He
only wished one chance...
Christine cried for a long time upon
his shoulder. She didn't know for how long; finally, without
knowing how; she slowly stopped crying and fell asleep in his arms.
Erik laid her in the bed again and wrapped her with the soft sheets;
he sighed and gave her a tender look. He turned off the gas lamp and
left the room leaving the door open. He went to his pipe organ and
started to play a sad melody. He was inspired, and sang thinking only
of her, how much he loved her and, why? Erik couldn't explain it.
He loved her shape, but he also loved her eyes, those sweet eyes, as
deep as the starry sky in a summer night. He loved the slight fall of
her hair upon her neck and shoulders; her body's soft warmth when
she was near. He adored her voice, as sweet as when the angels sang;
angels that he would never hear; her smile. Why did she never laugh
in his presence? Why didn't she smile just once? Erik began to feel
great pain and glanced sadly at the door of her bedroom a few times.
He had seen her smile some times from box five during a
performance, but such a shy smile, that he wondered if she had
forgotten how to smile. He could feel her sorrow and confusion, and
remembered how many times he had wished upon all the things in this
world to be a normal man. How high would the prize be for an hour of
happiness beside her? He couldn't know. He'd give everything he
is to stop her tears.
Erik didn't know what hurt him more, that
he was sentenced to live a life without any chance; or feel the pain
of the woman he loved? A single tear ran in his cheek under his mask.
He'd fight for her; he had never been a weakling and wouldn't
begin now. If he had to kill that boy, he'd kill him.
He would
kill his memory, his image, all the feelings that Raoul inspired in
Christine. He continued to play and little by little the music's
tune passed from a sad and tender melody to a furious and mad one.
Suddenly he stopped, how could she love him if he killed that boy?
How could he understand her heart and mind? He turned his face once
again and glanced to the door and thought— If I had never showed
myself to her; I'd still be her Angel, her beautiful Angel of
music…— Now new torments began to gather in his mind: how had she
imagined him, with what form, what hair…what face…?
Would he have a chance if he was different?
His thoughts turn to
that boy and he analyzed them; the Vicomte was young, as young as
Christine, it was true that the boy was good looking even he couldn't
deny that, he wasn't a fool, but why Christine? He could get any
girl in the Opera, or in Paris, even France. From the different
commentaries he had heard in the Opera's hall corridors, many rich
girls of Paris's high society were talking about him and his
brother in hushed whispers behind them —"They're so handsome,
and unmarried…They're really nice…etc." Why Christine?
Erik
felt a really big gap between them, he wasn't to old for Christine,
his body wasn't deformed, he was thin, but ……he rose up from
his stool in front the organ and walked to the mirror beside
Christine's door and looked at his reflex touched by the tremulous
candle light from atop the organ.— It's not so bad— he said as
he gazed his body and send a shy smile for his reflex, but when his
eyes meet his face; his glance changed to sadness and anger and his
little smile broke — It's this face, this damned face, only this
separates her from me!