Well, sweet mother of Larry! I'm not dead! Writing's been rather difficult lately, but lo and behold this chapter came out. I won't promise another update soon; I'd really like to pull my other phic from the grave yard.

As always, mad props and love to my Beta/PR Agent/Cigarette Brand Guru, Erik.


"He knew Christine's story. After her father's death, she acquired a distaste of everything in life, including her art. She went through the conservatoire like a poor soulless singing-machine. And, suddenly, she awoke as though through the intervention of a god. The Angel of Music appeared upon the scene!"

-From "The Phantom of the Opera" by Gaston Leroux


Christine rather liked working the overnight shift at Gordeep's Grocery for two good reasons. The main was that next to no one ever came in while she was working – she rather liked being left to her own devices – and the second was that it irritated the hell out of her parents. That, alone, made it worth dealing with the occasional drunk. She spent most nights singing along with the little radio behind the counter while she counted the cigarette packs and restocked the coolers.

Tonight, she was huddled over the bottom shelf of the cigarette case, struggling with a stiff slider that wouldn't allow her to cleanly insert the soft packs into their rows. Accidently crushing another box, she flung the rest of the carton away in frustration. "Bloody Hell! Stupid fuckin' things anyway," she huffed as she stared critically at the case.

"Such crude language for such a pretty girl." She jumped to feet and spun in shock, her heart racing suddenly at the smooth voice behind her. Seeing Erik, standing behind the counter, his lips pulled into a smirk didn't comfort her. Without thought, she leaned back against the case, keeping as far away as possible. There was something wrong with him, she could tell that much at least. What she should see of his skin looked clammy and damp, his lips pale and pulled thin in pain; he looked frighteningly ill. His eyes disturbed her most though, glassy and blank they examined her dully as though she were a second-hand scrap of clothing. Alarm bells went off her head and she hated the fact that she had to step forward to ring up the six pack of beer he had set on the counter.

He didn't speak again as she worked the dingy register; forcing herself to be calm, she faced him and fought down a wave of disgust when he didn't even bother to lift his eyes from her chest. Swallowing heavily to clear the bile from her throat, she found her voice. "Will there be anything else?"

His slid dazedly up over her body and over to the display behind her and then up to the overhead shelf above them. His smirk grew a fraction as his filthy gaze fell back to her body. "I'd like a pack of Johnnies."

She stared at him blankly. "I beg your pardon?"

He chuckled with a kind of indulgence that made her skin prickle. "A pack of John Players." He raised a hand and pointed his long index finger upwards. "I notice you have them here."

A sense of dread began to pool in her belly as she took a half-step back to glance up and finally spot the brand he wanted. It was on the highest shelf naturally; she looked back down and outright glared at him. "No problem," she ground out as she stretch up on the balls of her feet to reach up and lift down a pack. Christine had never felt dirtier during the simple act of pulling down a pack of fags than she did at that moment. With the way he stared at her, it was impossible not to.

And his damnable smirk had only grown as she viciously wrung up the cigarettes and then flicked her wrist to toss them on to the counter. Erik caught her wrist in his hand and brushed his thumb over her pulse-point slowly. "Thanks Sweetheart," he purred in a low slurred voice, his rank breath washing over her arm. He stank of alcohol; Christine yanked her arm free with a sneer.

"Don't touch me," she spat at him.

For a moment his eyes lit up with interest and Christine felt herself pale. For the first time since he showed up, she realized that she was alone in a convenience store with a man quite a bit taller and stronger than she, at three in the morning. "I wonder if you're that feisty when a bloke's got a leg over ye," he slurred with that same disgusting smirk.

Her jaw dropped in shock. How could she have ever thought there was more to this punk, let alone pity him for whatever it was that he hid behind his stupid mask! She felt her mouth pull into a snarl. "Either pay for your shite, or fuck off," she growled.

He pursed his lips into a pout and leaned back from the counter. "Easy there, Princess, you talk to your mother with that mouth?"

Christine felt her blood boil; just let him try anything and she'd pistol whip him with the revolver Mr. Gordeep kept taped under the counter.

"Erik?" A familiar voice spoke up and she looked up to watch Darren enter the store and storm over. "Dude, you fuckin' promised you wouldn't leave the flat! I had no idea where you were!"

Erik rolled his eyes and turned away. "Sorry Mum."

Darren didn't notice her until he reached the counter. "I'm sorry about him Miss--Oh Christine..." his face fell. "I wish we didn't keep meeting like this."

She brushed away his apologies. "Whatever, just pay for his crap and get him outta here."

He promptly pulled out his wallet while Erik snickered wickedly, still leering at her. "I know, I'm sorry, please, he's in a real bad place right now..." he paused, staring at the pack of cigarettes on the counter. He turned to Erik, brows furrowed. "You don't smoke John Players."

Erik shrugged lightly, an unrepentant smile on his thin lips; Christine could see a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. She wondered irrationally if he had a fever, but she pushed the thought away and snarled at Darren. "Why do you make excuses for him?" she demanded, slamming her palm down on the counter. Both men started in surprise, but she spared Erik no second glance. "Why the hell do you bother with him? He's just a worthless addict!"

She had expected Darren to jump to his friend's defense, to yell at her for being so insensitive. She was ready to list Erik's offenses and demand satisfaction. Her righteous anger faded at the tired, defeated look on Darren's face; he frowned deeply and pulled a twenty pound note out of his wallet without a word.

Erik, however gave a guttural growl and pointed a threatening finger at her. "I am not worthless, you stupid cow."

For one moment, everything froze and Christine felt the blood fall from her face and into her chest where it boiled. Darren tossed the money on the counter and sighed heavily and muttered something close to "fuckin' asshole" as he dropped his gaze to the countertop in shame. She continued to glare at Erik, wanting nothing more than to slap the mask right off his face. His eye blazed with barely bridled, but she didn't care and her words came of their own accord. "Then what good are you? At least cows have a purpose, you bloody useless wanker! You might as well be dead!"

Erik surged forward with a snarl, but was blocked from crossing the counter as Darren threw his shoulder into his side and held him back. "Yeah? Well, what if I am dead?" he was yelling. "Would you sing my requiem?"

Christine took a step back utterly baffled by the question, watching him struggle against Darren's arm. "No," she answered thoughtlessly in a shaky voice.

To her greater horror, he threw his head back and laughed. A terrifying crow, that nearly made her cover her ears at its hysterical edges. Cutting the painful sound off in his throat, he sneered at her, pulling away from Darren and taking a step back toward the door. "Course you won't," he growled in a soft voice that sent a stronger bolt of fear down her spine than his yelling ever could. "Why the fuck would an angel sing for the useless corpse of an addict?"

Her throat went dry as spun on his heels and left the shop. Darren gave her an apologetic look and followed his friend quickly. She stared after them in shock; was it over? Was Erik really gone?

For a moment the only thing she could hear was her own shallow breathing, and then, steadily, she began to hear a voice, singing quietly. She couldn't quite make out what was being said, but the pure tenor rose swiftly in volume as she came around the side of the counter and peered out the window.

Dies irae, dies illa
Solvet saeclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sibylla.
Quantus tremor est futurus,
Quando judex est venturus,
Cuncta stricte discussurus!

Erik was standing in the middle of the empty street, his head thrown back, mask almost glowing in the street light as he sang. Oh God his voice! Raised in her parent's circle of friends, she had grown up listening to opera. She could identify the world's greatest tenor's by ear, but Erik's voice made her tremble with it's strength and purity.

Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
Quem patronum rogaturus,
Cum vix justus sit securus?

This was not how he had sung at the concert, there was nothing punk about his voice aside from the seductive, sinful, smoothness that was laced through it. Suddenly she recognized the latin words, and she gasped at the morbidity of watching him sing his own requiem with an angel's voice.

Rex tremendae majestatus
Qui salvandos salvas gratis
Sale me, fons pietatis

The tears came of their own accord, but she did not fight them. There was an overwhelming misery in everything about Erik that she irrationally regretted her cruel words, despite his appalling actions. It was as if there were two different men behind that grinning piece of leather. Darren walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder; Erik ignored him and kept his face to the sky.

Ingemisco tanquam reus,
Culpa rubet vultus meus;
Supplicanti parce, Deus.
Qui Mariam absolvisti,
Et latronem exaudisti,
Mihi quoque spem dedisti.
Preces meae non sunt dignae,
Sed tu, bonus, fac benigne,
Ne perenni cremer igne.
Inter oves locum praesta,
Et ab hoedis me sequestra,
Statuens in parte dextra.

She swallowed a sob as his voice fell from that divine level of perfection and dissolved in to a ragged wail. She watched him curl over, taking a long, heavy breath, before he threw his head back and screamed. Christine clasped her hands over her ears, unable to listen to the pure agony in his cry; it washed over her and clawed at her, demanding recognition and comfort. Her hand was on the door when his breath finally gave out and the world fell silent again; she watched Darren pull Erik into his arms and guide him off into the shadows.

After a few moments of calm and quiet, she felt her heart rate return to normal. Christine looked back to the counter, realizing that they had left everything there; beer, cigarettes, and money. Running a hand over the fabric of the ball cap she wore, she sighed and finished ringing up the booze and paid for it, pocketing the change without regret. She stared angrily at the pack of John Players, loathing the idea of reaching back up to replaced them, even if she was alone now. Instead, she flung them in the garbage with a soft growl.

She pulled out a bottle from the pack and leaned back against the wall of cigarettes, sliding down slowly into a sitting position. Wiping the tears from her eyes furiously, she twisted the cap off, and took a long, much needed, drink.


For those of you who don't speak Latin; here's a translation of the verses I used from the 'Dies Irae'. The translations go in order:

This day, this day of wrath
shall consume the world in ashes,
as foretold by David and the Sibyl.

What trembling there will be
When the judge shall come
to weigh everything strictly!

What shall I, a wretch, say then?
To which protector shall I appeal
When even the just man is barely safe?

King of awful majesty
You freely save those worthy of salvation
Save me, found of pity.

I groan as one guilty,
my face blushes with guilt;
spare the suppliant, O God.
Thou who didsnt absolve Mary Magdalen
and hear the prayer of the thied
hast given me hope, too.
My prayers are not worthy,
but Thou, O good one, show mercy,
lest I burn in everlasting fire,
Give me a place among the sheep,
and separate me from the goats,
placing me on Thy right hand.

And my translation and lyrics came from : http/members.