Erik stumbled blindly into the dank alleyway, fumbling for a wall, for anything solid to hang on too. Self-loathing filled him as he struggled to keep the contents of his stomach from spewing out. The scent and sight of rotting garbage and piss overwhelmed his senses as he gave into the urge and retched, watching with revulsion as his liquids mingled with those already staining the dirty concrete. He forced his eyes shut, forced his breathing into regular intervals as he tried to banish from his thoughts the memories of the child he had just savagely broken apart in the squalid whorehouse behind him. Broken apart and enjoyed. Her body would heal fast enough that much he could ascertain with certainty, Hell, worse had been done to him – and he had done worse, much worse, but never had he reveled in it before. Never had he enjoyed such utter and complete domination over another human being. He recalled vividly her quite sobs which undoubtedly were still continuing in the rank little room upstairs. He had punished her for his own monstrosities and for hers, for her damnable memory, for her scent that still permeated his skin and mind, but mostly he had punished the child for not actually being her.
He had spent the last three months trapped in a living nightmare of his own doing. Aware of the price still hanging over his head he had been unable to safely withdraw most of the money from his vast and hefty bank accounts. The ravaged side of his face no longer bore the elegant white mask, but bandages, as if to hide a recent injury not an inherited one. His elegant evening attire now undoubtedly belonged to whatever mob had invaded his underground home, if they had not merely torn the expensive silks apart in blood frenzy. Ironically, his Don Juan costume still clothed his weary body, tattered and torn though freshly laundered – his one concession to vanity. It was some sick twist of the mind that made him hold on to that one physical remembrance. He realized he looked like any other wretched street rat scurrying around Paris looking for a hole to die in. They were certainly numerous in the city, begging and stealing whatever sustenance and shelter they could. No one would think to look for the legendary and feared Opera Ghost crawling amongst their ilk, or so he hoped. A finely tuned survival instinct still made him weary of the sword that would forever hang over his head. The money he had been able to bring would last for quite some time on these streets. He stayed in the seediest inns and boarding houses he could find, eating little when he remembered to eat at all. But he had been loathe to find that punishing his body physically still did nothing to quench the ferocious sexual appetites that had been awakened in him by her.
Today was her wedding day. Tonight was her wedding night. Tonight his blood had cried for blood and he had finally buried the fear and humiliation that been building inside of him into the body of an innocent virgin. Oh, it had been glorious. Even his current disgust at his actions didn't take away from the pleasure he had felt as he had brutally plunged inside her tight body and stripped her forever of her innocence. Just as he had done to her. But she had wanted it just as savagely as he had. She had screamed for him. He closed his eyes shut as another wave of nausea threatened to bring him to his knees.
He had not wanted to hurt the child, his intention had been a simple fuck, a futile attempt to calm his frayed nerves; but the first touch of her skin had brought memories to a surface boil and they had spilled out in a vicious torrent of pain until Christine's face swimming in front of him had unleashed a cruelty he rarely allowed seen. He had paid dearly with coin for that virgin privilege and the result know lay upstairs, no doubt sleepless and traumatized, hushed to sleep in the arms of the whorehouse mistress whose eyes had gleamed with greed when he put the sack of coins in her fat palm. She had stared at him with open disgust until she counted the money, offering him any girl in the house but no; they had not been good enough. They had not been pure. He had coldly informed her that he would not squabble over another dog's scraps and then his eyes had fixed on a slight form, almost concealed in the kitchen that had sent a jolt right into his groin. She had reminded him of her, same hair, same eyes. Same lithe and fragile body. Lust had surged through him like potent wine. It was the mistress's own daughter. Her eyes had turned cold with rage, but in the end money won out like it always would. Hadn't his own whore mother sold him?
The woman had gladly sold her virgin daughter to a monster. It should have been Christine under him begging for mercy, begging for release. His heart contracted painfully. Damn her, damn her to Hell and beyond. Damn her for going on with her life with that pallid boy-child whose bed she warmed tonight.
A cruel smile mocked his sensuous lips.
Oh my dear, dear Christine. May the memory of my body in yours be forever imprinted on your mind. If I must live with half my soul in the grave, grieving forever for your shadow then may your mind torture itself alive with guilt that it was I who claimed your flesh first. If you live to be a hundred with your mewling milk-blooded aristocrat, you will still cavort with demons in your dreams.