I briefly considered taking several days to eat and sleep properly before going to see Christine. I determined the rate of courage leakage to be too great to afford the luxury, so I settled for scrubbing the grime off and donning relatively clean clothes. I had missed my first wedding anniversary; it was spent in a narcotic haze, but I had the gift. On that first memorable shopping trip, Christine had admired a delicate double strand of pearls. I became immediately convinced that Christine's graceful neck was divinely sculpted to wear those pearls, so on my next raid I did the purchase. Ouch; but that is another story.
Clean me; clean clothes; wrists dressed; gift; morphine-smoothed edges; mask. Ready—no.
When I glimpsed that whore, Meg, as she slipped from the room with her mother, I realized that she was no longer merely annoying. I was all but seizing with rage at the mere sight of her. It was no mean feat to wrestle it down and attend to the little waif twisting her handkerchief into knots, the little waif I'd come to see. The instant I opened my mouth, I discovered that suave, articulate Erik had deserted me. I give you me, at my finest:
"I, ah, missed our anniversary…I'm sorry. Here…for you." Quelle cretin.
"They're beautiful," she squeaked and sobbed, immediately developing hiccoughs.
I moved behind her to fasten the clasp.
"Christine, you smell so lovely," I gasped.
She hiccoughed and sobbed even harder. Nightmare? High Comedy? Low Comedy? You decide.
"Perfect, beautiful. Go look," I indicated the mirror.
Her curls bobbed in denial. "I'm not beau-hic-tiful."
I felt useless. "You're always beautiful," I grumbled. I longed to run.
We sat like tomcats on opposing loveseats.
"So…you would probably like to be free to get on with your life…"
She almost blurted something out, but thought better of it.
"Whatever you want," she breathed.
"No, not what I want, what you want." I crouched before her, suddenly animated. "You don't want to live forever like this, do you?"
I could no longer see her face; she was staring at her hands in her lap. Again her curls bobbed, No.
"No, of course not, Little One," I soothed. "An annulment is simple, it would be as if it never happened." I actually said this.
Christine looked so helpless, so bereft. A wellspring of tenderness bubbled up inside me. I reached out, just to touch one perfect ringlet of her hair…but shrunk from it at the last moment. Touching would not help me to give her up.
"I just want you not to have to cry over me anymore. Look, even now there are tears staining your lovely dress. What would you like, Christine?" I asked, resigned.
She breathed something in such a tiny voice that I could not hear. I shook my head.
"Christine, I didn't hear…" I leaned closer, offered her my ear.
"I said, I would like to come home!" she repeated. "You told me to go away," she reminded me between sobs. She pressed her forehead to my shoulder and leaked all over my shirt. "You said you weren't my husband."
I felt life and humanity seep into me through the little patch of sunshine where Christine rested against me. How do I live without her? I thought. The answer: I don't. But in just a few months, Christine had given me so much more than I'd ever dared dream. Her life, such a tender, fragile shoot, is so much more precious to me than my warped existence. Once again I was standing in the lake, kissing her farewell, sending her back to the light.
I sat back on my haunches. "I want to be your husband more than anything, Angel, but I'm not sure I can be."
Immediately, Christine wanted to protest.
"Wait, Christine, let me have my say, please?"
She sat back with difficulty and bit her lip.
"I'm not like other men, Christine, you know that. My life…sometimes, when something is broken—an instrument, a machine—sometimes it can be repaired, and afterwards you would never know it had been broken, it is good as new. Sometimes, though, a thing is broken in such a way that no matter how skillfully, how lovingly it is repaired, it is never the same again. It never really functions correctly, and sometimes you can't even predict…how the damage will reveal itself, or when."
She would not hear anymore. "No, you're not broken, Erik!" Now she cried angry tears.
"Christine, you cannot conceive of it, and god help me, you never shall, but I am so very broken. I don't want to be, and I try…every day, to be like everyone else. I know it was hard for you when your father died, but you did know love as a child. You were cared for and wanted. Christine, no one ever loved me. No one! My mother…imagine always knowing that no one will ever love you. How can anyone know what that does to a soul? Even I don't know!"
"I love you! I love you now!" Christine insisted, as if I was stubbornly missing the point.
"And I can't make all the…stuff…inside me just disappear now. I thought I could, I dreamed that you would save me," I admitted. "It isn't your fault, my love."
"You're not all bad! It isn't just bad stuff inside you," she reminded me.
"No, of course not," I smiled gratefully. "But…you deserve more."
"You don't even care a little what I want," Christine said sadly.
"I do care what you want."
"Then why won't you let me come home?"
"Because I don't want you to make a mistake, Christine. You have your whole life—"
"Stop it, stop it!" She leapt up, knocking me off my feet. She stomped across the room and whirled around to launch a broadside at me. She had lightning bolts in her eyes again, and she clutched her skirts white-knuckled.
"When will everyone stop telling me how young I am? I'm not a baby! I'm entitled to my own choices, and even my own mistakes! You can't all protect me forever. And you're the worst of all, you---Phantom!" She pointed a furious, quivering finger at me. "I'm not some precious…saint! You think I came back to you out of pity? You think I married you out of pity? I'm just a normal, vain, selfish girl, Erik! I came back to you because I wanted you, you big…stupid head!"
Her blushing decolletage rose and fell invitingly with the effort of the salvo she'd just delivered. Hell hath no fury…
"I have been called many things, Christine, but… 'Big Stupid head" cuts me to the quick," I replied solemnly.
"It's not funny!"
She launched herself at me with a banshee howl and might have done me real damage except for the physical boost I'd realized from the renovation efforts. I managed to subdue her by hoisting her aloft with her arms pinned slightly behind her. She continued to glare at me, but I knew I had her when her kicking subsided, and I felt her little feet swinging merrily.
"If you must beat your husband, Madame, at least have the decency to do so in the privacy of your own home.'
"Take me home so I can beat you then. You're an evil man, I don't know why I ever let you kiss me."
"Hmm. As I recall, it was you who kissed me."
"That is nonsense; put me down. You make me sound like a tart." She twirled away and strolled off primly, casting a nonchalant glance over her shoulder to make certain I was following as expected. I love her in this mood.
"Eh bien; I love tarts." I tugged on the big bow of her sash. She flicked her handkerchief at me in a beautifully executed pirouette.
"Hmph, I've no doubt of that."
"What particular flavor of tart would you happen to be?"
She whirled around, mouth agape, eyes wide. She was pleasantly scandalized, as I had hoped.
"Erik! Ssshhh! If someone hears…" she giggled and insinuated herself snugly into my arms. My lips on her forehead; she purred.
"You've decided, then," I murmured.
She nodded. "No going back now."
When Christine saw what had become of her beautiful bedroom, she plopped into my coffin and wept. I could not get to my morphine with her sitting right there… though I needed to. I wanted desperately to tell her that we could put it all back the way it was, but my throat closed whenever I thought about that bed. I couldn't face it, ever, I was sure of it. She wanted to clean up the charred remains immediately, and I had to plead with her to leave it. I couldn't explain it to her, because I didn't understand it myself, and thankfully she realized that.
It was a quiet day. We took comfort in simply being together, and ended the day on a bench, stargazing until late into the night.
"Erik?" She was curled up so quietly on my chest, I thought she'd fallen asleep.
"Mm."
"What happened?" She sounded afraid of angering me. I sighed; I had no confidence in my ability to discuss it calmly.
"When I was young I used to be tied up and caged," I replied tightly.
After a moment, Christine realized that I was not going to say anything more.
"So you were frightened," she said softly.
"No, I was terrified." Already my pulse was racing and my breath was coming fast. I wanted to run; I started jiggling my foot.
Christine stroked my brow and kissed me. I went along because I understood she was trying to comfort me, but my heart was not in it. I didn't know how to tell her that I did not want any touching just then. She trapped my face between her hands, kissing me fiercely as she slid her knee between my thighs and rolled up onto my hip. I locked my arms firmly at my sides--I was afraid of throwing her from the bed--and tore my mouth free.
"No, stop!" I struggled for breath. Instantly she was away from me, as if she'd been burned. Still she insisted on comforting me.
"It's alright…Erik…" Her fingers barely brushed my arm.
"Don't, Christine, I can't!" I swung away and sat on the edge of the bed, ready to fly. Sitting up made me feel instantly better, and I was able to settle relatively quickly so long as she left me alone.
I couldn't lie back down; my gorge rose just thinking of it.
"I think I'll go read awhile," I sighed shakily.
"Alright," she whispered.
Happily ever after at Christine and Erik's.
We fumbled toward our new version of wedded bliss gradually. We resumed our rehearsal-work-read-story-outside rhythm. I continued uncomplaining with the construction of the new rooms, useless though it was now. We never spoke of it, but we both sensed that to halt the project was to admit to some sort of irreparable rupture in our marriage. The Opera House was finally under roof, so I made regular raids to gauge the most propitious time for the Phantom's resurrection.
I abandoned Dante for Helen, but as in the bedroom, so at the piano: nothing. I avoided Christine like the skillful Opera Ghost I was, and now she avoided me too. I had managed to frighten her off ever approaching me, even for a harmless cuddle, lest the rabid gargoyle reappear. It was another thing we never spoke of. It was just the look in Christine's eyes as she tried not to be hurt, tried to understand, tried to be a good wife. I slunk through every day knowing that she felt she'd failed me somehow—she'd failed me! I should have been the happiest man in the world. Instead, I discovered deeper, darker realms of hell.
I was completely alone in my grief. Obviously I could not turn to Christine or Adele. I could not speak of it with my Persian friend, either. I don't know what he would have said…when I am rational (if you accept that I can ever be so), I can say that he would have been kind and supportive, if not helpful. But I couldn't…so tired of being ashamed, I didn't want to admit of any more failure to anyone. So, it gnawed at me in my isolation. It began creeping, nibbling, until eventually it poisoned every waking moment I shared with my beloved; it tortured me remorselessly when I was alone; and after years of relative peace, the nightmares returned every night. The daroga grew alarmed at my increasing demands for morphine, and watched helplessly as I spiraled into lunacy.
Inevitably, my reality shattered into mirror shards. I imagined Christine's love draining away like sand in an hourglass. My mind raced through lightless caverns, unremitting self-loathing and impotence snapping at my heels. Finally, a pinhole in the velvet blackness far in the distance: an answer, an end to my suffering. Fate had grudgingly bestowed one final droplet of hope on the cracked and bleeding tongue of the madman. If I could make it to the speck of brightness growing larger with each step, and see clearly the face that my agony wore, I would find a solution. I would be a normal man, and Christine would love me again. Closer, closer: I could not see it clearly, but I knew the face was not mine. I heard beautiful voices, no laughter, no mockery, singing softly--as a real mother might have done--telling me that I was not to blame. Finally it floated before me, perfectly clear, glowing and golden as the sun: the face of my shame; the face of Meg Giry.
From the moment I settled on my course of action, I received providential signs that my choice had been the correct one: I felt instantly better. I slept better as the nightmares diminished, and smile, and I only required morphine occasionally to help me stop obsessing over my plans. In an unprecedented burst of manic energy, I completed the rooms and made phenomenal progress on Helen. I dropped my managers an effusive note, approving the renovations, mentioning a salary increase, and advising them that I'd have an original work for them soon. In closing, I promised that Christine would be prompt and in excellent voice when rehearsals began for the gala reopening.
My little darling was happier, too. Encouraged by my obvious improvement, she was able to overcome her hesitation about approaching me for a cuddle. She smiled, decorated the new rooms and blessed our home with the music of her laughter again. I didn't feel ready to clean out my coffin room yet, and I was still unable to sleep the night through with her, but I could normally hold her until she fell asleep. And while I wasn't a proper husband to her, I managed to provide her some satisfaction. I assured her that everything would be better than ever soon, that I felt much improved daily, and I meant it sincerely. Soon.
