Christine Daae, frightened and exhausted, sat all alone atop the roof of the Opera Populaire. Her porcelain perfect cheeks were stained with her incessant tears. She gingerly tightened her velvet cloak around her trembling body. Her striking blue eyes were tainted…Tainted with the pain she was harboring and the shimmering agony deep within them. She felt helpless; unable to escape the icy grasp of the terrible cold. However, it wasn't so much the angelically white snow, or the violent bursts of freezing air… No, it was something far, far more intense. Those glowing enticing eyes upon her… those eyes which she adored. She shivered (Of what? Christine asked herself. Fear? Anticipation? Oh God, Love! Or is it the mere temperature?) more violently than ever before when she realized Erik's eyes were watching her. Madame Giry's grave words echoed eerily in her head: "The angel sees, the angel knows." Embarrassment flooded her. Angrily, Christine swiped away at her tears with the back of her hand. That touch…It felt nothing like her warm and soft hands. She wished she had worn gloves. She felt numbness in her hands, yes, but mostly her heart felt numb. All of this... It was simply far too much to process. A dull throbbing gathered around her temples. She fought the urge to collapse into Erik's arms. She wanted desperately to tell him that she hated him. But she didn't! Oh but at the same time she did. It would all be so much easier if she just went to Raoul. Raoul…He was so sweet. Gentle and kind, loving and… Well he was tangible. He was convenient. Why did everything have to be so utterly confusing? Guilt welled up inside at the thought of Raoul. She had accepted to be his bride. But Erik… Fervently, Christine scolded herself for even contemplating loving Erik… The Phantom of the Opera. The Angel of Music. Oh, how he deceived her. He was no angel. In fact, Christine feared that he was a demon, a minion of Hell itself. Moments ago he murdered a man. Poor, poor Joseph Bouquet. He was by no means a perfect man, of course, but never would Christine have wished death upon him. He had dirty lusts and made no attempt at all to disguise them. Once, long ago, he had even been bold enough to try and force himself upon her. Her "angel" had saved her. Madame Giry scolded her for being as unwise as to wander down the corridors without a chaperone. Finally, the intensity of Erik's masked presence was too overwhelming. She couldn't act any longer.
"Hello Erik," Christine weakly greeted, her tone holding no emotion. Not to her surprise the silence remained. A tidal wave of distorted feelings crashed over her. He could see her but she couldn't see him? What kind of game was he trying to play? She was so lost…So helpless. He completely controlled her and she hated it.
"God damn it Erik! Come out and end this torment!" Christine's wavering yet firm voice demanded.
Erik's body grew very tense. The hairs upon his neck became erect. He was in an utter state of shock. He longed to beg Christine's forgiveness. To kiss the very ground she graced theground with her feet. However, he remained still, silent, like the stone gargoyle he thought himself to be. Every lovesick fiber of his being was consumed with shock…Who would have thought that his weak, timid Christine could act so boldly? Gods, she was beautiful when angry…Then again she was always beautiful. Then, a sound more horrid than even anything that the wretched La Carlotta could produce shattered the awkward silence. A bitter, forced laughter combined with a choked sob escaped Christine's gorgeous full lips and filled the brisk winter air. He now took notice of the immense pain inside of her usual bright, energetic eyes. His heart broke in two for this small creature.
"Come now Erik...Angel must you play such childish games with me?" Christine sarcastically spat at him.
Anger, fervent and burning consumed Erik's already cold soul. How he despised the way she could control him. How simply she reduced him to less than that of an obsessed, speechless oaf. How simply she could make him feel sincere sympathy, and then fierce hatred. She completely controlled him, and he hated it. Her cold words echoed tauntingly in his head. Angel… Gasoline doused the already raging fire. Trembling with strained anger, Erik's leather encased fingers clenched and released themselves so powerfully that his knuckles became white. Masking his fury professionally, Erik replied while emerging from the comfort of the shadows, "Good evening Mademoiselle."
His icy, hypnotic stare bore into not only Christine's eyes, but her very soul. She felt bare, naked in front of him. His elegant voice mocked her.
"What is it that you wish to say Christine?" In response, she shot him a cold stare. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. She would not grant him her voice. Erik chuckled softly at her cool demeanor. He sauntered towards her quickly all the while explaining in a bubbly tone, "Oh my Dear, your silence says all that you words will not." Christine's eyes fixated into his and with a resilient scowl she remarked, "And what is it exactly that I should say? Should I be thanking you for murdering a man? Should I be thanking you for taking another life?" Erik Exploded.
