degraded to the point of a patient in a hospital, entirely at the mercy of a child? When did the roles become reversed, that I was no longer capable of teaching but now only learning to accept defeat at the softness of her aiding hands? What can I do to stop this madness from overtaking me before rage consumes me and I force her upon that bed into the very sheets where my mother bore me, without pity, almost without regret?

I groaned into my hand and wiped the bottles of perfume from her dresser madly with my arm. She jumped at the sound of my violent smash of the glass against the floor and began walking shakily towards me.

"Erik…"

I lifted my arms in defiance in front of me, pointing at the door with my bandaged arm with determination so loud that I knew she daren't refuse.

"Get out."

"Erik!..." As she walked closer, I pushed myself backwards with the chair with my legs, keeping that taut rope between us extended at the exact distance which would still allow me self-control.

"Do it now. Do it now before I make you regret you saved me."

She stopped, and then she backed away. Her tears still flowed freely down her pale cheeks as she clumsily reached for the door and opened it enough so she could slid her small body through. As released a contemptuous snarl, she finally shut the door tightly…I could hear her running towards the boat. Up up, she would go. To the arms of her safe Vicomte. No doubt she would find solace there.

I opened a hidden repository in the desk drawer and retrieved the packet of morphine I had saved.

There was no better time for you, my friend. The elation that would only charm and harm me at the same time lies within your artificial magic. For as long as I entrusted in you my veins, Christine would be safe from my arms.

At least for tonight.