It was not until "love" was mentioned that he became upset.
It had been foolish, to bring him to see Faust. I had not even intended to, when I had mentioned that it was coming to the nearby opera-house; I had seen it in the papers, and felt the need to immediately share my enthusiasm with everyone—and, of course, Erik was first on my list of sharing anything at all, from life-altering epiphanies to the little things, like the disgusting wad of hair you find in the shower drain. It had never occurred to me that he would act on that enthusiasm—and on his prior knowledge of Faust being one of my favorite operas—and do something as rash as to arrange for tickets to be purchased.
We had attended the opera-house before, of course; one cannot expect a pair of opera fanatics to live nearby an opera-house and never attend. I had made all the arrangements, had explained to the management that my husband would be arriving early enough and departing late enough that he would not encounter other opera-goers; he had not taken well to this, until I had also explained that my husband had large sums of money, and was more than willing to make compensations for the extra efforts that the staff would have to make. Upon reaching that understanding, he had been more than willing to explain to each and every staff member, from employee of the month to employee-for-a-week, that the eccentric, masked Frenchman wandering about the halls was more than permitted to be there, and was expected to be treated with utmost respect.
I believe he also mentioned the money to them, for they always went out of their way to be kind to us, and I am under the suspicion that they were after a special tip.
So, when Faust came to the opera-house, he bought tickets—without my knowledge. He surprised me with them, by leaving them lying atop his pillow. It was truly a lovely thing to awake to; despite loving the opera, I had—and he knew this—never been able to see it, in person, and without Erik would never have been able to see it from such a wonderful—from such an expensive—vantage point. As was usual, he had the best seats in the house, and I do believe he was proud of himself for that.
I should never have accepted the tickets. Or perhaps, I should have taken his gentle suggestion of attending the opera with a friend, as opposed to with him. Faust and its underlying subject matter made him tense, and I above all others understood that. I will never know what possessed me to argue against him, to convince him to go with me. I adored the opera. I adored him. It only made sense, at the time, that I should adore them both simultaneously.
As I said, it was not until mention of love that he became upset. He had born the opera well, for a time, but as you may or may not know, it is not long before love is mentioned, in Faust. It started as a gentle squirming in his seat, evolved to a vice-like grip on my hand, progressed to a gentle sniffling, before launching itself into an utter attack. He threw himself into my arms, draped himself across me and clung as if to release me would be immediate death. He cried quietly—I will give him this much credit. Never once did a peep of his grief reach those around us.
"Let's go," I suggested quietly.
"No, no, you love Faust," he argued weakly, though I knew well enough that this was just a valiant attempt at not appearing pleased with my offer of departure.
"No," I replied gently; "I enjoy Faust—I love you."
He nodded to this, and moved to stand. I tugged him into his seat again, however, and rose to my feet. "I'll have them bring the car 'round," I told him; he knew as well as I that he should not stand out on the sidewalk awaiting the valet. He nodded, and I exited the private box, to make the somewhat daunting trip down to the front. The staff knows my face well enough; they leapt into action merely upon sighting me, though with somewhat confused expressions. After all, the first intermission was not even quite upon us yet, and already the Frenchman and his wife are leaving. It is an anomaly, but they are well-trained, and do not ask questions. I could nearly kiss them, for never asking questions.
As I neared the private box, on my return trip to fetch Erik, I heard a crash. Immediately, my heart began to thud uncomfortably in my chest—no generic human being throws a temper-tantrum during an opera. I hastened my steps, until I was quite nearly running, but my progress became significantly hindered by the slowly growing crowd gathered around the door to our box. I am sure those nearby me could taste the fear that was slowly consuming me, as I pushed through the crowd. I could hear Erik shouting something, though the words were unintelligible—still, there was no mistaking that voice.
I popped through the barrier, finally, and was stunned into stillness by the sight that I was met with. Erik stood over one of the staff members, holding himself in a triumphant pose, as he looked down at the poor boy on the other end of his lasso. That dreadful thing—the mere sight of it still sickens me to this day. I lunged forward, closing my hands around his arm. "Erik!"
When he turned to look at me, I was met with a sight both foreign and terrifyingly familiar. The eyes that looked down on me were not those of my husband, but those of the Opera Ghost of old. Angry, pained, and utterly, unquestionably mad. I fought to keep the look of horror out of my eyes, out of my expression—and quite certainly, out of my voice—as, quickly as thought, he had removed the lasso from the boy's neck, and turned fully to face me. From the corner of my eye, I saw the boy crawling away towards the box door; I offered a prayer of thanks, even as I moved to face what was to come. For one petrifying moment, I thought he would use the lasso on me. I had seen him do it enough times; I knew how quickly—and how slowly—he could steal life away with that simple bit of rope.
He did not, however; merely, a hand rose, to wrap its fingers around my neck and close with deadly certainty. I did not fight against that grip. I met his eyes squarely, and when I raised my hands, it was not to grab at the thing around my neck, but rather to rest each small palm against his neck. "Erik," I managed; he did not seem to hear me.
"You were with him again, weren't you?" he hissed, fingers tightening. I struggled to shake my head, and shoved aside the panic that was threatening to overtake my actions.
"Erik.. there is.. no one...!" I gasped.
"Liar!" he yelled, swinging me around so that he could shove me against the wall. I heard someone yell to contact the police; I hollered back that they should not, and was met with the beautiful reply of the manager, that "of course" they would not contact the police, over a silly argument. There were cries of outrage amongst the steadily swelling crowd, but they were ignored.
"You were with that young man, weren't you?" Erik demanded of me, pressing me tighter against the wall. My breath was slowly fading from my lungs; vision clouded, darkened. "You were with the handsome young man—oh, he is so handsome, isn't he, Christine?"
Again, the faintest of movements implying a head-shake in the negative, and I could see something in his eyes soften ever so slightly. "Do you swear to me, Christine, that there is no one?"
I managed a nod. Tears were swelling in my eyes; I almost could not focus on him any longer. "Erik," I squeaked out, "I was getting.. the car. The car... so that we could.. go home! Home... Together... You, and I..."
Just as my vision was closing in on the scene, his fingers vanished from around my neck. His other hand joined its partner to wrap me in the tightest, most desperate of embraces; I returned it with all the passion, all the ferocity, that he displayed. No love was lost between us; no love ever was. My husband was a broken man, and I had accepted that, accepted his shortcomings, and had easily learned to see past each and every one of them.
The crowd was near silent, as he and I turned to face the door. A path was cleared, and with all the dignity befitting newly-crowned royalty, we made our departure, his left arm around my waist, my right around his. He handed me the car-keys without hesitation—he knew he was in no shape to drive. He was, in fact, not much in shape to do anything at all. He usually refused to allow me to drive; he believed that I had no ability to handle the vehicle—despite my having grown up with muscle cars and diesel engines.
As we pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway, I used one hand to steer—and occasionally threw in a knee, for extra support—and used the other to find and insert a CD. It was a collection of piano pieces, each selected for its beauty and its peacefulness. I left the volume at medium-intensity, and settled back into my seat. It was only moments later that Erik leaned over to turn the volume up nearly as high as it would go, which was quite high. The car was of high quality—a very expensive luxury vehicle—and had a speaker system that almost made the car well worth its ridiculous price.
Of course, no price seemed ridiculous to Erik. It was not that he had an endless sum of money, but rather that when he ran out... well, he would run out. I do not think it ever really occurred to him to care. He had his prized possession—me—and to him, that was, as corny as it may sound, all the riches he could ever need.
We veered off the highway and onto the back roads that we both preferred to take, on the way to his estate. It was later than I had believed—already, the moon was high in the sky, casting a beautiful glow on the empty fields around us. The rye grass had recently begun growing; as the wind swept across the fields, it danced and wavered like a lush green ocean. I felt almost tempted to leap into it, and swim through its immaculate depths.
Impulsively, I reached over and rolled down the windows. It was Erik who opened the sun roof, to allow the ultimate amount of wind current in the car. One hand reached forward to flip off the car lights, and we coasted down the abandoned road, with only the piano to fill the night air. I glanced over at him, to find him looking steadily at me—or, rather, at my neck. He could not see the bruises in the darkness, not even with his impressive night vision, but he did not need to. They had formed often enough, throughout our time together, that I imagined he could see them just from memory alone.
It was my husband, then, that reached over and laid one large hand on my thigh, and gave it a gentle squeeze of apology. My hand patted his for a moment, before reaching over and removing his mask. I tossed it onto the backseat, and he tipped his head back to relish in the wind on that suffocated skin. It was difficult to concentrate on the road, when he was sprawled out in such glory in the car seat next to me. He looked so peaceful, illuminated only by moonlight; his face was just a face to me now, was just another part of the body that made up my love—no more and no less than was his hand, or his kneecap, or his elbow, or any other such random body part.
His head turned to look at me, caught me in the act of watching him—and thus not watching the road—for far longer than was wise. My head immediately snapped forward, and I heard him chuckle. Another glance was stolen in his direction, and this time he held my gaze.
"I love you," he mouthed.
"I love you too," I whispered in reply, though I am sure he could not hear me, for at that moment the piano swelled and filled the car, filled the mind, with its beauty, and left room for no sound and no thought, other than the music. The heart, though, could not be filled; it beat pure, unadulterated love, with every beat; it never faltered in its own miniature symphony of devotion. I shivered with the intensity of the emotion swelling in my core, and I think that he did too—though, I cannot be sure, for at that point we were one. Any motion made felt as if both of us had made it, in unison. It was the ultimate joining, the ultimate union. I could feel my thigh underneath his hand, as surely as I could feel his hand atop my thigh. For one terrifying moment, I felt as if I could feel him feeling me, feeling him, feeling my thigh beneath his hand.
And then we were past the fields, past the old abandoned barns, past the shades of generations earlier, done with the beauty of the night. The piano piece ended, and another began, just as beautiful as the last; he and I immersed ourselves in the music, and felt our souls drawn from our bodies, to hover against the ceiling of the car. There, they entwined themselves with each other, just as they had every other night for all our lives. We did not become one; we would never become one; because, we were never two. Always, we were one.
I again looked over at him—him, my husband. I smiled, and he smiled, and then he shut his eyes, to indulge in the simple pleasure of the music and the wind. I longed to join him in that reverie, but contented myself with glances of his own ecstasy, while navigating the twists and turns of old country roads as we slowly wound our way closer to home.
Before we had quite arrived, I pulled the car over, where there still was no light other than the moon. Just around a curve, a sliver of light from a street lamp could be seen, but both of us pretended that we had no hint of the world around us. I shifted so that I was looking at him, at Erik, at my loving and loved husband, and he leaned over, and we kissed. It was a simple kiss—some would call it chaste—but nothing that passed between Erik and I was truly chaste. He resumed his proper position, though I hesitated another moment, just to look at him, before driving up to the estate's gates—positioned quite coincidentally near to the afore-mentioned street lamp.
He replaced his mask, for the benefit of the help, as we parked the car in the garage. Possessions were gathered and made inventory of, before we locked the car—and, then, the garage—and made our way up to the door of the house. Our butler, Henri, met us there and admitted us entrance. I nodded my head graciously; he smiled softly, though his eyebrows were knit with concern. I knew he could see the bruises on my neck, and I also knew that he understood. He knew my husband almost as well as I did; there would be no need to explain.
Erik and I made the long trek up to our bedroom, and we each went our separate ways for a moment, to change from eveningwear to sleepwear. We met again beside the bed, and immediately wrapped ourselves in each other's arms. His mask he placed on the bedside table, and we settled into bed beside one another. No physical union was necessary on this night; I knew he was sorry, he knew I forgave him, and we wanted nothing more than to hold one another and indulge in the love of the other. I felt his lips press against my forehead, and I tipped my face upwards. He granted my request—his lips melded with my own, as our bodies pressed tightly enough that, for a moment, I almost believed I would sink into him and become a part of him.
As I drew back from the kiss, to settle my head onto the pillow, I locked gazes with him. Already, his eyelids were sagging; I could feel his grip on me becoming less earnest, and more casual, as he drifted into sleep. I began humming softly, a lullaby that my father had once sung to me, and his eyes nearly glazed, before shutting. His breathing evened, deepened, steadied. I settled against him, burying my face against his shoulder, and allowing my own eyes to shut.
"I love you," I murmured against his chest. Only the beating of his heart, in perfect rhythm with my own, stood as a reply. It was all the reply I needed, though—from him, nothing more than an acknowledgement of the beating of his heart was required to express his love for me.
He. Him. My husband. My love. My Erik.
My Phantom of the Opera.