Dear Universe:

Please don't let them flame me for this chapter.

Love,

Owlet

It was the easiest thing in the world to fall back into despair. Erik had forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by such darkness that he even lost language—he lost time and was reduced to dissonance and a hot, crawling pain that tore through him. He felt himself a fool.

Just two days, and already he was back to the old days of anger and sadness, to the pervasive knowledge of his own repulsiveness. Yet his anger was not exactly as it had been; it was tinged with bitterness now. He could not wholly hate himself. Surprising as it was, he was also angry with Christine.

He sat up. For what seemed like the first in a long while, he drew a deep breath. Even during his three months of feverish solitude while composing Don Juan Triumphant, after that devastating night on the rooftop when she accepted the boy's proposal, he had never blamed her. He had only ever blamed the boy for leading her astray. Christine, his angel, had been above blame, an innocent. He had thought of her as his own to mold—it was natural that another man would also think so.

Erik shook his head. The world was all confusion again, as it had been for too long. Contrary to all his habits, the room felt too small and the air too close. Before he could over-think himself, he had jacket and hat and was stalking down the dark street. The night air was cool on the left side of his face. There was the faintest whiff of autumn in the wind.

Winter would bring memories of snow falling on Christine's hair, of heartbreak, of three months spent in a frenzy of despair. Through all of it, he had held her blameless. Down in the tunnels on that final night, when the Vicomte had begged him not to hurt her, he had scorned the idea. Now, in the gentle air of late summer, Erik found that Christine was not perfection after all. Last night he could forgive—she had not known he would be there. Shock was normal, even though the memory of her joy dissolving into tears pained him.

Tonight, though, the way she turned on him: he walked faster, each step stretching the backs of his legs. Blame was too strong a word. He too had been temperamental, God knows. It did not change that she had hurt him, but he could see now that she was much the same. She was no pure, untouchable creature. She was flawed, just as he was. This made nothing easier.

"Hello, cheri," purred a voice from the shadows. He froze. He knew the trick, materializing from the darkness, a voice coalescing into form. She was old, for a whore—his own age or older—but there was a grace about her. Her eyes were sharp, not dead or predatory. The twist of her mouth was almost a wry smile.

"There are only two kinds of men who walk like that," she said. "Those who are walking out their pain and those who are talking themselves into courage. Which is it, petit?"

Given that he topped her by nearly a foot, the pet name made him smile.

"The former, I suppose," he said.

The woman clucked at him. "Life's too short for pain, cheri. Joy is so much better." She leaned back against the brick wall behind her, which threw out her chest. Her skin was very white. "I even know where you can find some joy."

Erik stared at her, hands in his pockets, fingers turning over coins. She laughed.

"The time you're taking to think, I could've had another customer already."

He flinched and turned to go. The woman laid her hand on his arm.

"Ah, cheri. Are you sensitive, then?"

He looked down into her glittering dark eyes, surrounded by too much paint, but there was wisdom there—and, strangely, humor. The humor made him blush.

"I never—" he blurted before he could stop himself, and those old eyes widened.

"Why, never?" she said, squeezing his arm as if she were actually sympathetic. He shook his head, all the while wanting to curl into a huddle of embarrassment. She reached up and laid a fingertip against his mask.

"No wonder you're sad, then, my darling," she said softly. "Perhaps it's time to lay that burden down."

Oh, he could be cynical about it. Surely this was a business ploy and she was a consummate actress. That she touched his mask without disgust made none of that matter. He had wanted Christine, but she hated him. He wanted peace. He wanted release from his torment, and if he could find that in the arms of a whore in a dark alley, so be it. He backed her into the dark.

He had lived so long in his mind, trying to deny his own flesh. "How stupid I've been," he thought, as he felt himself surrounded by her, little as she was. It wasn't about his flesh—it was about hers. Her lips and surprisingly firm tongue that tasted of a sweet, herbal liqueur. Her arms wrapped around him, one hand closed over his loose collar. Twice, he had put his arms around a woman—Christine—but this woman wore no corset, and it was a marvel to him how the curve of her breast and hip seemed to have been made for his hand.

When she opened his trousers and wrapped her hands around him, he was nearly undone. It was more different, more gorgeous than he could have imagined, and as she lifted her skirts, it was only the grit of brick under his palms that kept him from losing himself. All the days of his life would not give him time to get enough of this. He had watched, had burned, but he would never have imagined it, the way his knees shook, the way his hands so perfectly cupped her bottom, her hands on his shoulders, and again that loss of language. Strangely, his body knew what to do, and the friction of sliding in and out of her was so sweet. There was no room left in him for the monster. Here, up against this wall in the darkness, he was only a man.

Erik spilled into the woman with a feeling like he had one the one safe haven in all the world.

"Christine," he groaned into her neck. "Christine."

She was not Christine, but her put her arms around him anyway, and she let him stay as he was until he was able to breathe again. Of course, then it was time for all the awkward bits, and she was kindly silent as she tucked him up and straightened his clothing for him. He emptied his pockets, not even counting how much money he put into her hands. At that, she laughed.

"You'll quite turn my head, cheri. For this, I'm taking the rest of the night off."

She had been pretty, he thought, when she was young. Her dark eyes still were, for all that they were so tired. He thought it must be an ugly life, yet she had been kind to him. His legs were still shaky and he felt queerly light—as if, as she had said, he had laid down a great burden. He hoped that she had someplace clean and warm to go to, that she had a place to be safe. On an impulse, he took her hand and kissed it. Her true smile showed just how lovely she must have been, before life got the better of her.

"Thank you," he said, and then he turned toward home.