MJ MOD, it is not strange! It is entirely amusing…and I love receiving them!
Misty Breyer, I love receiving your reviews oh-so much…mainly because 90 of the time, Erik has a say in things. Yes, only a British nanny would have the nerve indeed!
Jbwriter, thank you for your criticism…I too feel like it's dragging. I was quite amused by the "Perils of Pauline" comment! There is a resolution for her in the end…I hope I can finish posting all of it to get to that point!
I wrote all but the very last epilogue last night, but, I am going out of town soon…so, it'll probably take two weeks to finish this, but, fear not! The end is in sight.
Please read and review…it really makes my day!
Onward!
From Adelaide's POV
What seemed like weeks passed. The only indication of passing time was the changing of my body. A miscarriage became a rising fear in me, more so then my own death. I knew nothing of childbirth, or advancing pregnancies as I had rarely been around these situations.
I decided that it was likely about late January or just barely February.
My existence with Erik was the definition of tension. It was also quite tedious…as I had no clock in my room, nor was there one to any of my knowledge in either of the living rooms or music room, I never knew the time. I did fall into some sort of cycle though; a cycle of nerve-wracking dullness, I had not even known before that that was indeed possible. I slept, I awoke, ate a little – usually I prepared a meal only for myself, and by prepare I mean unwrap the groceries that I suppose must have been dropped from the opera house, for, I know not where it came. Then I would sit and read, or just sit and cross-stitch from Christine's old cases and occasionally watch Erik scratch away madly on parchment, from what I could tell the scribbles were not identifiable to me as music or as letters of any known alphabet. He was also gone for hours at a time leaving with nothing and returning with nothing.
As far as conversation….it was often Erik commanding and me eventually obeying. The question of my eventual purpose was constantly on my mind.
One evening, I was determined to receive an answer from him and I knew it was not going to be as simple as asking for the time of day…though, I jest, as now I question whether he knew even that.
Leaving the Louis-Philippe room, I walked into the sitting room and for the first time absolutely beamed at him as if my life in his hovel was like a trip to the carnival. He only saw my expression and responded with nothing but a blank look from his eyes, and always that masked, expressionless yet harsh face.
Quietly, I made Russian tea as I had done once before, and simply set it at the edge of his little desk and sat in a seat parallel to his chair and folded my hands and my ankles and watched him from under my eyelashes under the pretense of looking at my hands. A small cling indicated that he had taken the tea cup from its saucer, and I took that opportunity to say something. I went to open my mouth and realized I knew not how to begin "pleasant conversation" in which the weather could not be involved. After a moment, I finally began to speak
"Whatever it is you are writing…you are quite diligent at it." I hoped that would flatter his vanityand open a conversation. He looked at me keeping his surprised, twisted, amusement in check and gestured at his papers with clumsy hands as if he had forgotten what exactly they were and he was too occupied with the thought that I had just made him tea and was smiling. Dear God…he thinks me mad!
"Is the tea to your liking? I must admit, the idea of it is quite strange to me."
He nodded. Why was he refusing to speak? I was beginning to grow agitated, or, perhaps he knew I was going mad!
"What is the date?" I asked.
He continued looking at me. I felt myself twist within my own skin and become increasingly uncomfortable.
"I assumed it was around January…perhaps February." Still no response. "I'm sure the weather is quite cold, England is hardly bearable in the winter."
Nothing.
"Although, I doubt you are caught in the elements very often."
A direct reference to him and he did not respond, now he studied the tea cup, and it's contents without drinking it.
"Will you please at least nod?" Why was I allowing myself to become so irritated at his childish tricks? This was a game my sisters and I would play when we were mad at the other as little girls."Fine! Don't nod!"
He did not even bat an eye.
"My God, please say something!"
He did not even stir.
"Why are you doing this to me? Let me be! Don't you see, you are quite mad and dragging me in too? What are you waiting for, my good sir," I no longer felt as myself and was beginning to hear words and not process the impact they might have, "Christine is quite dead! Quite dead! She saw the newspaper article, and yet, she did not return. Are you still waiting?" He rose from his chair, menacingly, and my heart began to pound in my chest, and yet, I continued.
"Or, best yet…are you hoping I will in fact turn in to Christine?" I walked over to the organ, wildly, and stood in a mock recital position, "Shall I sing for you? Let me warn you, I am a bit off pitch and not what you would call an angel of music! I am not seeing your purpose, Phantom, beyond your desire to ruin the lives of people…especially the one who you claimed to have loved the most, which leads me to say--"
"SILENCE!"
I thought I would die in that moment. His voice resounded with hues of hell itself and his eyes were ablaze. I staggered back and held on to the spine of the organ to remain standing.
"You insolent woman," he murmured under his breath with such cruelty I would have preferred that he had bellowed, the quiet words were ten times as frightening as any yell.
"You know nothing. Nothing." His hand rose in the air, I quickly turned my cheek and shut my eyes, awaiting a sharp blow, but, when I opened them he had disappeared.
I bolted as quickly as I could manage to the Louis-Philippe room and upon confirming that it was empty, I dead-bolted it and tested it to be sure before throwing myself into the large sleigh bed and crying silently in frustration until I fell asleep.
When I woke up…God knows how many hours later…a note in the most demonic handwriting was sitting on the bed stand.
There is a purpose.
E.
I rushed to the door. It was still dead-bolted. Immediately, I ripped the absurd note to shreds and let the paper fall like confetti to my feet.
