This has been in my files for a while. Maybe chapter one, maybe a one shot.
Taken from the Original Novel, and a deeper Christine only allowed by what Kay wrote. Can't forget the ALW play and movie.
So she came back.
What would you have had me do?
There's no light here, nothing hopeful and so bright that I would need to shield my eyes. I have descended in to the closest pit to Hell, haunted by the ever looming Lucifer himself. O beauty! Cat eyes and porcelain skin, something mysterious and drawing, seduction whispering in my ears, a mantra of dark music thick with something like desire.
I see nothing here. I feel the night like a shroud; masking, hiding. I feel the cold and as long as I'm numb I can keep up this facade. I can feel nothing here.
Erik is Dead.
My voice is in this dank, once nighttime illuminate palace ruin. As long as there is my song I can make believe nothing has changed, that you'll answer back. In the echo, deeper and farther below, the reverberating hum comes back lower, more masculine.
Erik is Dead.
O Angel.
There is nothing here. I am dirty with mud and soot from the fire; I am caked and smudged in brown. But this is the night, this is Your dark, and everything turns to beauty in the black. Maybe that's all it was, but you were beautiful to me even in candlelight, in moonlight; in the light refracting off the snow, off the gold on the Lyre. You shown brightest with a little luminescence guiding you, and you pulsed in our music, like a temple full of candlesas soft as the spread of wings.
I tumbled in to the gondola; it was a little further out than I remembered. A Chesire-Cat moon provides so little here, so little, .. How deep is the water? You always made me lean back against you, never let me stray too close to the edge. I groped my way along, pushed by a light warmth drifting by, a breath being exhaled.
I heard the pong of a piano key, just slightly, just lightly; barely even a tap. Your Don Juan living and breathing, rugged, raw with primal emotion. It didn't grow louder as the vessel neared the shore, finally sliding to a dull stop with a slush of water. I saw the outline of your artistic playground, hearing the beast dozing. I saw thick drops of water slipping down on to the dying ivory, your tears playing my last lullaby.
Erik is Dead.
There's no distinction here, from land to water; I am floating and falling.
And I love you.
I hated you so much I adored you, had to have you. My voice just a shade without yours overpowering.
"Strange angel, .. "
A candleabra clattered to the floor, Your night making it impossible. You were everywhere here, every trick of sound, every sudden object; you were moving this underground pit with a stretch of your fingers, a curl of your lips.
I didn't realize I was barefoot until I entered your chambers, where I found the plush Persian Carpet a welcomed surprise against the cool stone. My hands were everywhere, searching. O Angel, O Angel
My dirty nails scraped against some fine wood; some dark, rich wood that would only suit you. My fingers slid down a satin material, the inside of a coffin.
I didn't scream when I felt your fingers, cold and stiff. This didn't suit you, something so still and unanimated.
Especially your hands.
I hiked my dress past my knees, stepped upa slow dance in which I performed solo. I fell in silently, smooth against your deflated body. My palms were at your face, where I wasn't surprised to feel the porcelain mask of mysteries gone from your skin forever. I pressed my cheek there, pressed my lips there.
In the waning moonlight, as I pushed the prop away to have the lid slam shut, I caught the glint of my wedding ring. Your wedding ring.
Ours.
I HAVE GIVEN YOU MY SOUL TO-NIGHT AND NOW I AM DEAD.
