Unlike many of his ventures Erik believed this one started from good intentions and pure practicality. His Don Juan needed costumes, and who better than the author and composer to design them? Not every costume, as he was quite certain even the most incompetent opera house could assemble suitable chorus outfits, but the main pieces for the leading cast. Those outfits needed to add to the story, showcase the seduction and anger and betrayal his opera was brimming with, and immerse the audience in the narrative. Not to mention that making these outfits himself would surely aid his creative process. While Erik wouldn't say he'd lost his inspiration, he would admit that perhaps it needed to be redirected to something that wasn't the same music he'd been working on for years. Surely after he designed the perfect wardrobe the next act would reveal itself to him in all its glory. This was only a brief respite from composing, and it would surely be productive.
Erik was well aware of the importance of clothes. With a well tailored suit one could hide any number of deficiencies and become whoever they wanted to be. The mask was only one small part of his morning ritual in which he donned his clothes like armor, and he was far from blind to the influence his outfits had on others. With a suit and cloak the Opera Ghost was a terrifying yet dignified spectre who ought to be listened to and paid a fair wage. If he'd been seen lurking about in plain street clothes he'd be mistaken for a common vagrant and tossed out on his ear. So too would Don Juan cloak himself to hide his sins only to be unveiled by his perfect match, the beautiful and cunning Aminta.
Erik wasn't too proud to admit that Amnita's dress was a challenge to him at first. It wasn't until he saw Christine that he truly became inspired. He'd never spent enough time around women to truly understand them but in her the contradictions became beautiful. Amnita too would be innocent yet wise, virginal yet seductive, playful and serious and everything that would bring Don Juan to his knees. She would be his inspiration and his muse in his masterpiece, and Amnita's wardrobe would reflect the many beautiful facets of her personality. In the manner of a craftsman displaying several sides of a lovely gem his love for her would be the saving grace shining through the whole of his opera.
Since the costumes he was creating were only models Erik was free to use his own form for measurements for Don Juan's apparel. But without another way of modeling the female form he had no choice but to steal a mannequin from the costume shop and bring it home. She was a rather plain cloth thing, and wire made up the more sensitive parts of her anatomy. There were deficiencies Erik quickly corrected, slight changes made to her hips and joints to make her more stable so he could reposition her as he pleased. He needed to ensure that Amnita's outfits danced with her, for one could not be a seductress in a dress that turned frumpy as soon as she sat down! It was only in the interests of ensuring that her costumes were perfect that he began to rehearse gestures with her, lifting her arms after he'd sewn cuffs over them and taking her in his embrace once he'd finished the ruffles on the skirt. They would dance around his living room, Erik critically observing every detail as he imagined the blocking, and the feeling of her weight in his arms was intoxicating.
Erik had always been free to dream no matter his circumstances, and he allowed himself to harmlessly imagine that he would have the opportunity to act in his opera. He would take the stage, don these very costumes and sing the role, and receive thunderous applause for his genius. And in these dreams he acted opposite to none other than Christine, yet here was a dream that could become reality. No other woman could truly embody his Amnita as she did, and with the influence of the Opera Ghost she would not only win the role but triumph. As Christine's voice continued to grow in strength and power Erik began to plan for the day when it would become a reality. He'd already written out her copy of the script and annotated parts he thought she'd find tricky, and revised some of the blocking to allow her to demonstrate her skill in ballet along with her vocal talents. The music needed no alterations as he'd always heard Amnita's part sung in her voice, even before he truly understood who he was listening to. But the dresses would need to be changed. He had the ability to tailor them perfectly to her, with only a few slight modifications to the mannequin. If he were being honest with himself Erik admitted that he didn't want to make dresses for anybody but Christine, so he spared no expense in reshaping the mannequin to her exact dimensions, or as close as he could get from the measurements recorded in the costume shop.
The wig had only been to anticipate what hairstyles would best complement each outfit. And perhaps he'd changed a few of the necklines so the lace didn't catch in her curls, therefore making it sensible to have that beautiful brown hair cascade over her shoulders instead of being tied away from her face at all times. The color had to match so he could ensure that the dresses never clashed with her natural coloring, which was also why he'd painted the doll down to adding the delicate eyelashes. It was only after he'd stared at her, sitting so prettily on his sofa and staring at him with her painted blue eyes, that he realized he'd made a perfect replica of Christine.
She'd given him quite a shock, the first time he'd left the room to fetch some buttons only to return and see her waiting for him lying on the floor. Those beautiful brown curls did not belong splayed across the carpet, especially when he preferred to admire how they turned gold in the flickering firelight. She stared up at him with such trust, such peace, that he could not help but feel his heart warm a little at the thought of the girl aboveground who one day might look at him in the same manner.
Sewing dresses on her was rapidly becoming more uncomfortable, as he'd find his cheeks flaming red whenever he lifted the skirt or neared her bosom no matter how many times he reminded himself that there was nothing to be embarrassed of. She was only wire and cloth, certainly nothing worthy of a scandal or fuss. But her lips looked so very inviting, and she never flinched away from his touch.
She was not warm as the real Christine was, and she did not move on her own. Every action she took was preordained by Erik arranging her limbs just so, but there was an odd sort of safety in that. She'd never frown, never cry, never reach for his mask and scream once she'd snatched it away. There was no judgement in her eyes, and so Erik found another use for her. He was under no delusions about his own lack of social abilities, having only observed mankind from a distance rather than truly lived among them, but with his mannequin he could copy those familiar motions he'd seen amongst friends and lovers. A kiss to the back of her hand, and her cheek, and once from her lips. He practiced sitting next to her and holding her hand, and then casually draping one arm over her shoulders and drawing her close. He would make two cups of tea and set one before her as he practiced the art of conversation, and some days he'd swear he could almost hear her replies.
The impossible hope that had encroached upon his mind for years finally wore him down and he began to create the finest gown he'd ever sew, a wedding gown for the bride of his dreams. Every bead and ruffle was perfectly placed, every piece of fabric chosen to be soft and smooth against her delicate skin while also being pristine and pure white. Christine deserved the most beautiful of wedding dresses.
He'd never intended to show it to her, but after hours of work he decided that surely Christine would appreciate such a beautiful work of art. She would love all the detail and care he'd put into the dress, and be flattered that he paid such close attention to her that he was able to replicate her in mannequin form. Why, she'd be so impressed that she'd forget all about the mask and what it hid, and she'd see only his genius. And his love, made manifest in this gift for her. Proposing with an expensive ring was for boys who could to charm and dazzle their sweethearts into saying yes with a mere smile. Erik had very few of their advantages, but he'd always been able to express the depths of his heart through the art he created. Whether with a violin or a sewing needle his hands were capable of great beauty, and he'd be the most devoted of husbands. Christine would be so overcome by this surprise that she'd be unable to refuse.
Staging the reveal was not as easy as he'd anticipated. He couldn't simply take her down here and open a closet to reveal the mannequin, and it seemed rather disturbing to have her waiting for their arrival seated on the sofa. Beds were absolutely out of the question, as he was a complete gentleman and Christine would likely be quite emotional over his coffin if she happened to see it. Taking a large mirror he built the mannequin an alcove, steadfastly ignoring the reflecting glass in favor of gazing at the image of beauty incarnate. For once it was a mirror he would not fear, for in it he could see all his hopes. Even if he cringed away from the image of himself next to her he couldn't help but admire his handiwork, the illusion that placed the mannequin right next to him with her painted smile and bouquet. Soon it would be a living bride beside him, and she'd look every bit as radiant.
He'd thankfully decided to do a test run before the reveal. There was a sheet artistically draped over the mirror, and he whisked it away in a flourish only for it to snag on a corner and send the whole display crashing to the floor. The sound of the shattering glass made his throat seize and his heart pound with remembered fear, and he took a few deep breaths to remind himself that mirrors broke for perfectly mundane reasons and he was unharmed before lifting the frame to survey the damage.
Erik had a special talent for creating horrors even he could not have anticipated, and the wreckage of the mannequin was one of those. It was utterly nightmarish to see her splayed on the floor, glass shards embedded in her back with her eyes staring sightlessly to the side. Her leg was bent at a horribly unnatural angle, her hands seemed to be reaching away as though she were attempting to drag herself to safety, and her lovely hair was fanning across the carpet in a pattern that looked all too much like a bloodstain. Heedless of the danger he immediately knelt beside her, picking her up and cradling her to his breast.
"I'm sorry! Your Erik didn't mean it," he gasped, his hands shaking as they combed through her hair. "Erik is sorry, he would never hurt you." Yet she seemed to mock him, lying cold and lifeless in his arms as if to say never? But I am already dead because of you.
He would never hurt Christine. He would always be respectful and kind towards his angel, who deserved nothing less than the world. Yet no matter how much he insisted on this the insidious voice in his head whispered that wouldn't she be right to be afraid? Since when had Erik been able to protect and nurture, since when had he been anything but a monster? If he was able to contain his awfulness surely he wouldn't be living like a rat underground. Surely Christine would already be able to love him, and he wouldn't need such elaborate measures to win her affections and convince her that he was worth her care. What if he was too broken to do anything but damage her in return? He had a horrid image of the real Christine lying like this before him, destroyed by his rage and fear and anger, and a thousand monsters sneered up at him from the glass shards littering the floor. With his stomach churning he carefully lifted the mannequin and carried her away, brushing the glass out of her gown and tidying her hair before laying her on the bed in the Louis Phillipe room. She deserved a rest after his treatment of her today, and he hardly stopped himself from another whispered apology as he closed her door and left her in peace.
His mind was still spinning, and there was work left to do. The fall had likely damaged the wedding dress, and the shattered mirror would be a hazard if he left pieces lying about. He'd forgo the glass and simply reuse the frame for the alcove, but that required cleaning out the remaining shards; the very thought of looking into that mirror had him shuddering with revulsion and fear.
All he wanted was to see Christine, the real one, alive and healthy and happy. One moment would be enough to replace the image in his mind of her still form, broken under his hands. But it was late: she'd have departed for her home, and he refused to disturb the sleep of an angel. It was not her fault that he was so pitifully weak, so wretchedly monstrous.
With shame churning in his stomach he crept back to her room and slowly opened the door, his foolish heart already lifting at the sight of her lying curled up on the bed. He turned to the gas lamps and dimmed them, enough that the mannequin's stillness no longer seemed unnatural before his eyes. He then quietly undressed and lay down next to her, carefully and gently wrapping his arms around her slumbering form. It would not do to wake his wife.
Tomorrow he would wake disgusted with himself, but tomorrow he'd be able to escape into the guise of an Angel and sing with his muse. Tonight he would allow himself this small luxury, and so he drifted off to sleep embracing his false bride and pretending that he was loved.