Wahoo! I'm on a role! Fourth Chapter in already! Thanks to everyone who reviewed. Please don't hate because I'm making Erik's life Hell, because I really love Erik! I really do! I love Gerard Butler more, but that's besides the point! Anyway, maybe this chapter will send some of you away smiling…

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"Madame Giry," Christine said, entering the Giry home. "I still don't quite understand why I'm here."

"I hope you will in time," Madame Giry said, taking Christine's coat. "How long will you and Raoul be staying in Paris?"

"As long as we have to. I didn't want to leave until I was certain that Erik would be alright."

"Ah, yes. Erik. Precisely the reason I have asked you over today."

"Is he alright?"

"I'm not so sure. He hasn't left his room for the past two days. He won't eat, he won't talk to anyone… he's either screaming as me or sobbing his poor eyes out… I just don't know what to do with him! I'm at my wit's end!"

"What do you want me to do?"

"Perhaps… maybe you could just… talk to him? I feel that if you can't get through to him, no one will!"

"Madame… I don't know what to say to him… I mean, what do you say to someone like Erik who has just lost their sight?"

"Say whatever you would say to him under normal circumstances," Madame Giry replied, as she headed off to the kitchen to make some tea.

Christine lifted her skirts and headed up to Erik's room. "If the circumstances I've ever spoken with him under can be considered normal," she muttered to herself.

Christine reached his door and hesitated before knocking softly.

"Go away!" Erik shouted through the door.

"Well," Christine thought to herself. "That was uncalled for!" She considered leaving. But, no. Erik needed her help. And she had to give it to him, whether he wanted it or not.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door. Erik was lying on the bed, facing her. Staring at Christine, but not seeing her. In the three days since they found him in his lair, Erik looked much better. His bruises had faded, and his cuts were no more than red lines drawn across his pale skin. His fractured ribs would heal within a few weeks. However, it would be longer before he could use his hands again. And even then, she knew, his hands would never be what they once were.

"Damn the people who did this to him…" Christine thought. "Damn them."

At the sound of her entering, Erik raised his head slightly. "Madame, I do believe that I clearly informed you to go away!" Erik's voice was icy with resentment. "Is it so difficult for you to figure out that I just want to be left alone? Oh, and if you're here to try and force some of that vile nutrition down my throat," Erik nodded his head at the night table, which bore a tray with a few pieces of cold toast and a tall glass of orange juice, "I'll have none of it! I told you before, I am not hungry!"

Christine stared at him in shocked silence.

"Madame? Do I not even get the courtesy of a reply now?"

Christine opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come.

"Madame? Madame Giry! Do you intend to stand there all day and stare at me?" Erik sat up, keeping his face pointed at the door. Christine saw both anger and sadness reflecting in those unseeing eyes. "Do you derive some sick and twisted pleasure from seeing me like this? Ha! Some phantom, right? Your hand at the level of your eyes! Beware the Phantom of the Opera!" Erik's eyes glistened and spilled over with tears. "The blind, broken, helpless Opera Ghost!"

Suddenly, Erik began to make his way over to her, one hand outstretched. He drifted a bit and found a wall instead of the door. Correcting himself, he made his way over to where Christine stood and planted himself inches in front of her. Putting his hand out, he found her shoulder and trailed down until he found her wrist, which he grabbed and shook roughly.

"Madame! You mock me! Were you half the kind Christian woman you believe yourself to be, you would have left me to die!"

Erik paused as another sense took over his consciousness. His sense of smell. He smelt a soft fragrance of roses and vanilla, with a touch of lavender. That was a smell from his memory. He knew that smell!

Quickly, he pulled Christine the rest of the way into the room. Stepping behind her, but not letting go of her wrist, he shut the door and turned to her. His expression had softened. Pulling Christine close, he buried his face in her hair, taking in her sweet fragrance. He let his hands trail around her waist, pulling her closer, and then rested them on her hips.

"Christine…" he moaned into her ear.

"Erik…" she stepped back from him and placed a hand on his cheek.

"Don't touch me!" he suddenly shouted violently, jerking away from her touch. This sudden movement made him lose his balance and he stumbled backwards, falling to the floor. He gave a small yelp as the impact upset one of his injured ribs. Christine rushed to his side.

"Are you alright? Let me help you up!"

"Stop! I can do it myself!" He moved away from her and staggered to his feet. Reaching out, he found the edge of the bed and sat down. "You shouldn't have come here, Christine!" he snapped. "You don't know a thing about what I'm going through!"

"Save the guilt-trips for someone who cares!" Christine found herself shouting. She could hardly believe what she was saying, but trying to be gentle was getting her nowhere. "You've spent the last two days sitting in here feeling sorry for yourself! It's about time you accepted what has happened and try to make the most of it!"

"Make the most of it! I can't see! My hands are ruined! And now I don't even have you in my life to keep me going! I'm as good as dead!"

"That's not true!" she yelled. "I'm here for you! I always have been! Just because I don't want to be your lover doesn't mean I don't care!"

Erik turned his head to the floor. "I'm not what I used to be…"

"Is that so terrible?"

"Christine! I'm a composer! Even if I could still see, I'll never be able to play an organ again!"

"So you'll learn how to do something else!"

"Oh, like what!"

"Like… like…" Christine wracked her brain.

"You see? There is nothing!"

"Please! You can't expect me to come up with the perfect profession on the spot!"

"Open your eyes, Christine! What can I possibly do for myself?"

"Well, you certainly can still argue, you stubborn mule!"

"Stubborn? I'm not the one trying to tell a blind man he can do things when it is quite obvious that he can't!"

"You fool! You can do things!"

"What, then? Pray tell!"

"You can still sing, you slack-hawed idiot!"

Erik was shocked at the insult that he would have expected to hear from the lips of a drunken sailor. And yet, it was true. Perhaps Erik could no longer play or compose, but his voice was still quite intact. However, true as that may be, Erik was a stubborn mule, and he wasn't about to let Christine win the argument.

"I… I…" Erik stammered. "I can't believe you just called me an idiot!"

"Well then, perhaps you should stop acting like one!"

"I am certainly not the idiot, here," Erik said, standing up. "You suggest I work as a singer. What opera or theatre or… or… or church choir even… would hire a blind monstrosity like me!"

"You are so certain that you will be rejected!" Christine accused him. "Did you ever consider just once that maybe if you gave society a chance that perhaps society would give you a chance?"

Erik growled. He was losing the argument, and he knew it.

"I hate you…" he muttered.

"Good!" she said, satisfied that she now had the upper hand. "But before you can go anywhere to audition, you have to learn some independence first. Madame Giry and I will show you how to get around, read Braille, make your own meals, and everything… Speaking of meals," she said, picking up the tray of food from his night table, "you are going to finish this meal that Madame Giry so kindly prepared for you… Now!"

Erik cringed. When did she become his mother?

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Let me know if it's completely stupid. But no flames, please! I'll update tomorrow if I can…