CHAPTER RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: "Nessun Dorma" is from Puccini's Turandot. Again, I'm not sure who wrote the lyrics for "The Point of No Return," but it's probably either Charles Hart or Tim Rice. And, of course, music by Andrew Lloyd Webber.

The next day, Winifred was pleased to find that the Phantom was waiting for her by the lake as before, but she became nervous when she remembered what she must do, and even more nervous when she realised how nice he looked. Today he did not wear a jacket or gloves, but only the cloak over his white shirt whose ruffled neckline began below his pectoral muscles. Not a word was said between them as he helped her into the boat and pushed them across the lake. It wasn't until they reached shore that Winifred spoke.

"Shall we start with 'Sanctos Spiritus'?" she asked.

"No," Erik replied. "Today I have something different in mind." He took her to the organ and sat down, she standing beside him. He handed her a leather-bound musical score entitled Don Juan Triumphant. "Start at page seven where the soprano comes in."

Winifred opened the music and sang.

"You have brought me
To that moment where words run dry
To that moment where speech disappears
Into silence,
Silence . . .

I have come here
Hardly knowing the reason why.
In my mind, I've already imagined
Our b-"

Winifred stopped, looked at Erik nervously, and continued.

"Our bodies entwining defenseless and silent
And now I am here with you:
No second thoughts,
I've decided,
Decided . . . "

She lowered her music and cleared her throat. Erik took her hand, causing her to wince, bracing herself for the needle.

"Don't worry," he told her. "I was only going to ask you why you stopped. You were doing so well."

Winifred looked down at their joined hands. She could tell by the texture of his skin that he worked with his hands, but they weren't unpleasantly rough. They were strong. His fingers were calloused like those of an artist. He stroked her hand with his thumb.

"Winifred?" he said.

"Can we work on something else?" she asked, coming out of her daze.

"Alright," he replied, letting go of her hand. "Have I shown 'Nessun Dorma' to you yet?"

"No."

He handed her a sheet of music. "It is in Italian, so I'll have to pronounce the words for you." Then he began to sing a lovely, flowing tune.

"Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!
Tu pure, o Principessa
nella tua fredda stanza
guardi le stelle
che tremano d'amore
e di speranza.

Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me,
il nome mio nessun saprà!
No, no, sulla tua bocca lo dirò
quando la luce splenderà!"

But Winifred was not listening. Well, she was. Who could help but listen to that angelic voice? She wasn't listening to the words. She didn't care about how they were pronounced. All she cared about was the music.

"Ed il mio bacio scioglerà il silencio
che ti fa mia!

Dilegua, o notte!
Tramontate, stelle!
All'alba vincerò!
Vincerò! Vincerò!"

He stopped, and Winifred's thoughts dropped back into reality. She remembered: "The Phantom is able to hypnotize with his voice- to seduce." He was looking up at her, waiting for her to sing. His eyes were dark, one eye partially hidden by the white mask. This was it. She had to do it, or be lost. She reached out and removed the mask.

Winifred got a glimpse of unnaturally pink skin before Erik stood and turned away, covering his face. "Succubus! Damn you, fiend!" he yelled, and let out an animal roar.

Winifred almost shot back at him with, "You call me a succubus?" but was distracted when he flung a table into the water with another frustrated yell.

"You are all alike!" he cried out angrily, then he collapsed to the ground, and said in the most pitiful voice Winifred had ever heard come from a man, "Nothing will ever change."

As Erik moved to lean his back against the wall, Winifred went to him and kneeled in front of him, touching the hand that hid his face. "Why do you cover yourself?" she asked him quietly.

He turned the covered side of his face away and said, "Do not touch me," in a tired, biting tone.

But Winifred only moved closer, placing her hand on his neck. "Please," she pleaded with him. "Let me see."

He did not move at first, but after a moment, and with what seemed like great difficulty, he lowered his hand and turned to face her.

The sight made her gasp and draw her hand back. Half of his face was misshapened, as if it had been melted. His bottom eyelid drooped like it was being pulled downwards and his flesh was red as if he'd been burned in a fire. Erik turned away in shame, and Winifred, before she could stop herself, cupped his deformed cheek in her hand and made him face her once more. She moved in closer to get a better look, and their faces were now mere inches apart. She trailed her fingers down his face, feeling his skin. This was probably the rudest, most intrusive thing she had ever done, but she simply could not help herself. She had to explore him. She needed to. Her finger grazed his hairline and she saw that it moved unnaturally, so she pushed it back. His nearly-black hair tumbled off his head to reveal thin, stringy, dusty brown hair. Also, Winifred could now see that nearly half of his head was bald, showing more deformity.

All through Winifred's staring, Erik looked back at her with eyes full of hopelessness and despair. She knew she should be frightened, but she realized that she couldn't. He was sitting before her, naked, vulnerable, and she only wanted to touch him more. Suddenly, Winifred found herself leaning forward, placing a lingering kiss on Erik's distorted cheek. He sighed- almost a gasp- and she kissed his closed, deformed eye, trying, somehow, to pour herself into him. She then crawled into his lap, laid her head on his shoulder, and they held each other in a desperate embrace.

"No one has ever..." he whispered, but did not finish. Then Winifred felt him shaking. He was crying.

What has the world done to you? she thought, and held him tighter.