Chapter 11
Several breaths were taken from between those moist and parted lips, before slowly her head turned towards me. Shoulders, torso, and legs followed, and her sweet little hands rose to rest upon my chest. For the shortest of moments, glazed and dreamy eyes looked up into mine, and she seemed very near to swooning. But that moment passed, and she began suddenly to look near to tears.
Her tongue flitted out to brush across her lips, and then slowly she spoke: "There is no Monsieur Sartre." It was not a question, and I made no reply.
She tried again. "Neither is there an Angel of Music..."
This was said with such sad pleading in her soft blue eyes that I could not help but answer her, for she seemed ready to beg me for some—any—reply. "No, Christine," I said as gently as I could.
Her little head began to shake, and her eyes lowered. Like leaves in autumn, her hands fluttered down from their perch upon my breast, and fell to rest at her sides. "No," she echoed in the tiniest of whispers, and the color drained from her face.
"No," I repeated. "There is only Erik."
Shoulders sagging, she turned away from me, and surveyed her surroundings. The dreary hallway with nary a light to shine seemed close and suppressing; she stepped away, following its dismal path towards the open doorway of my bedroom. A lamp still glowed from within, the light spilling into the corridor like a tiny golden life raft; she stepped onto it, allowing a breath as if she felt herself now rescued from the ill fate of drowning in my darkness. A tentative hand pushed the bedroom door fully open, and she stepped within. I trailed behind her like a forgotten puppy, too lost within the occasion to stop her folly.
Her dancer's legs stood solid for a long while, under the onslaught of the horrors she surveyed. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes spread wide, and a hand rose to clutch the base of her throat as if to contain the scream that must have longed to leap from her lips. Those lovely eyes hovered first and foremost on the hulking demon that was my organ; massive and dark, it sat in the shadows of the farthest wall, almost as dark and ominous as my home upon the shore. They then turned to the Dies Irae that traced its way along my wall, again and again in sick repetition, adding the final note of elegant horror that I had once thought the room so desperately needed.
And finally, that which was so perfectly and so ill-done, so wonderful and so monstrous, that which was the impossibility of human nature—my bed, the dead man's cradle into which I climbed every night to sleep as comfortably as any lordling in his featherbed.
A soft murmur, a whimper, was all that served as warning. The hand upon her throat never faltered; it remained locked into position even as her legs crumpled, even as she sank like a snowflake to the floor. I started forwards too late to save her completely, but arrived at the scene soon enough to rescue her sweet head from a bashing upon the hard floor of my home. Carefully I lifted her, and carried her to the room that held my mother's furniture.
I laid her out upon the bed, and perched upon the side of the mattress to watch her in her sleep. Her eyelids fluttered; her lips twitched a bit. I smiled, and reached out to remove her gloves and shoes. My fingers hovered over her stockings, considering, but feared instead the repercussions of such an act—especially if she should wake while I was in the act—and instead stood and walked away from her and the temptation she had suddenly begun to represent.
I shut her door behind her, not bothering to lock a door that she could not have found on her own, and proceeded to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. Slowly I sank down into one of the two chairs at my small kitchen table, teacup clutched in my now-ungloved hands. I raised the cup to my lips, and nearly laughed when the porcelain clacked lightly against my mask. With a sigh, I reached up and slowly removed the mask, tossing it onto the table and watching as it slid across and fell into the chair across from mine.
Foolish of me, to become so accustomed to humanity that I could not even remember to remove the mask.
I had nearly finished the tea when I first began to hear the crying. Curious, I stood, half expecting to find a true phantom—in truth, hoping I would, preferring a ghost to the reality that she could very well be so miserable. But as I drew closer to her door, the sound grew louder, and as I pressed my ear against it the sound increased even more. My hand hovered over the trigger to her door, suspended between a desire to comfort her and a knowledge that I could do no such thing.
"Erik!" she wailed from within. "Erik! Erik, please!"
I leaned my head against the door, and closed my eyes. The poor child...
A sudden thump sounded against the door directly beneath my ear. I sucked in a breath and leapt away from it; she must have heard the sound, for immediately her screams were renewed.
"Erik, Erik! Erik, please! Let me out!"
I heard her slide down the door to sit upon the wood floor, heard her cries become little more than choked sobs, interspersed with moans of "Erik, Erik..." and the occasional "Please…"
Slowly, unbidden, I began to sing ever so softly. It was a quiet little lullaby, one that I had heard her humming several times in her dressing room. Her crying began to quiet, and her breathing slowed, softened. I allowed myself a smile, and fell silent. When the cries did not return, I walked away, to wash my teacup and prepare for bed.
At nine o'clock sharp, I opened the door to her room. She had at some point during the night gone to her bed, though she lay above the covers and was still fully dressed in the Vicomte's gown. I averted my eyes, and cleared my throat. "Mademoiselle Daaé?"
With a start, she raised her head. Her eyes were swollen and red, and still damp from her tears. "Erik?" she asked, in a voice still hoarse from last night's sufferings.
"It is well past time to rise, Mademoiselle. There is a vast array of clothing awaiting your perusal, in the wardrobe—help yourself to anything you should find there. Most of it.. should be your size. There is a bathroom, just there, for you." I pointed to the door on one of the walls of her bedroom.
She watched me a moment, and when I did not leave, she sat up and dangled her legs off the side of the bed. It was a huge thing; her petite size was made a mockery of by its immensity. "Is there.. anything else, Monsieur?"
"Ah, yes… There is breakfast awaiting you, Mademoiselle—the kitchen is just down the hallway, you cannot miss it. I shall… wait for you there, as well?" I do not know why I more asked than told her that last; perhaps I expected her to act the monarch and bid me go elsewhere while she ate, for what beauty would wish to dine in the presence of such a beast?
However, she only nodded, and with a soft sigh I retreated from her presence, leaving the door cracked so that she could find and open it. I returned to my waiting cup of tea at the kitchen table, setting one ankle atop the opposite knee, and allowed myself to lean back against the chair. Every minute that ticked past set me more on edge; this would be our first true confrontation, and I knew that it would be just that. What more could I expect, after all, from one who had learned such awful secrets? As the minutes turned into an hour, and then two, I began to fear that she would not come to me, that she would shut herself away in that room and refuse to come out. This set me even more on edge, and soon I had abandoned the tea to the fate of the cold air, and sat broodingly with my arms folded upon my chest.
Eventually she did come, though, as in truth I had known she would. Timidly she entered the kitchen, and even more timidly did she take her seat at the table and begin to nibble on the food set before her. I watched with merciless intensity, devouring every move she made. It was as if I had never been with her before; I had lost all my grace and charm in one fell swoop. The only dignity remaining to me was my mask, and even that I feared would be lost all too soon.
When finally her eyes raised to meet mine, I found fear and anger lurking behind those serene blues. I was almost surprised to find myself hurt by that; it was nothing short of what I deserved, and yet I could not help but feel that I had been mistreated somehow. "Is something amiss, Mademoiselle?" I asked carefully, foolishly.
Cold silence met my words at first, but eventually the anger gave way to fear, and she ducked her head. "No, Monsieur, I suppose not." Her words had a hard edge to them, but sarcasm was to be expected.
"If the food is not to your liking—"
"The food is fine, Erik," she snapped, and then immediately paled. Her head ducked lower, and her eyes closed. "Forgive me, Monsieur," she whimpered.
I winced. "There is no need to apologize, Christine…"
This gave her courage; barely had I finished, when her head snapped up, and she snarled, "No, not from me, you are right. But there is definitely a call for apology from someone in this room, Erik!"
My shoulders stiffened. "I am not sure that I know what you mean, Christine."
She gave a sharp bark of laughter, and then returned to her food. After a moment's respite, she added as if as an afterthought, "Take off that silly mask, Erik. The masquerade is quite over and done with, don't you think?" I was relatively certain she was not referring to the Bal Masque.
"I'm afraid I cannot do that, Christine," I said coolly.
Another mocking snort of laughter followed. "Why is that, Erik? Do you fear that I will see your true face?"
"Yes, exactly so," I said, having given up all pretense.
When she looked up, she seemed for a moment to be truly considering my words. That quickly vanished, however, as the mockery returned. "Oh? What, and is it so different from the one you showed me?"
"Quite," I told her, my vocals tensing as I felt the teeth of a trap closing around me.
She sighed, and pushed her almost-empty plate away from her. "Erik, you are being foolish," she said sternly. "No mask is going to hide your face, not now. I've seen the truth of you, Erik; there is little else left to hide."
It was my turn to laugh now, and laugh I did. "Christine, if only that were true. If only what you knew now was everything… If only I had nothing left to hide from you!" I raised my hand to touch it against my cheek, and sighed. "It is to your benefit that I continue to hide behind this mask, Christine, and do not ever forget that."
This conversation was hardly the last we had, about the mask. As we went through the day together—she never once mentioned returning to the surface; I think she had resigned herself, for the moment, to whatever fate might hold for her—she continued to bring it up.
While in the study, she nagged me to tell her why it was so important that I not remove the mask. Had I been injured, since last she had seen me? She assured me that no disfigurement, no matter how horrible, could ever sway her from me. That hurt, truly hurt—I had to excuse myself from her presence, for I could not hold back all the tears which her words had inspired. She was such a stupid child, saying things she did not—could not—mean.
During her lesson—for, though she knew I was her "angel", it would not do to discontinue her lessons, though they were now significantly less divine—she paused mid-scale to again inquire about the mask, and bid me remove it. That made me furious, and I chastised her perhaps a little too harshly for breaking in her diligence. She did not bring up the mask again throughout the lesson, though once we had finished she made a quiet remark about my singing being "so much better, when your mask did not cover your lips".
Lunch was a hushed affair; both of us bristled at every word the other spoke, and therefore we both had moved to silence. She did not seem much affected by the fact that I did not eat from the plate that I had set before myself; she merely ate from her own, and accepted what I did as being simply what I did. After lunch I excused myself and shut her up in her room, for I had a business matter to attend to, as well as a little "shopping" to do.
By the time I returned, it was nearly supper-time, and I quickly set about making it for her. The thieving—the "shopping"—I had done had been for a lovely dessert wine that I knew was a favorite of hers: a lovely little bottle of tokay, which I had in the past seen her drink, and had heard her remark upon its loveliness.
I thought belatedly of her still shut away in her room, and went to her door. When the lock clicked, I immediately heard motion behind the door; I knocked, and then opened it, and she was without pause flung into my arms. Her soft limbs enfolded me, and she crumpled against my cold chest; her own body felt like fire against mine. "Erik, oh Erik!" she wailed, and it was then that I saw her fingernails were bloody and worn down. She looked haggard and worn, and out of concern I lifted her in my arms and carried her to the study to set her before the fire.
She stood shivering before the flames, still hovering within inches of me. I could smell the perfume of her hair, and I felt an immediate aching within me which was almost impossible to quench. She moaned, and pushed her weight against me. "Erik, please," she wailed, "don't ever leave me in this darkness again! I thought you had gone and left me forever, Erik… You cannot do that to me again!"
I had not even realized that I had left her without so much as a candle; shamed, I put my hands upon her arms, and led her to the couch nearby. She sank down into it, and curled around herself, shivering still. "Erik," she said through chattering teeth, "you are so cold… You, and your home, are so cold…!"
"Forgive me, my child," I murmured softly, removing my hands from her. "The fire will warm you soon—that is all I can offer you, except perhaps a blanket, and a glass of wine to warm the insides?"
She nodded, and I stood to fetch her things. Hearing movement, I turned my head, and found her standing at my arm. "Please," she whispered. "Don't go where I cannot see you."
I knew, of course, how she reacted to my voice—how could I not? Taking it into account, I spoke to her in my most sweet of voices, and watched her eyes become half-glazed, as if she dream-walked. I led her with my voice, first to the linen closet, and then into the kitchen, before sing-songing her back into the study. I set the glass in her hands, and wrapped her in the blanket, and then kneeled on the floor in front of her. She looked like a dead thing; pale, and thin, with dark smudges beneath her eyes and the look of a madman who has been lobotomized.
My voice fell silent, and slowly she began to resurface. It was so strange, these two completely opposite facets of her that she continued to show to me. One was the iron-willed woman who did not fear to take me in hand and chide me for my foolishness; the other side of her was no more than a child, the frightened and fragile flower that had first drawn me into this trap of the heart, the one that begged for my presence even when she feared what that presence could mean.
She took a few slow sips from the glass, and then looked at me with a slight smile. "I am quite fond of this wine, Erik," she said quietly—and then, after a pause, "But you knew that, didn't you?"
I nodded silently.
Her eyes fell to the glass. "Just like you knew my dress size, and which styles and colors I best liked."
Again, I nodded.
"Just like you knew the story of the Angel of Music."
There was no need to nod, now. She no longer even sought unnecessary affirmations.
"Erik?"
"Yes, Christine?"
She looked as if she were considering saying something quite meaningful, but then bit her lip and offered something of a smile instead. After one shoulder had shrugged—which conveniently bared it of the blanket as well as her dress, and left a few rounded, soft porcelain inches of utter temptation—she said, "Are we to dine soon, Erik? I must admit, I am a bit hungry..."
I was not surprised; she had not eaten much, either at breakfast or lunch. I had assumed it would be only so long before hunger swayed her half-hearted desire to rebel against my every wish.
I smiled, foolishly. "Yes, of course. I shall meet you in the dining room, my dear."
We parted, she to be dressed and myself to finish her meal—I always made enough for the two of us, though mine was quickly tossed to the rats. I could not eat in front of her, and rarely had the stomach for it even when I was alone.
After dinner, we went to the study to relax. I picked up a worn copy of Tennyson's work, while she selected a book at random and began to devour it. We sat in silence for only a few minutes, however, before she set the book aside and stood.
"Ready for bed, my dear?" I asked, glancing up from the pages.
"No, Erik," she said, her voice stern. "I am ready to go back. I… want to go home, Erik."
I stared at her for a moment, and then shook my head. "It is late, Christine. We shall go in the morning."
"No."
Surprised to hear such a firm argument come from her, I raised my eyebrows. "No?" I repeated, disbelieving.
"No," she repeated. "We will go now."
I sighed, and set the book down. "That is quite impossible, Christine. It is late—almost eleven. We shall go in the morning."
"Erik, I will not spend another night in this place with you!" Her voice quickly climbed the scale in her passion, and her little fists clenched. "I am cold, and frightened, and I want to go home!" I could already see the hysteria rising in her, like a visible swell of the tides.
"Christine," I said gently, "it is late. We will—"
"Stop it!" she screamed. "Stop it, stop it, stop it! I don't want to hear you repeating yourself over and over again, Erik—I want you to take me home!"
Slowly, carefully, I stood. "Christine…"
"Why did you bring me here?" she wailed, turning away from me and towards the fire. "Why? Why did you have to bring me to this awful, horrid place? I want to go home, Erik! I don't want to be here in the cold and the dark! I want to be in my own bed! I… I…" With a final wail, she crumpled to the floor in sobs, her skirts puffing out around her.
I sank to the floor beside her, and took a hand in mine. She snatched it away, and turned her face away from me. "Get away!" she sobbed. "Away, away! Away from me!"
This pain of hers was far worse than anything she could have inflicted upon me. I folded over, near-prostrate on the floor, and took her dress hem in my hands. I kissed her little foot, and her skirts, and cried myself near as much as she. "Please, Christine," I begged, folding my cold fingers around the material of her dress, and crumpling it. "Please, please, please… Forgive me! Please, you must forgive me!"
"Why?" she countered. "Why must I forgive you, Erik? Why should I forgive you?"
I buried my face in her skirts, and in the floor, and sobbed. I had no answer—I would not have forgiven me either. "Please, Christine," I repeated, my voice twice muffled. "Please, please… I did it for love, Christine!"
Silence—even her sobs had paused for the moment—and then, quietly, "…What?"
"Love, Christine! Love!" I wailed, looking up at her from my piteous position. "I brought you here because I love you! Oh, Christine, why, but for love?"
"Erik," she cried, fingers grabbing my wrists, "if you love me, you will take me home!"
I sat up, and drew back a ways from her. Silence stretched out before us like a barren wasteland, upon which any and all feelings she had for me were more than likely to die. But I knew not what to say—I knew not how to bring life to what lay between us by raining the right words upon it and bidding it flower and grow. I was not the Vicomte; I knew only coldness, and satire, and how to use my voice for beauty. But my voice would not save me now; even if I sang to her now, I could not sing to her forever, and we would return to this place time and again.
And then, with one stupid decision, I impaled what love she had for me then upon harsh words. "I cannot."
She stared at me, mouth agape. "What?"
"I cannot take you home," I repeated.
Anger, hurt, betrayal—all flared to life in her pretty round eyes, and she began to cry again. "Why, Erik?" she cried. "Why? Why can't you take me home?" Her little fingers sought out my pants' leg, and clutched to it as if it were a lifejacket. "Please, Erik, please!"
"No," I told her firmly, plucking her fingers from my leg. "If I take you home now, you will never return to poor Erik. You will pretend you never saw him, and you will stay away forever. If I take you home now, I will never see you again!"
She shook her head violently, and snatched at lies to try to save herself. "No, Erik, that isn't true! I should come all the time—whenever you wanted me! I should come so often you would grow tired of me!"
I smiled, and cupped her cheek in my hand, though she shied away from its coldness. Hurt, I pulled it back, and said softly, "I would never grow tired of you, Christine…"
She did not seem to hear me. I stood, and turned away from her. "It is past time for bed, Christine. You should retire—"
I did not even hear her move from the ground, much less hear her creep up behind me. I was unaware of all danger until I felt a sudden draft upon my cheek, and saw from the corner of my eye the tiny pale hand that flicked into and then out of my vision. And then suddenly, my face was bare, and her eyes had devoured all that horror before I could even react.
Christine
I do not know what I was thinking. Hysterical with grief and fear, half-mad with everything my mind and heart had undergone in the past two days, I thought only that I had seen my chance—and I took it. I moved as quietly as possible, for I knew how well he could track my movements with those keen ears of his. I moved quickly, as quickly as I could, and even still I expected his hand to catch my wrist and stop me.
When I jerked the mask free of his face, I thought to herald it over him and perhaps mock him. I thought that I could perhaps use it against him, use it to be taken home. I thought to break him, perhaps—I do not know what I thought, for everything immediately went blank when I saw what lay beneath the mask.
I do not know what I saw, in truth, but I did not see the Erik Sartre that I knew. This Erik was a different being, a monster—a ghost—that lurked in catacombs and wooed maidens with his devilish voice. This was a dead thing, a corpse, and now I knew why he always felt so cold to the touch. My body went numb, and I dropped the mask. I watched as he crumpled to the floor and tried to cover his face with those skeleton's hands.
I do not recall leaving him there, but I must have, for eventually I found myself in the room that the monster had given me, crying like the stupid child that I was as I curled up on the bed, still dressed in one of the many lovely gowns he had given me. I could not think of anything but that face, that horrible face… Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it, with its burning eyes, the whole thing contorted as it realized that I had seen it…
It was not until long after I had retreated to my room that I heard the sound. It was an inhuman wailing, born of such pain and grief that no man should ever have known. It continued for a long time, so long that I found myself trembling beneath the covers of the bed, my eyes closed, praying to God Above to rescue me from this devil. When finally it stopped, the silence was so deafening that I almost considered praying that he would begin screaming again. The silence was awful—but the music was worse.
It is true that the silence ended, and for a moment I was grateful, for I heard that he was playing upon that frightening, hulking organ of his. But when I began to discern the notes, I found myself far more frightened that I had been before. Those notes were more twisted and demonic than was the corpse that played them, and I could not drown them out no matter how tightly I plugged my ears, or with how much force I mashed the pillow over my head.
Those notes invaded my mind, my heart, and even my very soul, until they had ravaged and raped all that I was, and all that I had ever been.
