Once I realized that he was completely unwilling to come with me, I gave up. There was no point in pursuing that which could never be. Some dreams, I supposed, were made to be shattered, and I must accept that this, like so many of my other hopes, was such a dream. It would have been easier to just leave, and begin the slow process of healing a broken heart, but a sense of duty kept me at Erik's side for the next three days, while he recovered some of his lost strength.
If when he kissed me, I had been sent to heaven, I was now plunged into purgatory. We avoided speaking, for the most part; indeed, how we managed to stay so far apart when we were constantly in such close quarters, I will never know. Every time he looked at me, though, his eyes pleaded with me more eloquently than any words ever could have, and added to the weight of guilt on my heart.
For three days, I was on the brink of an emotional collapse, my feelings and reason in constant conflict. I wished I had the temperament which would allow me to make one dramatic show of emotion, to cathartically cleanse my mind of pain, but I was resolved to remain stoic. For if I allowed myself to break, Erik would try to comfort me, and if he did, I would not be able to resist the urge to beg his forgiveness and promise to stay.
And stay I could not; my sense of responsibility to myself, to Erik, and to any children I might one day produce was too strong to allow for such folly. Humans are not made for lives of solitude, my own upbringing in a family that included the entire clan taught me that. People thrive best when they have companionship, not just of their spouse, but of others. Madame Giry's visit had convinced me that I needed female companionship, and I could only imagine how much better off Erik would be if he had other men he could call his friends.
But this train of thought was counterproductive; I must begin to forget Erik, no matter how hard such a task was while I changed his bandages and lived in his home. Finally, on the evening of the third day, Erik broke our mutual silence by telling me that he could care for himself now, and that I ought to leave in the morning.
That night, I lay in the makeshift bed I had created out of excess blankets and pillows, and stared at the misty waters of the lake. Perhaps I would reach Marseille only to awaken, and realize that the whole thing had been nothing more than a dream, and find myself back in the countryside of Alsace. For who would ever believe that this was real, that I had been rescued by a masked man, a former murderer, who sang as though God himself had inspired his voice, and who had stolen my heart, completely without my consent?
I found myself weeping bitter tears into my pillow. I cried for my mother, who had been so consumed by her unrequited love for my father that her body simply wasted away. I cried for Stefan, who I had abandoned so long ago. I cried for Leon's parents, so deceived in their son, whom they had loved so much. I cried for Erik, who I now knew would never find a way to live, and who deserved happiness so much, happiness I could not give him. And I wept for myself; for the love I had left behind, for the children I would never have, and for the part of my heart that died that night. When all my tears were spent, I lapsed into an uneasy sleep, plagued by the nightmares that had followed me here, and attacked me once more now that I was alone.
It was better this way. For the last three days, he had willed his body to recover, so that this bitter limbo might finally end. Anything must surely be easier than this drawn-out pain; even watching her leave him for the last time. Every morning when he awoke and saw her, his heart leapt in his throat, and joy spread through him, until he remembered that she was only here until he was well enough to live without her help. But as the days dragged, he knew that no matter how much healthier his body grew, his soul would never survive without her. And yet he could not go with her; at least here he knew what he could expect; if he left, there would be too much uncertainty.
She would love him for a while, but what would happen when she met other men? Men who could go in public without masks, men who could love her without all the lingering fear and doubt that he must always have? She might cast him aside, and then he would have nothing, not even the cold comfort of familiarity. Here in the opera house, he had a set place, a place that would not change, that no one could shake him out of. In Marseille, he would be dependent upon Remy entirely, and he could not face that.
The next morning, when he saw Remy's slight frame stretched out on a pile of blankets on the floor, and saw a few thin scars across her back where her shirt had slipped down, it occurred to him that she might need him as much as he needed her, but he quickly reminded himself that he had thought the same about Christine. She awoke with a start when she heard him approach, and he thought he could see lingering fear in her eyes as though she had just awoken from a nightmare. Her calm demeanor would not allow him to entertain any thoughts of his being necessary for her comfort. She would survive, no matter what this world threw at her, even if he did not.
She quickly gathered the few things she owned, and accepted a few coins wordlessly. Still in silence, he escorted her to the exit through the mirrored room, and just before she went through the door, she turned to him, her blue eyes filled with tears he knew she would not allow to fall, and reached out her hand to grasp his.
"Thank you, Erik." She whispered, so low he could barely hear her. "For everything."
And then she was gone. He had been wrong; her absence did not make forgetting her easier. She was still everywhere. The blankets on the floor, the partly eaten food on the table, the pile of bandages next to his bed, all seemed to suggest that she was not really gone. He tried to calm down, and went to splash water on his face, but he nearly collapsed when he found a blue hair ribbon lying next to the washbasin, a relic of first Christine, then Remy. His final retreat was his music, but even there he could not find solace; the music he had written for her sat on the table, taunting him.
He had to get out; her memories were all around him, and they would not let him rest. Remy collapsing down the stairs, Remy holding him when he broke in front of him, and crying tears of pity onto his palms; he could see nothing but her blue eyes, her delicate hands, and the scars on her back. Her voice rang in his ears, comforting him, arguing with him, laughing at him, singing in her toneless, low voice in the hallways of the opera house.
He left his tomb, and without even seeing where he was going, paced the halls of the opera house like the madman he was. Before he realized it, he was on the roof, in the harsh light of morning; normally, he would stay to the shadows, but he had nothing left to protect. The warmth of the sun could do nothing to thaw the frozen feeling in his heart, as he gazed at the place where he had lost Christine, the place where he had first begun to realize what he felt for Remy. And now he had nothing left. He made his way to the edge of the roof, where the protection of the opera house ended, and stared at the street below him. Soon, that street would be full of people, and then they would encroach upon the opera house itself, rebuilding the burned-out shell, restoring former glory. Even the thought of the stage, lit by gas lights and full of music, did nothing to help him.
This life could not continue, he knew, staring at the emptiness around him. He could not live this life anymore; it was too much to bear alone. The Phantom of the Opera would be no more.
A/N: Ok, people, one more chapter and an epilogue to go. Care to place any bets on the outcome?