II. Reveal the Man
Christine held that scrap of silk in her small hand, not knowing what her actions had cost us. I could not keep my back to her forever, my face hidden from her curious eyes. At any moment, I would hear her exquisite soprano range in full glorious detail, but raised in screams of horror and disgust rather than in song.
So hard did I concentrate on remembering the last moments of tranquility before disaster struck, embroidering them onto my mind and heart for future recall, that I did not hear the first words Christine spoke to me. When I did at last hear, I listened with little credulity.
"It does not matter what you look like," she said, so quietly. "I know you are not an angel. I know you are just a man. You need not hide your face from me. Please . . . will you not turn around?"
I began to laugh: not a gentle chuckle, but a raw, taunting sound. The girl wanted to see my face! The sight would send her into a fit of hysteria, perhaps even scar her for life . . . and yet she wanted me to face her, unmasked. Ignorance lends courage, indeed! Reason told me to refuse and demand the return of my mask, but then an irrational indignation surged within me. She wanted to see me? Well then! If the little fool wanted such a thing so badly, who was I do deny her?
With my handkerchief, I dabbed remnants of moisture away from the odd angles of my face, then combed the thinning strands of hair back with my fingers. At the very least, I should look presentable, should I not? Another harsh laugh shook me. Bitter sarcasm rose into my throat as I said, "I never could deny you anything, my dear!"
Then I pivoted on one heel and presented myself to Christine in all my hideous glory.
I could have counted my own pounding heartbeats while Christine scrutinized my appearance. Only a few moments passed, but they stretched into an agonizing eternity. My eyes met hers, and I waited for the obligatory shrieking to begin. After a long, drawn out silence, it became apparent that she would not be screaming. Well, then, I would have to be quick to catch her when she fell. . . .
Yet she did not faint, either. Christine's eyes widened almost imperceptibly and her breath came a little quicker than usual. Her cheeks flushed with color, where I had expected the whiteness of shock. All in all, she seemed to be facing the living corpse rather bravely.
"You . . . you are not afraid?" I asked finally, to break the awful silence.
The candlelight caught the edges of her hair as she shook her head, turning the pale golden locks into a halo. "Should I be?"
I had no answer for that. As I stared, dumbfounded, Christine advanced toward me, blue eyes fixed intently on my face. Her skirts rustled with each step, the sound of an angel's wings beating. My first instinct was to back away, but I forced myself to hold my ground, to see what this strange creature would do. Her gaze traveled the boundaries of my face, flicking from my forehead, to my nose, to my cheeks. . . .
One delicate hand reached toward me and I closed my eyes, uncertain whether to be mortified or thrilled. Light as a butterfly, her fingers grazed my skin. I shuddered at the sensation. How could she bear the corpse-like texture beneath her pure fingertips? I had never possessed courage enough to touch my own face without the barrier of a handkerchief or washcloth, knowing the appalling distortions that would meet my questing hands. She traced the outline of my features—across my cheekbone, down my jaw—leaving a trail of cool fire that sank into my flesh.
At last, she spoke. "I was wrong."
My heart plummeted. I dared not open my eyes. To my shame, tears began to fall once again, coursing down my cheeks. The stinging trails vanished, though, under a warm, soft pressure. I felt the gesture repeated on the other side of my face, and knew, somehow, that the strange motion was a kiss.
A kiss!
"I was wrong," Christine repeated. "You are not just a man—you are an angel come to earth. And I love you." Her cheeks remained flushed as she stepped back. She did not meet my gaze, but looked away in embarrassment.
I had been trapped in bizarre dreams before, unable to wake from the nightmare surrounding me. This, however, surpassed anything I had experienced. The fragile hope that had dared to rise inside me burst in a flame of anger. "You jest, madame! I do not know how you keep your expression from revealing your horror, but I am not one to be teased!"
Her eyes widened in surprise and her lips crumpled in protest. I would not listen. Screams and sobs I could deal with, had even expected, but this savage mockery was beyond comprehension. Determined to expose her fraudulent ways, I savagely grabbed her by the wrist, forcefully pulling her with me as I stalked out of my house. I had never dared possess a looking glass, but the water of the lake ought to reflect my features well enough.
At the last moment, I swiped a candelabrum from the small table in the entryway. The light would be feeble against the thick darkness surrounding my underground home, but it would illuminate well enough to expose whatever game Christine dared to play. I knelt at the dock, jerking her down to the water's edge. The water rippled ever so slightly, but three blossoms of light clearly refracted from the surface. Yes, the candlelight would be enough.
"Look!" I hissed, "and tell me you do not see the face of Death himself staring at you!"
Christine quivered in my grasp. "What are you talking about? Erik, you're frightening me! Let's go back inside—"
"No. Not until you see!"
"I see you, Erik. What more do you wish?"
Angered, I thrust the light up high and bent my upper body out over the water. "I want you to look at me! See the truth, and then tell me . . . tell me. . . ." I faltered, seeing my own reflection for the first time: my skin, such an ugly shade of yellow; my hair, dark and receding from a broad forehead; my eyes, possessed by shadows so deep that they seemed hidden in black holes; my lips, thin and pale, and twisted in vexation. Truly, as horrid a vision as I'd been told!
I leaned closer, filled with macabre interest. With my movements, the shadows shifted and eased the stark lines that had been there moments ago. Seen up close, my eyes lost their sunken appearance. I turned my head this way and that, yet I could find no scars or twisted flesh, no veins bulging through dead skin.
"My face," I murmured, confused. I glanced up at Christine, who stared back at me without dread. Unable to accept this bizarre discovery, I lowered my head once again over the water's surface. Surely my second glimpse had been flawed by imagination. Yes, indeed—my eyes were set back too deeply, my cheekbones too severe. I looked hideous and grotesque, just as my mother had said.
Didn't I?
I heard Christine call my name and looked up to see her standing near me with her hand outstretched. Dazed and unsettled, I took her hand and stood, but could not help glancing back toward the water. Surely these last few moments had been a mistake. If I looked again, I would view my true likeness: that of the repulsive beast my mother had always assured me I would see, had she not destroyed all of the mirrors in the house.
Yet, the vague reflection I had seen looked like any other man—one I might pass on the street or in the hallways of the Opera above. Swelling panic stopped me in mid-step. Urgently, I gripped Christine's wrist and brought her hand up to my cheek. "What do you see? Tell me, or I shall die!"
"I see my angel," she said without hesitation, curving her hand across my skin.
"Yes, but—" I gestured toward the water with agitation. "That! Is that what you see? An ordinary man? Is this face that you touch . . . normal?"
When she shook her head, I felt a small degree of relief. My world hadn't turned upside down after all. That is, until she spoke.
"Perhaps I am biased, Erik. As you stood behind my mirror, I envisioned you with the face of an archangel, crafted by God himself. Now that I see you . . . I cannot disagree." The blush returned to her pretty cheeks.
Dear God.
The child actually thought me . . . handsome? What kind of madness had I been thrust into? I turned away from Christine, trying to escape the twisted revelations that spun through my mind. Throughout my entire childhood, my mother told me that I was a monster—that my very presence nauseated her. Her malevolent words echoed through the years, always haunting me. Repulsive, she'd called me. Disgusting, ill-favored, loathsome, grotesque. She'd never let up, always impressing upon me the foul nature of my existence. Yet, at the same time, hadn't she discouraged me from ever wanting to see my own reflection? A sick horror began to rise in my belly. I had not looked upon my own face until now because of her.
Her firm allegations that the world would hate me had convinced me to shun society. Because of her strict discipline, I had learned to exist without the things most men take for granted: sunlight, companionship, freedom, and love. Her constant, morbid dread of anyone seeing me is what drove me to hide my face, and cloak my body in shadows. She had instilled such fear in me that I now lived in the bowels of an Opera House, afraid to go above into the daylight.
And for what?
Until now, I had always stolen what I needed to survive, and felt no regret in the taking; my face ensured that no one would ever offer legitimate employment or offer gifts of charity. Because of her, I killed, lest someone see my hideousness and strike me first. Because of her . . . I became a murderer.
I had believed her, and because of that, I became the very monster she always told me I was!
Numbness overtook me, immobilizing the nausea that threatened to overwhelm me. I didn't actually feel the outrage pumping through my body with every beat of my heart. I didn't notice the harsh breaths I took as Christine gently led me back into the house.
I felt nothing at all.
Author's Note: The above is an excerpt from "Because of Her". The complete version of this story can be found in the published anthology: Phantom Variations: Tales From the World of the Opera Ghost (edited by H.D. Kingsbury) under the pen-name Orianna Duomille.
