—A/N—
I'm sorry.
Chapter 20
"Christine! What are you doing?"
I turned my head, so sharply that a vertebrae popped, to look upon Raoul's drenched figure, hulking in the doorway, looking at me with utter betrayal written across his features. It was true—I had lied to him. I had told him I would be only a moment, and then we would go—but Erik had been so horrifyingly upset…
I stepped back, hands coming to press against the underneath of my jaw. "I don't know," I whispered, eyes darting between Erik and Raoul. It was so confusing! When I looked upon Erik, I felt a flurry of sick dread echo through me with every heartbeat—but so long as I concentrated only on his sadness, and on the utter elatedness that had followed my kiss, then I felt only happiness. To have seen, even for just a moment, that grotesque face contorted into a smile… To feel the guilt washed away, so completely…!
But Raoul, he brought that guilt on anew, and there was something else. A remnant of adoration left over from childhood passions was still desperately clinging to my emotions, refusing to let me walk away from that hurt face. He was shivering, turned near blue with the cold—Nadir seemed no better, as he stood a little behind Raoul, looking upon the scene with total confusion in his face. I pitied the older man, then—we all had gotten him wrapped up in something totally beyond him. It was horribly unjust of us, to have done it.
"Christine?" Erik asked softly. I looked back to him, and felt my heart stutter. He was looking at me with that disappointed look again, eyes crinkled around the edges—it really looked more like they had crumpled—lips turned up on one side, as if holding out for optimism, while the other end of those ugly appendages were dipping downwards, falling inevitably into despair. I opened my mouth, wanting to give him comfort, and suddenly could feel the ghost of those lips upon mine again. I brushed my fingers across my lower lip, but the sensation would not flee; I could still feel them, ice-cold, strange, moving against mine.
I realized, quite suddenly, that it must have been the first and only time those lips had ever been kissed.
"Christine?" From Raoul, this time. I looked back to him, and felt myself starting to cry again. I could not make both my men happy; how was I to choose? Perhaps the decision should have been obvious, as obvious as it was that night upon the roof, and I wished that it was—but suddenly, there seemed I could think of no wrong either of them had done me.
I remembered Raoul, with a red scarf in his hands—wet, shivering, pale, just as he was now—but delighted to have fetched for me my beloved scarf. He had always been so willing to dive head-first into danger for me…
Erik reached out and touched his fingers to my arm, trying desperately to call me back to him. He could see me drifting, see me slowly rising out of his reach; I let out a pitiful little cry, not at being touched but at being so confused! I could hear Erik crooning out immaculately beautiful poetry to me, that night by the lake, when he had given me such a delightful supper. I could hear that voice as it surrounded and devoured me, as he breathlessly hypnotized me, leading me down into the darkness after the Masque Ball… I could see him, smiling, laughing, not Erik the Phantom but Erik Sartre, as we walked along the streets of Paris. Our times together had been truly delightful, in spite of the lies. Could he ever be the same again? Or was I resigning myself to a life of darkness and misery with the Phantom of the Opera?
His eyes—those frightening, wolfish eyes—were pleading with me to return to him. I could almost hear the words of desperation, so intense was that gaze. I suppressed a shiver and looked back to Raoul, who seemed near to collapse. My lips parted again, and only a squeak of sound came out; foolish me, I had almost hoped my tongue would answer for me, where I could not.
"Christine," Raoul said, a little more forcefully than before, "come on. It is time to go." He reached out his hand, gestured impatiently to me. The hand upon my lips twitched a bit, but aside from that made no movement to meet him. I studied him through my veil of tears, and then darted my eyes back to Erik.
"I…" That was all I could manage.
Erik said nothing. That one hopeful corner of his lips had given in to the darker corner; his lips were now completely pulled downwards, in something more gentle and understanding than a frown, but something that was no less heartbroken.
That face, it was not so horrible. The longer one looked at it, the easier it became to accept it. A corpse's face it was, but it did not belong to a dead thing. It belonged to a man who had, in spite of all his flaws, managed to prove to me time and again that he held me above all other things in life… The question was only if I deserved such a pedestal.
Erik turned away from me, walked over to another part of the room. I felt pressure ease off of me; the decision seemed easier to make, when both of them were not glaring down at me with such ferocity. I did not watch him, to see what he would do; instead, I walked to Raoul, and took up his two hands, both of which were almost as cold as Erik's. When I spoke, however, I did not address my childhood friend, but Nadir:
"You both must go; you will die, if you do not see a doctor soon. You will catch your death." I patted Raoul's hand, and forced my eyes to find his. He seemed as if he would weep, but his tears did not catch my pity the way Erik's did. There would be other women who would love Raoul, other women who would make him far happier than I. No one would ever love poor Erik—no one, but his Christine.
"Christine… You mean I must leave you here, with this.. thing?"
I shook my head. "No, Raoul—you will leave me here with my husband." I let go of him, and Nadir drew him out of the room as easily and silently as if it were all a dream, as if it were some nightmare from which I would soon awaken. I wondered where I would be, when I awoke—if I would be still a child, or still naïve of Erik's presence, or if perhaps I would awake only a few weeks ago, in the bed which Erik had made mine.
I turned back to Erik, and offered him a smile.
Our eyes met, and I knew then what decision she had made. My heart beat heavy against my breastbone as she came to me from across the room; her hands reached out for mine, and as our fingers found one another's and curled up amidst one another, I realized that I had won. The woman who, more than anything in the world, I loved, had surpassed all my expectations of her and had found it in herself to love me too.
She smiled at me again, and I felt as if I would melt. So perfect, so wonderful…
I felt a strange sensation in my lungs, but one that I found I could ignore if I did not concentrate on it. It was almost like a need for air, or for coughing, and when I considered it I found I could not quite find the sensation of Christine's fingers on mine. She did not notice my sudden distractedness; I locked my eyes with hers, found her still smiling warmly at me. I opened my mouth to speak, but only a rasping cough came out.
Christine did not notice, only smiled up at me still, as if frozen forever in that singular expression, like a too-lovely porcelain doll, bloody and tear-stained though she was.
"Erik, I love you…"
She came close to me, close enough that I could smell her, and almost taste her. Her hand found my cheek again, and pressed itself there. I leaned into it; she rose upon her toes again, and our lips met for the second time. A warmth flooded my body like a sweet intoxication; when it receded, however, along with her mouth, it was quickly replaced with cold, and that tickling sensation in the bottom of my lungs again. I began to cough violently, so much so that my eyes closed, that I doubled over. I felt for a moment a sensation of falling, and then it seemed that everything had become much darker around me, though my eyes still were shut.
When I opened them, the room was dark. Something was pressing heavily against my side; after a moment of concentration, I discovered it to be the bottom of my coffin. Slowly I uncurled myself from a fetal-like position, rolled myself onto my back. How had I gotten here? Had unconsciousness found me again? Had she put me here?
I felt so very weak; even thought of movement seemed too much. I was shivering uncontrollably, though my own skin felt scaldingly hot to the touch. Ayesha I could feel near my head, purring loudly, and occasionally mewing somewhat pathetically.
I struggled upwards onto my elbows; a wave of nausea hit me with such force that I collapsed back down. Many long and shuddering breaths were taken, and still I felt as if I had gained only the slightest amount of oxygen. My body ached all over, the pain increasing every time my heart beat. It echoed through me in pulses and waves, sometimes so intense that unconsciousness threatened, other times only unbearable enough to make me subconsciously wish for eternal mercy. I tried to breathe slowly, and sat up again.
It took me many minutes, but eventually I managed to drag my half-dead body out of my coffin. I fell out of it, landed hard on the ground beside it. I cried out in pain, and curled around myself again. I felt sick, so sick—I felt as if I were dying. I called out for Christine, but only the empty silence of my house answered me. Had she left me? Was she asleep? Had something happened to her? Where had she gone?
When I thought back on what had happened, it was so hazy, fuzzy and strange, and my memory of it was barely discernible. I could see her face, glowing in the light, bloody and smiling and perfect… I could see those eyes peering up into mine… I could feel those lips touching mine… but it seemed so very far away, like a dream…
Nearby to me, my eyes picked out, was my needle. It was lying there as if it had been dropped, and it was empty. But last my needle had been seen, it was in the parlor… where Christine had thrown it aside…
My mouth opened wide, and I let out a scream so horrible that Ayesha ran away from me, ears pinned to her skull. I felt suddenly as if I would die—no, there was no doubt, I would die—but the pain seemed nothing compared to this new ache of the soul. The realization of what had happened to me was so vast, so horrible, that it almost threatened to send me back into the darkness. It was as if a madman had suddenly realized his hallucinations, spread across so many years, were just that: hallucinations. It was incomprehensible, but it was not all at once. It, in fact, seemed to make so much more sense now…
Only a man… I almost laughed. And oh, how I wished I had died before waking—to have died, thinking that dream was not a dream…
I dragged myself into the hallway, down the hallway, dragged myself out of my house. I made it several feet away, before I had to collapse on the cold sand, panting and screaming and aching with every inch of my being. I could hardly see now; I wanted to be sick, but somehow could not be. My heart was fluttering and halting with every beat, as if just barely managing to go on. I tried to think only of the feeling of Christine's hands on mine, Christine touching my face, Christine's lips, Christine's smile. I could still smell her perfume, or what I thought was her perfume, though I supposed that I would never really know. Perhaps it was some long-dead memory, employed to stand in for that smell…
I closed my eyes, buried my face in the sand. My heart was slowing down, with sadness or with the poison I do not know. It did not seem to matter; they were one and the same. She would never know, I realized. She would never know of Poor Erik, would never have the chance to meet me or touch me or fall in love with me. Perhaps she would not have, anyway; perhaps she could love me only in my dreams. But what a lovely dream… It was a good last dream to have had, a dream I would replace with nothing, a dream I would trade with no other dream. Maybe it was better that she would think of me only as her Angel of Music, though as an angel who had left her, and would never return to her.
But she did not need the angel any longer—her voice was perfect, and I was certain that the Vicomte would help her find her place in the Garnier. All of Paris would weep with the angels…
Erik, I love you…I love you…
I love you…
Erik…Far, far above, there stood a golden-haired girl, peering endlessly into the tall mirror in her dressing room. She could not say why, but there was something that drew her to that mirror. She felt almost as if there were something more to it, something in that mirror that was calling her. Her heart hurt, though she was not sure why; it was not her father, now, that made her eyes water. She felt as if she had missed something, something very important, though she couldn't say what. There was just a something there, hovering in the air, like a person she had not met or a thing she had not done, a word she had not said, a place she had not been, when she so wished that she had.
Earlier that day, she had read a story in the papers, a piece written regarding a Persian fairy-tale. She was not sure why she had read it; usually, she would skip such things—but something about it had drawn her eye. That sweet story had left her weeping uncontrollably, her eyes studying over and over the last line, trying to read it again and again through her tears. The nightingale that had sacrificed himself for his love for the beautiful white rose… The red rose Allah had never meant the world to know… The… The nightingale…
She let out a little cry, and immediately clapped her hand over her mouth. Her shoulder pressed against the mirror, and she slid down it to the floor. What was this sadness, this misery? She felt as if she were dying inside, dying from this emptiness that had suddenly struck her. There was something beautiful that had almost crossed her path, but had not—there was something she had missed out on, something she would never have the chance to see, something for which she desperately wished.
It was gone, forever—whatever it was. It had passed her by, and now she could do nothing but stand there and call after it in vain.
"Christine…!"She jumped, looking around the room. "Angel?" she called. "My Angel, is that you!"
But there was no one to answer her.
