A/N: Thank you to all who've read and especially those who've reviewed! As all fan-fic writers can appreciate, it's the reviewer that inspires and motivates us to continue and always strive for excellence. Reading your comments is the delight of my day!
Chapter 3: Deception and Delirium
The hatred! The hatred he had seen in her eyes burned Erik like fire, and he writhed in agony in the darkness. His mask was off, and he clutched at his tufts of hair as he moaned and gasped, trying to keep quiet so as not to disturb her peace. For one moment, the veil had been pulled back and he saw for the first time what Christine truly thought of him: no adoration, no secret longing, even for his voice-only hatred and fear. And although the moment had passed, he could not force the image of her utter loathing from his mind. He would never forget it! Would never be able to keep it from his tired imagination; every night when he tried to sleep, he knew that, no matter what happened now, this image would always be at the edge of his mind, waiting for him to relax so that it could assault him once more.
But the moment had passed. Christine had been hysterical and he had fed her laudanum to calm her. The soft veil had dropped upon her once more, covering the repulsion and exposing her devotion. Did she truly hate him? Perhaps it had only been a madness that had seized her. Even now, she lay awake in her room, dreaming in the opiate haze, calmly and perhaps happily. When he lifted her in his arms, she did not scream or beat at him, and when he placed her on the bed, she smiled! Oh, it was only a little smile, and she did not look at him as she did so, but it had significance that he wouldn't ignore. Christine was not horrified to be in her room, so she must not be horrified to be in his house with him. But could he be sure? Wasn't it just as likely that the hatred was real and her tranquility now was only a result of the laudanum? He must find out.
Straightening himself, Erik stood and wiped his face on his sleeve. Wretched still, but determined once more, he retrieved and replaced his mask, and crept to Christine's door. He entered slowly to not startle her and stood on the threshold for several moments before she noticed him. Her eyes were glazed and sparkled in the light and he couldn't help but think once more how beautiful she was. The half smile that she had worn when he moved her was gone now, and she seemed troubled, though not horrified as he had feared. Moving to the bed, he sat down timidly, and took her hand. She did not resist.
"Christine?" he said. "Does something bother you, my darling?" She turned to him in confusion and opened and closed her mouth impotently many times before she could find the words.
"Dark," she said, and looked at him pleadingly. "It's dark."
The worry in her voice disturbed Erik. Why upset her further tonight? Deception had served them well in the past-after all, without it he never could have spoken with her. "But my dear," he said, "can't you see the sun?" He pointed to the lamp that shone dimly across the room. "Can't you feel its warmth?" And he covered her lap with the blanket.
"The sun?" she asked weakly, looking skeptically at the lamp.
"Yes, of course. Don't you know it shines day and night down here? We are never in the dark."
"The sun," she said again, and her face relaxed. "It is warm."
Erik looked at the small hand that rested in his own. She didn't seem to feel any hatred for him now. Would it return when the effects of the laudanum wore off? He bitterly anticipated the hours it would take before he could find out. Would her face contort in disgust again soon? He examined her closely, taking in her peaceful beauty while he could and for the first time consciously noticed the effects of the recent trauma. The bruises on her forehead, from where she had struck her head the previous night, had developed fully and stood out dark against her pale skin. Black circles ringed her eyes and her hair was in disarray. Was it really such a surprise that she had reacted so harshly yesterday, when she was obviously exhausted and wounded? He looked at the watch Christine kept at the side of her bed: it was four o'clock in the morning. She had taken no real rest in over two days. Sleep fixes many problems, and perhaps after a long slumber she would feel better and not look on him in terror even when lucid.
"You should sleep now, Christine; you're very tired," he said, and he helped her lie down and covered her with the blanket.
He returned to his own room and lay down, trying desperately to suppress his uneasiness. His body ached terribly and he thought of how he too had not slept in days-and what difficult days they had been! The frantic rush to move the bodies and the water-logged carpet before Christine awoke had been a terrible ordeal and he found that he was more exhausted than he had realized. He turned his mind to music, the only thing that could calm him, and slowly drifted away into fantasy. He must have eventually fallen asleep, because he was woken suddenly by the sound of screaming.
Within seconds, he was back in Christine's room and at her bedside, grabbing her shoulders in a fit of concern. But this time when he touched her, she became rigid and looked away, and though she stopped screaming, her immediate stony silence was somehow more disturbing. This sudden coldness wasn't the result of terror or hysteria, but was calculated and deliberate. She was lucid, and understood everything. But even though her mind was now rested, she did not, as he had hoped, want to be with him.
"Christine," he said, panic and desperation building. "Look at me please."
But she did not. She sat silent and stiff and although she permitted him to touch her arms, he could tell that she withdrew from the contact entirely in her heart.
"Please don't," he cried, "You made a promise! I'm not such a monster, really, when I only hold you to your promises. Are you afraid? You know you have nothing to fear from me. I would never lay a finger on you without permission," he realized that he was still clutching her arms, and released them immediately. "Only please, Christine, just look at me. Talk to me again. We can be happy, singing as we once did."
Christine slowly turned her head, and did look at him. There was no hatred in her eyes, but vacancy and he understood that although she didn't run from him in body, she was beyond his reach in mind. It was terrible, that expressionless face, and Erik thought that almost anything would be better-even the delirium of the laudanum haze.
In two days, Christine's old life was lost, and a new life forced upon her. Such a monumental change would take weeks, months even, to adjust to. Would it really be so terrible to help her through this difficult time? Reality always had been a difficult burden for her. Would pushing it away for a while be such a violation? No! He was the only man in her life now, and so it fell to him to console her, take care of her, and carry her through hardship.
Once more, he prepared the solution in a glass of wine and brought it to Christine. She looked at it with distrust, but she was a fly in a spider's web. While Erik hung over her, there was no escape from the horror of his presence and the eternal darkness. She could face her fate with eyes wide open, or soften the blow with his incapacitating drink. The choice was simple, and she took the offered glass and drank the contents with grim determination. As the world slipped away once more, she only hoped that should he touch her again, she wouldn't feel it, and wouldn't smell his terrible death on his hands.
But he didn't touch her at all. Erik retreated from the room, unable to suppress disgust at what he had done, and not wanting to see the change come over her. Why must humans live this way, he wondered. Always longing for what is out of reach, denied by hesitation and fear? But when happiness is offered to them, they turn their backs on it, choosing what is impossible instead. Was he so different? He certainly pursued a fool's hope. But there was no happiness for him in the world outside of that dream, no happiness to throw away.
What did it matter? He was not a part of the miserable human race, and now that Christine was with him, she too was outside of society. They would accept the joy of their union and live in ecstasy. He had to believe it was possible-there was no other way for him to live. One day Christine would look on him lucidly, maybe not with love, but with tolerance and happiness. There was still time.
