Soul Consumption

Chapter Eight

Disclaimer: As usual, I do not own Phantom of the Opera. It belongs to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber.


"There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness."
-Friedrich Nietzsche


The violent cracking of ceramics echoed ominously through the underground lair that Erik called home. He broke anything he could get his hands on any way he was able to. Whether it be throwing a useless vase on the floor, or plowing his fist into a piece of wooden furniture, he destroyed all that was in his path.

The blood dripping from his knuckles meant nothing to him. Skin was torn and ragged, but he didn't feel the physical pain of splinters of wood lodged into the flesh of his hands. Instead, all of him was focused on the emotional agony that coursed through his body like a poison.

Christine's cries and tear-filled eyes flashed in his mind; her dirty dress and loose locks of mahogany curls; her alabaster skin and the feeling of her cool fingers pressed against his heated face. With a cry that was not human, Erik picked up the nearest piece of furniture. It was a small, wooden table, which he flung against the wall, repeatedly smashing the piece until it was nothing more than wooden confetti on the floor and stick in his bleeding hands.

He sunk to his knees, his arms hanging lifelessly at his sides, spare for the steady flow of blood coming from his knuckles and the shudders that coursed through him every so often. His head hung so low that his chin came in contact with his chest, and he could hear his heart pounding in an angry, heated rhythm. The furious music of Don Juan Triumphant came back to his brain, but he shut it out. He shut all of it out.

"GOD DAMN YOU!" he screamed, throwing his head back in wild fury and glaring at the ceiling with accusing eyes of blazing gold. When his eyes closed, tears slipped down his cheek and pooled in the crevices of the mask, but he refused to recognize their existence.

"Why have You forsaken me to Hell once more?" Erik ground out, attempting to keep the utter pain from his voice. His eyes opened, and tears spilled. "Am I so horrid a man that You must bring such pain back to my body and soul? Can You not see the suffering I have trudged through! Merciful! I have yet to taste a mere droplet of Your mercy!"

He looked down upon his hands blankly, studying each pierced piece of skin with mild amusement. The crimson liquid dripped onto the floor like tears. However, his daze was interrupted. His lips twisted into a maddened smirk at the sound of footsteps. When they stopped, a voice, soft and vexed, sounded out softly.

"Erik…"

The deformed man gave a guttural, icy laugh even as his hold on sanity started to loosen. "Daroga," he said, twisting his head to glance at the dark-skinned man who stood motionlessly behind him. "I see you have come to visit! Do you like what I have done to the place?"

"Let me fix your hands…" the green-eyed man replied, ignoring the cynicism that was drowning Erik's voice.

"I was quite ready to leave them as they are. As the infection of my face and skin has not killed me yet, I believe my best bet would to let these punctures gain infection." He chuckled, shakily getting to his feet. He stood to face the Persian. "I do not wish to live through Hell again, Daroga."

"I know you do not. And that is why you must." Grabbing the man's arm, he tugged him toward a piece of untouched furniture. Erik followed aimlessly and without complaint, which worried the Persian.

"Daroga, why do you come here?"

Erik sat down on the couch, looking much older and very tired. The skin of his face seemed to be sunken in and much too ashen, and new lines of worry and emotion were etched into his forehead and around his eyes. His eyes were now a dull, rusted yellow, and his lips were pale, a color mixed of powdered pink and faint purple.

"You forget that I am always present in this area, Erik," the man said, turning to go into another room. The faint sound of rushing water filled the silent dungeon. When he returned, he held a small bowl of steaming water and a roll of linen. "I have been in an out of the building. One such as myself knows where to listen… and I heard things that I did not think I would ever hear in this dungeon again."

Erik's eyes seemed to dull even more as they narrowed at the man with the jade-colored eyes. "And what did you hear?"

"The voice of Christine Daaé," the Persian replied without flinching. Erik's sudden quivering didn't stop him from dipping a piece of linen into the bowl of warm water, and then placing it on one of his hands. "I was quite confused when I heard her voice… but then I understood what she was doing here. I must say, I feel horrible for the girl."

"Do you now, Daroga?" Erik asked scathingly.

"Erik, this is all your own doing."

Erik's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. His body tensed in restrained anger. "My doing! Please, explain how this is my doing."

"Erik, for heaven's sake, you attempted to stage your death. I even thought you were dead when I came here to find nothing! I thought you had drowned yourself or committed suicide some other way when I read the note that you left here for me." The Persian sighed and cleaned blood from Erik's hand. "Daroga, I would like to thank you for the strange friendship you offered me in this life. I no longer require your services… I thought you were dead, Erik."

"I wanted to be," he said with an absent shrug. "I wished to God every minute I lay alive."

"Erik, the fact is, you were alive then. And deep down, you knew that the girl would come back eventually to keep the promise you asked of her," The Daroga murmured.

"I knew no such thing," the masked man replied softly, wincing at the hot water that stung his wounds.

The Persian nonchalantly pulled a sliver out of Erik's knuckle with a quick flick of the wrist. He smirked when the man hissed in pain. Erik was mortal; he had always known that. Yet it still surprised him sometimes. He seemed so surreal. "Erik, that girl loved you too much not to come keep her promise."

Erik's hand flew out of the dark man's grasp and plowed into his stomach. The Persian stumbled backward, the wind knocked out of him. Erik stood in front of him, his eyes blazing in renewed starlight. They were no longer dull, but scorching like flames. The Persian did not straight up from his bent over position. He stood completely still except for the struggling breath he gasped in.

"Never say such things!" Erik bellowed. "Never come into my world and speak such lies!"

"They are not lies, Erik. I have no reason to lie to you."

"SHE DOES NOT LOVE ME!"

"Then why is she here, Erik?" the green-eyed man yelled back, his usually calm exterior crumbling under Erik's fury. Erik was silent now, however. He stared down blankly at the man, his lips twitching in a scowl. The Persian slowly stood up and continued, trying to keep his voice at a soothing level. "The girl felt something for you that even she could not understand, Erik. It was in her eyes when she and de Chagny left here that night. It was in her voice when she spoke your name and called to you this day. I heard it, Erik. How could you of all men miss such blind but blatant emotion?"

"She feels nothing but repulsion for me," Erik murmured, trying to block the feel of her touch. It caused heat to streak through him. The mere thought of her touching him without reserve sent some unleashed passion through him. He fought hard to quell it.

"Then she would not have come back," the Daroga said softly.

"She came back from guilt, not from love or some feeling like it."

"Guilt that is as heavy as hers does not last this long without unprecedented reason."

"Why must you argue with me?" Erik cried. "Why must you put fabricated thoughts into my mind? I am not loved by that demon, or angel, or whatever she may be! She feels nothing but pity—" he spat the word like a curse, "—for my accursed face and my insignificant life! I am nothing to her, Daroga!"

He sat back down on the cushioned chair, his eyes glazed over with pain and confusion. The Persian didn't say another word. He only gently grabbed Erik's hand and continued to clean the bloody wounds that would add more scars to the man who was already overcome by the weight of the scars he already had.


Christine awoke, feeling groggy and drained. The faint whispers of Madame Giry floated to her ears, as did another male voice that she did not know. Suppressing a groan, Christine tried to sit up. However, a harsh throbbing in her head kept her down. She fell back onto the cushions of the couch with a hiss of breathe. The pain was so immense it made her head swim. Nothing in the room wanted to stay still when she opened her eyes, so she closed them tightly.

Her memory of what had happened was hazy. When the thoughts did start slipping back into her mind, however, she wanted to cower from them. Erik's raging face fought through her defenses and presented itself without a barrier to her mind's eye. Christine writhed on the couch, a groan escaping her lips as she clawed at her eyes, willing the face to disappear into the blackness.

"It seems she is coming to," the male voice said.

Christine felt a presence standing over her. Soft, warm hands took hold of her wrists and pulled them away from her face, resting them gently at her sides. Because she didn't know the voice or the touch of this man, she forced her eyes open. It hurt to keep them ajar in the light of the room, but she held them open long enough to take in the appearance of the man. He was short and stocky, it seemed, with fluffy white hair that reminded her of frosting. His eyes were a clear brown, his smile concerned and professional, yet friendly.

"Mademoiselle. Daaé, can you hear me?"

Christine groaned and nodded, pulling one of her arms from the man's soft grip. She draped it over her eyes, trying to shield them from the golden rays that seemed like his eyes. The light shining through the window seemed to burn her pupils.

"You fainted, Mademoiselle Daaé. You've been asleep for a good portion of the hour. How are you feeling?" The man helped her sit up, his fatherly demeanor comforting. Christine didn't object.

"I have a pain in my head, and the light hurts my eyes," Christine said weakly. She kept her arm up, even though her body felt weak and she had to expend a lot of energy to keep it up. She sighed. The blackness of unconsciousness had been so much more peaceful.

"Madame Giry, shut the curtains, if you will," the man said politely. Christine heard the faint whisper as the thick curtains were pulled over the window. "Mademoiselle, I am Doctor Eaton. It is a pleasure to meet you, though such a meeting is due to upsetting events."

Christine slowly lowered her arms, sighing in noticeable relief that the harsh daylight no longer bombarded her eyes. She gave a small, tired smile and let the doctor kiss the back of her hand.

The doctor checked her pupils, looked in her throat. He listened to her heart, made sure she was without fever. He found nothing wrong with the young woman, though. She seemed, though a bit overtired, to be in perfect health. No ailment seemed to wrack her small frame.

"I assure you, Doctor… I am just tired. It was a very early morning for me," Christine said with a smile as the doctor scratched his beard in thought.

"Do you usually faint when you are tired, Mademoiselle? It can be a sign of neurological stress, as well."

Christine laughed bitterly on the inside. Or maybe it's from the utter revulsion I feel toward myself, she thought with a grimace. But she could not tell the doctor that. She could not even tell her best friend. How would even Meg react to her reason for returning to the Opera House? She would stare at her friend dumbly, no doubt.

"Well, I do believe you need to rest, my dear. There are dark circles starting to plague the area under your eyes. And you are too fine skinned and pretty to have such a thing mar your face," the doctor smiled, nodding at Christine as he gathered up his supplied.

Christine was almost crying inside her mind. I cannot have marks of tiredness mar my face? she question herself, guilt and need leaping into her heart. I deserve it and more to mar me! If only you knew! She didn't cry this out loud… the last thing she needed was for the doctor to see her as mad.

Christine suddenly glanced at the door, all eyes following suit. Meg's shriek could be heard down the hall, her high-pitched voice calling for someone to stop. Christine blinked in confusion at Meg's words and the demanding yet fearful tone of her voice. And then, she wondered what had kept her friend. She had run out to get some new clothing for Christine, whose own clothing was ruined by the water and dirt that clung to it and seeped into the threads. The shop, however, had been across the street, and Meg had taken much too long.

However, Christine understood when the door to the room opened, slamming against the inside wall; a loud 'smack' echoed through the silent room. Raoul, Comte de Chagny stood in the doorway, his eyes immediately finding Christine, whose mouth fell open into a small 'o' of shock. A tall man stood behind him, and on the other side was Meg, whose dark eyes shot sorrowful glances at the pale Christine.

"Christine!"

"Raoul," she choked out, though her tongue had wished to call out another name. Blackness lapped at the edges of her vision againand she forced herself to stay conscious.

Her mind still called to him. Erik!


Somewhere under the Opera House, the masked man could have sworn an angel was whispering his name.


Author's Note: I know I promised to have this out this weekend, but stuff came up. Anyway, here it is. Hope you guys like it. Thanks so much for the reviews!