Christine

I fingered the sheets carefully. The edges were softly browned and seared by flame; he always fashioned my music in such a manner. I lifted the pages to my nostrils and inhaled the scent of candle-smoke, and my eyes fluttered closed.

"Christine…Christine…"

My eyes still closed, I felt my mouth turn up in a smile. The soft, mysterious lull of his voice trickled from my ears to my toes. I inhaled through my grin. "Angel," I breathed.

Almost inaudibly came the tones of my father's violin, and just above that, the Angel's voice. "What you are holding is Susanna's aria in Mozart's Le Nozze di Figaro. It is a great deal more advanced than those I've given you until now, but the octave leaps will fine-tune your voice for such a performance. We will work on maintaining your vibrato whilst scaling arpeggios."

I smiled, opening my eyes. "I will someday sing the role of Susanna, then?"

"I will personally see that Figaro is performed in this theatre when you are ready."

"I shall try," I promised, and held my music before me.

As the Angel took me through the first page, my mind began to wander, back to the months after my father died when my tutoring began. Fondly I recalled how I would sit at the fireplace at the beginning of each lesson, and my Angel would talk to me and touch my imagination; I would excitedly retell all of the storeys Father had once told me, and he would listen as I recounted my days before the Opera Populaire.

"Use all of your breath, Christine. Spend it all."

Those memories were warm, but ruefully distant…it had been so long since the Angel and I had shared such moments. For years now, his only intent was to transform me into the Prima Donna that Father had promised I would become. I was grateful, beyond words, and I cherished every moment I spent with my Angel, but a childish part of my soul still missed those special evenings where he and I would just talk—the way my father and I once did.

"Heighten the vowels. Raise the soft pallet."

Of course, I knew now it was for my own good. For those first two years, I was still too young to handle my grief properly, too young to manage without a father. The Angel recognised this and provided me with what I needed, when I needed it—a friendly voice and a listening ear. But he knew just as clearly when it was time for me to grow up, leave the child behind. The paternal bearing I once found such comfort in, he withdrew, so he could fully assume the position of Teacher, and nothing else.

I understood, and I was grateful. But still, every so often, I wished….

"Christine, you cannot expect to control your vibrato in this range if you aren't giving as much breath as you initially take." His reprimand came sharply, and I stood at attention, my ears flushing. "There must be no oxygen left lingering in your lungs after each end note; your body must be completely void of remaining breath when you inhale at each rest. Your mind is not with me today; and you cannot utilise your body if I do not have your mind. I am losing my patience."

I tried to nod as I grimaced. "Forgive me, Angel, but it is so hard to spend an entire breath and still maintain my stance."

"Well," came his reproach, "that is only because you are pulling the air into your chest and not into your stomach. The muscles of your abdomen must be in complete repose at both the breath's entry and evacuation."

My head bobbed as I tried to inhale properly.

"No, no, no, Christine! Your chest is rising; how many times must you learn and relearn this technique? Your mind is too focused on gaining an extravagant amount of breath than the proper placement of that breath."

No, it is not, Angel, I inwardly objected. My mind is not on singing at all.

"Now, do as I say; place one hand over your heart, and press the other into your lower stomach."

I did as he said, closing my eyes, and felt my fluttering heart beneath my fingers; how I hated it when he was angry with me. A long pause, and I held my breath, unsure, waiting for his command. When his voice did come again, I was struck at the change; no longer did he sound angry, or even irritated. In fact, his voice nearly wavered, as if it were he who was under the inspection and not I! My brow furrowed, but I remained still.

"Now, breathe," he said, and then all too quickly, "and I want you to feel the intake of breath against the hand that is on your stomach—" a pause—"instead of the hand on your chest."

I obeyed, directing the breath to my midsection, and my chest did not rise at all; instead, my stomach expanded with the breath. Surely that was correct. I smiled, and breathed again, eyes still closed. "Like that?"

There was another hollow silence before he responded. "Yes…Christine…like that."

I opened my eyes, proud of myself, awaiting his instruction.

Stillness.

My heart pulsed under my fingers, and I concentrated on respiring correctly; it was a strange feeling, knowing that he could see me, though he possessed no mortal eyes with which to do so. I longed to see him, to touch him—though his voice sufficed, I wanted to be held. I could still feel his presence, but he said nothing. "Master?"

"I'm here, Christine." His voice levelled in the room, and after another pause, he added, "We will end this evening's lesson early."

My mouth dropped, as did my arms. "Have I done something wrong?"

"No," he assured, "you followed my instructions correctly." His timbre was strained. "We will resume…tomorrow evening, if circumstances permit."

My mouth and arms had already dropped; my shoulders and heart followed suit. "But the morning lesson…in the chapel!"

"Yes, that too!" he returned curtly, distractedly. I wasn't sure whether to cringe, or pout, or stay silent. Our lesson wasn't even half-finished! He had hardly ever cut short a lesson before, and I had learnt from the first time he did so not to enquire him about his decisions. More than anything I only wanted to word my anger, but my own anxiety and self-doubt prevented me. I nodded and sullenly gathered up my music, my head full of questions. His presence quickly faded from the dressing room, and my shoulders slumped. What ever had I done wrong this time?

…

The Phantom

"Merde!"

Even a whisper resonates within this passage, I notice, as the obscenity hisses back in my face from every wall in the corridor.

My mind is twisting upon itself, competing with the miscellany that is forming of my gut. Human emotions have all but fled my existence for years, beginning when I abandoned Erik to the veiled regions of my soul. Surely I have forgotten this one as well! I am a ghost, I tell myself, over and over again. I am a ghost, and ghosts do not feel. It has been so long since thoughts of this nature have overcome me, I find it hard to remember what I once so faithfully did to repress them.

My hand clutches my abdomen and my head rings. I am a ghost. My footfalls sound back at me as I force myself out of the passage and onto the stone stairway. I am a ghost. It was a lesson like many others before it; the child was simply lost in thought and I was eagre to bring her back into the present. Ghosts do not feel. Against my wishes, my mind recalls the moments just before.

My impatience is bleeding into my voice.

She is not supporting her respiration, and she cannot do so by listening to instruction alone. As my words flow, I am struck suddenly, with an urge to place my arms around her torso and physically demonstrate the proper position. An image of my hands pressing her body into correct stance flashes briefly into my mind, but I shake the thought away; that would be ridiculous, and fatal to my charade. But the image does not leave me; instead, it fills my senses. I continue. "Now, do as I say; place one hand over your heart, and press the other into your lower stomach."

Christine is always anxious to please me with her obedience. With a slight nod, she does just as I instructed; compliantly, her right hand falls to her abdomen. I watch as she spreads her slender fingers and exerts pressure against her stomach. Her left hand falls gently atop her chest, the palm of which is in the proper position to detect her heartbeat. The narrow lengths of her fingers contrast against the white plane that is her chest, and I can almost feel the fervent pounding beneath my own hand. Without fully realising where my thoughts are, I imagine what she would feel like inside of such an embrace; tense, and warm, and soft.

"Now, breathe," I say, strangely aware of a quickening of my pulse, "and I want you to feel the intake of breath against the hand that is on your stomach—" sudden heat begins to rise to my neck—"instead of the hand on your chest."

Christine does so, and I gaze upon her upper body intently, making certain that it does not move with her breath. True to my command, her chest does not expand at all as she inhales; instead, her hand stays motionless and in place, resting carelessly across the tiny swells of her breast.

I wrench myself into a straighter posture, appalled suddenly. What was that? A very small part of me has endlessly wanted to hold her, to feel her tiny arms around me in a loving embrace, and I have for years forced such paternal affection as far from my consciousness as possible. But what, in the name of all things between Heaven and Hell, is this? Surely I have not just allowed even a hint of a thought bordering on lust to encroach upon my evaluation of Christine.

That is impossible.

My eyes are suddenly drawn to her body again, and I am numb as I gaze at her. She breathes again, and again, and I am transfixed. I realise this, to my horror, and move my eyes to her face, stunned, as she asks if she performed correctly. I word my agreement, training my eyes on hers, entirely alarmed at the horrible thoughts that flicker in and out of my consciousness.

My head feels as if it will split as I take in the wickedly enticing scene. My masterpiece stands before me, young, trusting, and eagre to gain my approval. She is my child. She is my childThis is my Christine, I tell myself, my child, my ingénue, my student…my child. My gut twists, and my body is racked with sudden, unwanted heat as I look upon the little girl I have been a father and teacher to for the past six years. Somewhere within me I have the capacity to marvel at the blinding power of lust, and how at lust's first call I am consumed by every inch of her, of Christine, whom I have never wanted in my life, and every subtle movement, every minute detail, is sensual and womanly. Mercifully, my brain foregoes my actions. At once I feel as if I will be sick, and I realise the only thing I can do is to leave her immediately.

I drop to the cold stone steps, my mouth open in disgust at myself. No. No. "I am a monster," I force from my throat, and I swallow the words quickly as I realise that the new onslaught of emotions is the banished human side of me trying to resurface again. "You," I growl at myself, "you are the fault of this perverse ambush." I hate that I cannot wholly remove the part of me that is Erik, regardless that I have managed to quiet him into submission for years. I am a ghost, and therefore I do not love, do not even lust. I am cursed with humanity—I have always known this, and yet still, it shocks me into disbelief that such a perversion could ever come about me.

Christine flashes into my mind again, and again, and I tear off my mask so my fingers can dig into temples. She is not even fourteen, you monster, I remind myself. She is your child. She is your creation, damn it, she is too pure, too innocent to be tainted by such abominable and unnatural lust! Was it not your original intent to give her back her father, you beast? A strange, guttural sound emerges from my chest, and I shudder at my own wickedness. I want to vomit, as forbidden sensations devastate me. My concealed humanity has loved her for years, has cherished her with a father's love, and though I have worked hard to stifle such emotions, I have never been able to deny their quiet existence. And that is why that same humanity that loves Christine as if she is my own daughter is now looking upon her with desire, and is tearing me apart with guilt over its own unwilling actions!

I deserve Hell, and everything it offers. A violent chill sweeps through my skeleton, and I jerk my head, begging to be rid of such thoughts. Christine…her hands strewn about her body…the subtle, graceful movements of her limbs as she dances…the rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps…. I jump from the smooth, frigid surface of the stone, my eyes wide and my mouth hung wider, gasping deeply in my panic. I cannot escape these demonic thoughts! I bury my fingernails in my scalp, utterly horrified that my affection embodies itself in lust after a child who should never be looked at other than in a pure and even holy way, and especially not by the man who has deluded himself into replacing her father!

You admit you are a man, then?

I cannot go back to my underground lair. Waiting for me there are hundreds of images of Christine, conceived by my own hand whenever it possessed a pencil or paintbrush, and I do not trust myself to look at her again. I scoop up my mask and slam it into my wretched face, the face that hides a wretched soul, and though I am certain that there will be bruises later, I continue to force it into my skin. Knowing that a great deal less care would have secured it in place, I sprint up the steps into the opera house, my cape whipping behind me.

Why I think that running to the only other woman I have ever desired will calm me, I am not sure. But I have nowhere else in the world to go, and she has always been the only one who can help me.