Friday
27 May 2022

The nursing station came into clear view as he stepped onto the unit. He tried to brace his shoulders with the illusion of confidence. Perhaps if he stood up straight enough, he'd make himself believe he belonged here – though he certainly had no need for convincing the rest of the staff, as his pilfered scrubs were doing that job well enough for him.

So with that same feigned confidence he swung around the front desk and wandered into the back room. With any luck he would find some more information about the woman in Room 594, something to explain more about the woman whose soul was drawn so inexplicably near to him, the woman's whose name he didn't even…

"Christine Daaé."

A cluster of people were standing around the back room, engaged in what appeared to be a meeting in rote. People in scrubs he identified as nurses; others in white coats who appeared to be the doctors; others in plainclothes from which he couldn't make out their roles.

The nurse in the center was speaking – an older man, a balding spot visible beneath a useless hairnet. He repeated, seemingly to focus himself, "Christine Daaé, Room 594. Twenty-six year old female. Hmm. Well. Miss Daaé came in with COVID last week. Intubated on May 21st, spent a few days in the ICU, extubated May 24th, and transferred to our unit on May 25th. Already completed her course of remdesivir, wasn't a candidate for convalescent plasma. Needs to finish her course of decadron but that can be done outpatient. Otherwise no barriers for discharge on my end." The nurse peered over at the posse of white-coats expectantly. "Can she go today?"

The doctor in the middle looked blankly back at him before coughing, and then spoke as if reciting from a speech written in their head. "Yes, well, Miss Daaé is a very sick woman unfortunately. Her repeat chest x-ray is showing worsening ground-glass opacities still, despite the treatments, and she is requiring more oxygen today than yesterday, according to the night shift. I fear if it gets any worse we might need to transfer her back to the ICU and intubate her again. Besides that we need to keep a vigilant eye out for the onset of sepsis. If that happens…" A thick pause as he swallowed nervously. "Luck is on Miss Daaé's side, though. Apparently she's an opera singer, so her lungs are quite strong. Her infection is very serious, and if it weren't for her good lungs I doubt she'd still be with us now."

A chorus of nervous Good For Her's echoed around the room.

The doctor continued. "We'll keep a close eye on her for the next few days. Hopefully her oxygen requirements will decrease as we continue the decadron course. So. Expect discharge to acute rehab sometime next week, if all goes well."

"Alright," said a lady sitting with a clipboard in her lap. She made a checkmark on one of the papers clipped to it. "Next patient, then. Pauline Bellini…"

How quickly the world moves on, Erik mused, staring at the doctor with disgust. What horrible news that man had just delivered – with such inelegant bluntness, too! Erik had committed more atrocities than this in his lifetime, certainly, but never with this sort of cold indifference. At least he always felt something when he condemned a man to death… even if it was a slight small thrill of pleasure, sick bastard that he was…

No matter, though. Erik pushed the thought away, and refocused on the important thing: he had a name for his mysterious young woman, and her name was Christine.

"You're back!" The woman – Christine! - said, clapping her hands.

"Of course I am, Christine," Erik said, her name rolling off his tongue as if he'd known it his entire life. "Your therapy begins today."

Therapy – music lessons – whatever he wanted to call it. It was just an excuse, honestly, to be near her.

"Shouldn't we wait a little bit?"

"The longer we wait, the worse your voice will get. It's already falling into disuse from being out of practice."

"But I'll strain my voice," she argued, "and then I really won't be able to sing."

He clenched his fists, feeling the nails press sharply into his palms. "Don't you trust me, Christine? I only have your best interests at heart." He released the fists. "Don't forget that I am the professional here."

"Yes, but…" Christine trailed off. How could she argue with that? When he presented this as a form of medical treatment? Of course she didn't know he was lying – he didn't have the credentials to be making these sorts of assertions! And she was right, it probably would strain her voice.

But it was worth it to him, to hear her sing again - that passionate, flowery voice. It would be worth it to him, even if it broke her.

"Sing," he instructed.

She coughed thickly in response, throat sore and full of mucus.

"No, no, this won't do," he shook his head. "This won't do! It must be your posture!"

And so he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, heaving her torso up so she sat straight up in the bed.

"Sing!" he commanded.

"I really don't -" Christine broke into a cough again, raucous and wet.

Erik furrowed his eyebrows darkly, glaring at her from behind the plastic face shield. "What is wrong with you? Why are you choosing to be so impertinent?"

"I am not choosing!" she said with exasperation, voice grounding out like gravel. "I can't control this!"

"Yes, you very well can!" Erik huffed. "I'll show you that you can!"

He embraced her again, placing his arms around her waist and pulling her solidly against him. For a moment he forgot himself, as he felt her skin touch his. But then he was yanking her out of bed, forcing her to stand at the bedside…

And then the alarm began to blare, that hideous awful siren, and in that moment of stuporous shock her legs folded and she began to collapse. He pulled her only closer to him, willing her to stand up and face him.

"Sing!" he shouted in her ear, their bodies smashed together as he tried to hold her up. "Sing, damn you!"

"Let me go!" she hacked out through the coughs assailing her body.

It was a tense moment of struggle – Christine's body willing itself to the floor and Erik's arms clamoring for purchase to hold her upright – before, at long last, the door creaked open and a nurse popped their head in. "Everything okay?"

"Yes," Erik said quickly. "Just helping Miss Daaé here back into bed."

"Oh…kay," the nurse said, with just a little concern. Appeasement was simply bought when one was overworked. "Don't forget to turn off the alarm when you're done." And then they shut the door and left.

In one fluid motion, Erik finally hoisted Christine backwards and deposited her back on the bed. Heavy as dead weight, Christine sunk against the mattress like a stone in a lake. She was gasping for air, exhausted from the activity, when she stared up at him with wide, horrified eyes and panted out, "Who are you?"

"Erik," he said without thinking.

Her face was paler than the sheet now as the terrible realization dawned on her. "You're not really a nurse, are you?"

"Oh, but I am, Christine," Erik said. "I am… for you."