OMG she's alive! Yes, that's right an update! I know it's short and I'm so sorry because anyone still reading this deserves a longer new chapter. I have my ideas for what's next though...
I also went back and slightly revised the other chapters. Happy reading!
Christine shuddered as she stepped into the darkness above the Opera. Had that much time really passed? It seemed that a moment ago it was dusk, and the curtain was about to rise for Don Juan Triumphant. And now, her eyes could already catch shades of blue on the horizon, heralding the approaching sun. Christine scolded herself; why should she be surprised? Since when had Erik's world conformed to standards of time? Underneath the Opera, there was no time – only music. And him.
But Christine had chosen the real world, and in the real world, there was darkness.
A sob caught in Christine's throat as her mind whirled once again with bitter regret. He had offered her eternity, immortality, magic – and she had run away. Shivering, She fiercely pulled at his cloak only to find that no amount of tugging warmed her. She looked off toward the roof's edge. The idea suicide both terrified and thrilled her, filling her with a strange sense of opportunity. Anything to be free of this churning pain. Yet, she scolded herself for such weakness. Erik had lived a life of pain, and he'd fought through it. His eyes filled her mind – those searing eyes.
Yet in his eyes, all the sadness of the world. . . Those pleading eyes that both threaten and adore. . .
A violent wind whipped Christine's hair against her wet face, stinging her cheeks. The cloak swirled wildly around her, and she feared dropping Erik's mask. Slowly, delicately, she freed it from the cloth. Her eyes traced every inch of the white porcelain. Mindlessly, she began to run her fingers over the smooth surface. She gently stroked the edges, precisely fashioned to frame his face. Transfixed in a half-dream, she allowed a melody to slip from her lips.
"Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye. . ."
Christine was sure he would think of her, but in hatred or love?
"Though it's clear, though it was always clear, that this was never meant to be. . ."
Her voice died – she couldn't go on. The wind caught her words and carried them away, but she'd heard the truth of what she'd sung. She resolved to never sing again, if she did choose to live past tonight. Her voice had been his gift, yet another she never deserved.
Christine clutched the mask to her chest. A mask and a cloak – all she had left. And one fading hope.
