Looking back now, Christine could not remember how much sleep she had had before she was awoken by anguished cries.
Flying out of bed, she creaked her door open and carefully parted the curtains which covered it. Though it was dark, she did not have reason to believe that anyone was out there, and yet she could still hear those terrible moans. With one hand she bundled her trailing dressing gown and brought it round to the front of her body, hugging it close to her skin as if it would somehow protect her from harm, while she used her other hand to steady herself on the wall as she walked. Her breathing hitched, becoming loud and raspy, and it was not long before she started to rely on its shaky, but reliable rhythm as a means of comfort. As she ventured through the corridors, she counted her breaths, counted her steps, counted anything that would distract her from the sounds she was hearing.
As she crept towards the kitchen, a crash suddenly echoed through the halls behind her, causing her to yelp and press herself against the wall. Looking warily back in the direction that the sound had come from, but keeping her body flat against the rigid structure, she began to edge her way closer to the commotion.
"Erik?" she whispered as she rounded a corner, knowing very well that no one would have heard her pathetic utterance. She swallowed hard, only just realising that her throat was tight and dry from panting. "Is that... Is that you?"
As the words left her mouth, however, a shadow of a doubt entered her already troubled head. What if this fortress was no longer impenetrable? Were they no longer safe? Had someone braved the endless labyrinth of traps and deceptions? An unpleasant feeling sat at the pit of her stomach as she thought on this. She tried to tell herself that she was being ridiculous and yet the smallest of uncertainties continued to hover at the back of her mind, whispering that she was right, that someone had discovered them.
But if that were the case, then whose cries was she hearing?
Quickening her pace, she continued down another corridor but nearly stopped in her tracks as the candelabra on the wall shone down on a small object ahead of her. A small reflective object. As she came closer, more and more of these pieces appeared and her eyes widened as she realised that she was looking at the broken remains of a mirror. The frame lay on the ground and scattered around it were thousands of glass shards, some tiny, some large. As she tiptoed through the little broken fragments, she glanced down briefly to see her distorted image reflected back at her. Christine swallowed thickly and continued to make her way forward.
And that was when she laid eyes on him.
Her sigh of relief came almost as a gasp when she saw Erik, and only Erik, standing in the music room. If there had been no intruder, then she only could assume that he had been having one of his episodes, thus accounting for the mirror. She leaned against the opened door, not only to steady her uneasy heart but to also take a moment to study his peculiarly quiet demeanour. She did worry about him terribly sometimes. His episodes always left him extremely vulnerable, though he was never one to admit it to himself.
After a few more moments, she frowned. Why had he not acknowledged her presence? The candles surrounding them flickered wildly as she began to move closer and was now able to take in his appearance properly.
As he leant against the lid of the pianoforte, she could see that Erik was holding himself stiffly—his back was tensed and his head was bowed. His arms were like steel rods, fixed and taut, while his hands, though supportive of his heavy body, were clenched into tight fists. Taking another step closer, Christine then noticed a few frightful details she had not the eye to see until now.
Usually the picture of immaculate presentation, Erik was now adorned only his black trousers and white shirt, the latter of which was untucked and torn very slightly. The candles beside him seemed to twitch at the sight of his jacket and waistcoat, which sat as rigidly as the rest of him in a pile on the piano lid.
Christine was about to voice her concerns when her foot came into contact with a hard object. She peered down to see his white mask on the floor. Bending down, she scooped it up into her hands and stared at it. Erik was never usually this careless, but... But what in the world was that under her fingertips? Christine squinted in the dull light and brought the mask nearer to her face. There was something on the surface.
She was not able to make out what it was and so she shifted on the spot, allowing a little more light to shine her way. She lifted her hand and inquisitively touched the queer substance again with a single finger, smudging it and then, only then, did she realise what it was.
The mask fell from her hands.
"Blood," she whispered.
"Ah," Erik said, his mellifluous tones striking fear into her heart. This was not the voice of the man she loved. This was the voice of the Opera Ghost, cold and emotionless in his desultory manner. "I did not mean to wake you. You need your rest, my love. Return to your bed."
"Blood... There is blood on your mask," she repeated, realising that it now coated her fingers. "Why? How?"
"It is nothing to worry your pretty little head over," he crooned, his spun words almost making her believe and obey him. "Go back to sleep."
Her eyes flickered between the mask and his back before she tilted her head to the side, frowning. "Look at me."
"Did you not hear me? I told you to return to your bed," he continued icily, remaining where he was, but when he spoke again, it was a warning. "Or will I have to put you there myself?"
"Why will you not look at me?" she demanded, slowly finding her voice as she ignored his words.
"Christine." She nearly flinched at the sudden hostility in his tone. "I will not tell you again."
"If you have nothing to hide, then—"
Suddenly, he whirled around and strode over to her, grabbing her forcibly by the shoulders and rendering her immobile. Yelping in shock, she thrashed her arms about to try to get away, but it was when she tried to physically push him away that she ceased to move, ceased to breathe, as her wide eyes trailed down his body.
A vivid redness stained his once pristine shirt, the revolting stench now threatening to empty the contents of her stomach. The colour lay in random patches on the cloth and as her eyes wandered frantically about his attire she noticed that, to her horror, it did not stop there. There were drops of red splattered carelessly about his neck, his bare face, his hands and now on her white nightgown. A shudder ran down her spine, a feeling of inescapable dread taking hold of her.
"Are you satisfied?" he growled, and when he slowly released her from his grip, Christine did not dare look down at the bloody fingerprints that he surely had left in his wake. Instead, she looked into his eyes for the first time that night and saw how bloodshot they were, how they looked as if they were on fire, alight with the pain of his suffering.
"What on earth happened to you? Does it... Does it hurt terribly?" she whimpered. "Why... Oh, please tell me what—oh, God, there's so much... so much blood..." With morbid fascination, she stared at him, watching as he touched and pulled at his wet shirt as if he was only just noticing its existence. "You must clean yourself up," she whispered, finally tearing her gaze away from the horrific sight.
"Yes," he murmured, sounding distant and distracted, as if awakening from a trance. "Yes, that is what I must do."
As he stumbled around the room aimlessly, Christine followed, her arms half extending towards him as if to help, but at the sight of the blood being smeared across different surfaces by his clumsy pawing, she could feel her stomach churn. She lowered her arms to her abdomen and tried to silence its protestations as she continued to follow him throughout the halls and into the library. She barely had the mind to comprehend why he went in there.
But she had never seen him like this before, so vulnerable, so... beaten, and that was what terrified her.
Had he been attacked? How had he escaped? Or perhaps it was not a question of escaping.
The Opera Ghost was not one for losing a fight, nor was he one for leaving his victims alive...
"Erik." There was an obvious tremble to her words as she played the awful thought over and over. "Whose blood is that?"
"Christine, your incessant moaning is doing nothing to help," he muttered. "I am doing as you wished. I am going to clean myself up... but I do not remember where I placed the infernal supplies!"
His direct attempt of not answering only fuelled her uncertainties as he fell into his desk chair in defeat.
"Please answer me, Erik." Please tell me I am wrong.
"Answer what?" he snapped as he held his forehead against the heel of his palms. "There is nothing to answer."
"Whose blood is that?" she asked again, her voice not even carrying to the other side of the small room. But fear and doubt, thicker than the blood on his shirt, soon had her quietly marching to his side in trepidation. "I want to... I need to know if tonight you... if you have mur... if you have murd—"
"Murdered, my dear, is that the word you were searching for? Would it be such a surprise to you if I had?" She merely stared at him. "I thought not." He lifted his head towards her, but as soon as he saw how she began to retreat from him it was enough to make his body curl forward in a hunch. Not bringing himself to face the judgement of her fiery eyes, he bowed his head and clasped her hands with as much strength as he could muster without hurting her. "I am not a good man, Christine, you should know that by now. I do not know why you waste your time believing that I am something that I'm not." He sighed. "I am not a good man, nor am I an angel. Christine," here he laughed, "I am not even a man of God and yet you still persist in finding something good within me! Even with glaring evidence against me staring you right in the face, will you still stand here and tell me that I am a good man?"
Her anger stirred as he shuffled towards her in his chair, bending over as one would at an altar, hoping for their dreams, their ambitions to come true or praying diligently for forgiveness. He held her hands, stained with blood, as she stood still, like a statue of a saint, knowing that as he prayed to her, she would not be merciful. "I would feel at ease if only you would answer me truthfully."
"At ease?" he spat. "How would you have me answer, Christine? What do you want me to say? That this blood is mine, and mine alone? That your good, sweet Erik did nothing of the sort to harm anyone else?" She winced and turned her head away. "Would that put you at ease, knowing that only Erik was hurt?"
"How could you think such a thing?" she cried, looking down at him, exasperated. "Of course that would not put me at ease! You are hurt! I only wish to know why."
"You want the truth," he said, silently grateful when she did not move away after he dropped his hands to his knees. "I travelled above while you were sleeping. It was idiotic. I could not help it. But there is really nothing more to tell. I was met with some unpleasantness and I dealt with the problem the simplest way I knew how."
"And what does that mean?" she asked slowly.
Gripping his knees, he sighed. "Take from it what you will."
"I do not know what to take from it! You sound as though you deliberately went looking for trouble."
"Oh?" Tension ran through his body as turned to stare at her feet. "What a funny thing to say."
"Then it is true. You are not denying it... Oh, Lord, please say it isn't true." She closed her eyes briefly and rubbed her temples. "Why would you do that to yourself? Why would you put yourself in harm's way?"
Cautiously, Erik glanced towards her bloodstained nightgown, his fingers reaching up to touch one of the stains. "It does not matter."
"But it does!" she retorted. "What caused you to do such an awful thing?"
"It does not matter," he repeated more forcefully.
"I need to know why you did what you... Oh... No... Erik, no. You didn't... not because of what happened earlier. Is that it? Is it because I am leaving?" When he did nothing to reply, she sobbed and covered her face with her hands in a poor attempt to hide her tears. "So I am the cause. I am the reason you are hurt."
"No," he objected, grabbing her gown and pulling her closer to him. "Only I can be the reason for the things I do. I take full responsibility for my actions." At the sight of her head shaking back and forth, Erik leaned his trembling face against the fistful of cloth in his hands. "I wanted to hurt," he moaned into the material. "Was it so wrong of me to want to suffer? It was the only way, the only way...
"I do not remember how many of them there were," he continued. "I do not remember if I was merely defending myself. I... I do not even remember killing them. Sometimes I don't, you see. Sometimes I black out. But I am sure this blood is mine. Some of it, at least. I know it. It must be. It could not have been cold murder, could it, my love? Please tell me, please tell me that I was not bad. Please tell me that you believe me. Oh, Christine." He shuddered. "Their screams. Their screams! It was all I could hear. It is all I remember now. And do you know why they screamed? I showed them my face. I wanted them to fear me, you see. And now... and now there is no hope for me!"
As he wept, Christine wept with him, but she could not bring herself to comfort what he had done. How could she? She had thought that her presence was changing him; that she was bringing out the good in him. But now? "You once told me that I would be the one to redeem you, and yet how can I believe that when I am the one who drives you to do such atrocities?"
"Am I truly lost?" he whimpered; and, for the first time, Christine found herself looking at him as a servant of God, for he was truly afraid. He was afraid for his soul.
"I..." Her words seemed to fail her and, for a moment, her mind was completely absent of thought or aspiration. "I want to believe that your soul is worth saving, but sometimes I question whether it is even possible. Please do not look at me like that, Erik. I know it is a dreadful thing to say, let alone think, but I cannot help it! For so long, I have valued my ability for keeping my faith intact and for having hope, but now... If I do not have faith, how am I to give you any?" She threw her arms up in great despair before placing her hands on either side of her pale forehead, digging her fingertips into her messy hair. "What use am I to you if I cause you so much pain?" she cried to his rigid form. "Maybe it would be best if I were to leave sooner than the new year. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps today! Is that what you want? Is it? Are you trying to drive me away?"
"Please, Christine," he cooed, not caring about her words, not caring that he may now have been irredeemable. "Please, my love, do not cause yourself grief over my burdens. You do give me hope. You have always given me such hope! How could you think otherwise? Please, I beg you, please do not be upset."
"How else do you expect me to feel?" She pulled her arm away from his prying hands as she struggled out of his grip. "How do you suppose that makes me feel? What would you do if I deliberately harmed myself due to something you had said or done?"
He remained silent and Christine allowed that silence to eat away at her. She focused her attention to the floor for she knew that one glance at Erik's heart-wrenching eyes would be her undoing.
She had finally done it, she realised. She had finally succeeded in failing him. Her love had not been strong enough to save him. He was tainted. She couldn't redeem him.
"I am sorry, Erik," she began gently, "but I do not think I can be near you right now."
"Christine—"
"I will give you some privacy to clean yourself up and—"
"Do not leave, Christine!" The thought of her leaving him, not wanting him, was almost too much. What could he say to make her see reason? What could he do to make her stay? "I know I acted rashly but you must not blame yourself! I have always been in control of my own actions!"
"I do not wish to hear your excuses," she snapped, stepping away from him.
"Christine!"
"No!" she shouted, digging her fingernails into her skin to stop herself from succumbing to the longing in his eyes.
On his knees, weeping, he was broken. But she was not like him. She could not tinker with contraptions until they worked again. She had tried and she had failed.
"Please clean yourself up, Erik," she mumbled, heading towards the door, "and then I think you should retire to your bedchamber. You need to rest."
A/N: I didn't want to go down the route of Christine's love being enough to completely transform Erik from his old self. In my mind, he would still be a very damaged person and relapses like this would still happen. With Christine's decision to leave, he began to immediately feel like her love for him and the time they had spent together was all a lie, or perhaps even something he had deceived himself into believing. To him, at the time, even pain was a better option than listening to his paranoid doubts.