Chapter 6—My Name Is Christine

She was dreaming. Deep in her subconscious, she knew that, but she lived the pain as though it were happening yet again.

She was nine years old. She wore a tattered, rumpled dress, the back cut through and bloodstained. She dug her nails into her palms hard enough to draw more blood as the evil man hit her again…and again…lash after lash, and the crowd outside her cage jeering and spitting. Then came the inevitable revealing—her cloth mask was torn cruelly away, and children cried when they saw her.

There were girls about her, some as young as she was, but many around fifteen and older. They stared at her, and she at them, sorrowfully, painfully. But they could walk away, and go on with their ballet training at the Opera Populaire. She was doomed to this eternal hell forever…

Christine awoke, sweating, her throat raw with smothered cries. Often, lately, she awoke from the same dream, always before her escape, always wishing there was someone there to hold her. She wrapped her arms around her in attempt to console herself, but couldn't fall back to sleep. She rose and left the room, wandering over to her organ. She touched the keys hesitantly, then sat and played a thunderous chord from Aminta Triumphant. She sang full and strong.

"Past the point of no return, the final threshold!

The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn!

We've passed the point of no return!"

"Angel?"

Christine whipped around, startled. Leaning against the iron gate was Erik. Swiftly, she pushed the lever that admitted him, but she turned back to the organ as he approached her. She was still hurt from him, and she wanted him to know, but she did not want his pity.

"Angel?"

She sighed. "Stop that, Erik. My name is Christine."

"Ch-Christine?"

"What is it, my student?"

He paused, and she sensed the position of his hand, barely an inch from her shoulder. Her voice, almost cold, made him stop. She wished he'd touch her, just once, just so she could feel him near her. She closed her eyes in disappointment.

"I got the part of Don Juan."

"I expected no less. Your voice is well enough. Better than Fat Piangi's voice."

He steeled himself, then put his hand all the way out and laid it gently on her arm. His contact intoxicated her, and she felt a spasm of something like pleasure. "Will you still teach me?" he inquired.

"I said you were my student, did I not?"

"An—Christine, I just want to say…I am sorry."

She finally turned to face him. "For what?"

He knelt beside her, and his hand slid down her arm to take hers. "I know you love me."

She gazed at him, her eyes asking him desperately, "Why?" She didn't ask aloud, but instead said with certainty, "No one could ever love a creature like me."

Erik looked away from those pleading eyes that both threatened and adored. For in them, all the sadness of the world lingered, reflecting inside him painfully until he felt close to tears. His eyes found her hand, resting in his quietly, unmoving. It was bloodless, white, and cold, but the presence of her bare skin on his made his fingers burn.

He shook himself mentally. He was engaged, wasn't he? To a beautiful young Vicomtess…he stopped the thought, for he suddenly realized that Meg might be pretty, but Christine—for all her deformed face—was nothing short of beautiful. When she sang—oh, God, when she sang—she filled his spirit with the passionate fire of her soul. He knew that her cold appearance was merely a façade, and that it was as hard for her to remove as her mask. But he had taken away her mask…was he perhaps melting her barrier, if ever so slightly?

Her free hand went to his face and tilted it upward to look at her. He realized that he had never seen her smile. The look she gave him now was certainly full of sorrow.

"Come with me," she said softly. He didn't really have a choice—he could hardly think about letting go of her, and her song still filled his soul. She led him to the boat and got in with him before beginning to push it along.

He didn't recognize the route they took, but he found himself suddenly in a small area, bathed in moonlight from a far-off window. There was no sound except gentle ripples hitting the sides of the gondola, and their breathing. She drew the pole out of the water and rested it below the wooden seats before she sat opposite him, her legs drawn in neatly, and her white arms wrapped around her knees. She watched him silently, and he felt he must say something.

"Why?" he asked.

"What?" she returned.

"Why do you think you could never be loved?"

At this, her already unhappy face turned crestfallen. The unmasked side was in shadows, but Erik saw a tear brimming in the eye he could see.

"I never have been," came the soft reply.

That was when he finally knew that she was wrong. He loved her. He loved this Phantom of the Opera, this Opera Ghost. He loved her music, her movements, her voice, even her dementia—everything about her. In that moment, he forgave her for the crimes he knew she'd committed, and those he did not know of. He reached out and pulled off the porcelain mask, and she let him. She made no move even as he laid it on the wood beside her and returned his hand to her deformed face. His fingers trailed over her cheekbone gently, and moved down her jaw line and her neck, then her chest, all the way down her torso. Her eyes had closed, and he could feel her trembling.

"You are engaged, Erik," she reminded him softly. He wished with all his heart that he were not, but they both knew it, and could not deny the fact. "I am sorry," she said. "This is my fault. I should not have brought you to this place."

Did she mean here, now, or did she mean she never should have shown herself? Neither of them knew the answer, and neither knew if she was right.