I saw little of Christine in the next several months. It seemed that from that day forward, Raoul started putting me to work. He took me with him to Paris to choose materials or negotiate with banks for loans to complete our project. Meanwhile, my health kept getting worse and worse. I knew that Nadir and Madame Giry were situated somewhere nearby; I had received letters telling me of their new location, back at my old apartment. However, I put off seeing them. I didn't want to tell them about Christine. I didn't want to ask them what they thought from what my illness resulted. I was afraid of the answer and what it would mean.

The little time I did spend at the Vicomte's mansion was spent sketching designs and eventually painting walls, sanding, and staining wood floors. Around November, I began to renovate the parlor, doubling its size. The piano had to be moved into a spare room, along with all the other objects in the room. The good thing about this was that the spare room was small and closed in, and nearly soundproof. This meant I could play all night without disturbing anyone if I wished.

I worked quickly; when I was about fifteen, I had been taught by a great architect and stone mason how to skillfully complete buildings under a time limit. By the time winter came around, I had finished the construction and moved on to sanding and painting the interior. I would work on this well into the night, and often sneaked off to play piano in the spare room. On a particular night when I was doing just that, there was a light knock at the door.

Christine was silhouetted in the doorway. She looked bothered by something, as usual. I smiled lightly.

"So you found me."

She nodded.

"What is it child, can't you sleep?"

She shifted uncomfortably then said in a small voice, "It just occurred to me, Erik… you're almost finished with the construction. Soon you'll… you'll have to leave."

I didn't respond to this.

I began to play again: my Don Juan Triumphant. I had finished it long ago, and my fingers easily followed the memorized patterns. I sang, quietly at first, then more powerfully.

"So once again you are mine. Forgetting my face, but never the time. Disillusioned by your choice, you hope to forget my voice. Try your hardest to move on. But there is no escaping Don Juan. There is no escaping Don Juan."

She had never heard me sing this part before. We never finished my opera the night it was performed, and this was very near to the end. She curled up by my feet, leaning her head ever so slightly against my leg.

The music grew more powerful. I felt myself losing composure. My neatly slicked back hair fell forward as I struck the chords. I had used Don Juan greatly as an outlet—not only for wicked thoughts, but also for sexual frustration that had accumulated over decades. I had underestimated its intoxicating power once more.

I jumped when I felt a small hand touch my thigh. I stopped playing and looked down. Christine had the most bizarre look on her face: one almost of utter fascination, as she stared at her own hand. She gazed up at me with a look in her eyes I'd seen before; the night we performed my opera, the night I had shown up at the Masquerade, the night I first brought her to my underground home…

She stood up slowly and moved her hands to my face. I closed my eyes momentarily, feeling the warmth surge through me again. I then watched intently as she ran her fingers through my hair, that bizarre look still in her eyes, as if she were studying me.

Suddenly, she stopped. I whimpered quietly despite myself. Others cannot possibly understand how it feels to have been neglected from touch since birth, and the urgency that I was feeling. She smiled very slightly and lowered herself down onto my lap, facing me. She took my hand to her lips and kissed it gently. I closed my eyes, embarrassed, knowing that there was no hiding what I was feeling any longer as she pressed against me.

"I don't want this to end, Erik."

I dared to reach out a shaking hand to touch her cheek gently. She didn't stop me. Gradually I began to stroke her face, then her neck. Like me, she seemed almost to be in some sort of trance. I hesitated as I reached the nape of her neck. She took my hand again, gripped it firmly, and whispered in my ear:

"Erik… I don't want you to be afraid. I don't want to you to hold back. Whatever you want to do, I want you to do it. I should have been yours long ago. Take what I so shallowly denied you. Take what every woman has denied you. Have your way with me."

I felt the urgency multiply. I had never been taught what to do, but instinct in times like these is an amazing thing. I watched myself remove her dress, and then her corset, watched myself run my spider-like hands over her flawless bare skin. I picked her up in my arms and laid her down on top of the back of the grand piano.

She kissed me deeply as I leaned over her. I felt her tongue in my mouth, felt the slight vibrations when she moaned, and felt her small hands begin to undo the buttons of my shirt. She began to run her hands over my chest, and paused suddenly on the deep, ugly scars that ran across it. She gave me a puzzled look.

I swallowed, then said, "I used to be whipped. By gypsies, when I was younger. They're on my back as well. I'm sorry, I know they're quite unsightly…"

"Oh Erik…" She kissed my ear and whispered, "I wish we could have done this before you made that mask of yours. You'll always think I wouldn't have accepted you, won't you? That question will always be there."

She meant it would be there for both of us, I was certain, but I didn't let it bother me. I suddenly felt a surge of hope, and I took her hands in mine.

"Christine, it doesn't matter. I am a new man. The Phantom of the Opera is dead. Now there is only Erik. Run away with me, as you said you would. I can show you the world, I can write you songs, I can build you a home ten times as beautiful as this one. We'll be this way always- tonight will never end. Oh, Christine, night itself will never end!"

I was dumbstruck by the look of guilt in her eyes. She kissed me again. "Erik, lets not talk now…"

Fear hit me cold. "But Christine, you said things were different."

"I just don't know right now…"

I got up and began to back away from her.

"But…but you said…you said." I sounded like a little boy, but I didn't care. "You lied."

She was crying as she sat up on top of the piano, naked and exposed. "No, I didn't lie, it's just…it's just that I'm scared. I'm scared of everything, I-I- Erik, no, please don't leave! Don't leave right now." She reached out to me, sobbing once more.

I turned my back to her and threw my cloak on over my bare chest. "I can't deal with this right now. I can't let myself. It will just hurt more when it's over. Christine, it doesn't even matter. I know it wouldn't last anyway. It would all be over in a second, and it would torture me forever. No, no…no, I can't."

I was shaking. Tears flowed freely. "I'm ill, Christine. My face is infected, horribly. I burned this onto my flesh." I pointed to my face, and her eyes got wide with horror. "That's how deeply I wanted normalcy. And once again, my dear, you taunt me with it, and then just rip it away. It's horribly ironic, isn't it? I've known for a while I'd have to remove this façade. One can't just burn oneself severely and expect to live with it forever.

"Ah well, at least I learned a valuable lesson. Perhaps it is safer being a monster after all. So say goodbye to your handsome secret lover and all the passion he brings. Tomorrow I leave, at dawn. Your husband can find someone else to finish this job."

And so I left her shaking and sobbing again. I coldly mounted the stairs to my room, reverting back to my old state of mind, becoming, in essence, the frigid gargoyle that was the Phantom.

For the first time since the opera disaster, the words of the newspaper rang true. Erik was dead.