I stay by my door for a second that feels like eternity, wishing more than anything that the lights were up. Then, like a temperamental child, I whirl into my room and slam the door.
Panting as if I have run a thousand miles, I lean against my doorframe, listening for any movement in the outer room. There is a twisty feeling in my stomach as my face crumples like I am about to cry.
I have said it.
I wrap my arms around myself as I stumble over to my bed, pulling on my nightgown.
What if I didn't mean it? Was it really so hard to say? Why do I have so many questions without answers?
Panic overtakes me. If this is love, I shouldn't be feeling like this. I shouldn't be cold and depressed like I am. I should be warm and fuzzy, signing romantic ballads to my prince, just like love is supposed to be. But I have not fallen in love with the prince of the story, not the protagonist. Young girls were not supposed to fall in love with the villain. They always had an unhappy ending. My prince is not here, and because of that, I do not spend a moment of time on him...
I stay awake for most of the night, wondering if Erik will come in. I wait. And wait.
He never comes.
When morning rises, I open my door carefully, checking to see if he is out there. Half of me imagines that he is the exact same spot, stunned in his position by the door, not moving the entire night. I close the door again and dress quickly, feeling… excited? Nervous? Apprehensive?
It seems like such a silly thing that three words could create this response in me. It is not so easy a lie to tell that I could not feel remorse for my sins, and yet... the most confusing part of all is whether or not it even was a lie. But thoughts of that send me back into my trembling fears of the night before. Surely I loved the Voice that sang to me, who listened to me above all else, who was there for me... but now Erik and the Voice are such two separately defined creatures- one an Angel, one a man. And loving a man is much different.
When I step into the main room, he is still nowhere to be seen. Both the drawing room and his bedroom door are open and vacant inside. I am more confused than worried as I go about the house, calling for him.
"Erik?" my voice keeps asking. "Where are you?"
After five minutes of this, I know he is not here. He is gone.
Gone where?
Horrible mental images flash through my mind; he could be unconscious in another room, he could have fallen and hit his head—what if he had gone outside and been caught or imprisoned? What if my gentle declaration of love had killed him? What if he had fallen and lay in his own blood, calling my name—
"Christine?"
I jump in sheer terror as an ice cold hand touches my back. A shriek tumbles from my mouth as I turn to face him, a black creature with fiery eyes.
"I did not know you were awake," he comments, looking a little upset. "I answered you when you called. You did not hear. I was just outside."
Sure enough, the front door is ajar behind him, and I feel light-headed as I realized I was thinking of his demise and actually dreading it—I do care for him, I do! I know that now! My head clouds with relief and the raw fear from a moment ago makes my mind slowly comprehend that Erik had left me alone in this house and could have been anywhere, somewhere I would never know. He could have never been coming back, and instead of greeting him pleasantly or reminding the poor man that I love him, I say "You left me!" and then burst into tears.
If I have ever seen Erik look bewildered before, it is nothing compared to now, for even under his mask I can sense his expression. I bury my face in my hands as I give pitiful sniffles and cough.
"Erik would never, ever leave you," he says, reaching forward and bringing my hands down from my face. "Don't hide your pretty face so, Christine, Erik would never leave you alone. His mask, darling, he went up to retrieve his mask! That is all."
I gulp and look at him, ashamed of my outpouring emotions. "I was just worried that—that you might—might—that you—were gone."
It seems so silly to tell him that I was worried for his well-being when he is standing in front of me, just as assured and full of power as he always is. Erik is an unapproachable man—nothing threatens him, yes?
He puts his hand under my chin and stares into my eyes. "Did you really mean it?" he asks softly.
"Mean that I was worried?" I ask, furrowing my brow.
"No." He pauses. "What you said before. Last night."
He looks so sick to hear the answer that I wonder if he would die if I said no. Oh, unhappy thoughts!—I am not so cruel!
"Yes," I whisper back.
He looks utterly awed. He seems to struggle with himself, turning his head to fix me with an even more penetrating stare. "That is—that is nice."
"It's very nice," I agree.
He stares at me again and I wonder if he is going to laugh at me or cry, when he says, "You have made me a very brave man, Christine."
His hands on my chin go down my neck to my shoulder and he pulls me forward. "Will you kiss me?" he asks, and his voice is breathy and full of uncertainty, and he does not sound like a brave man at all.
"If you take off your mask." I say, amazed by his closeness. Brave, indeed! Perhaps his forwardness has taken away my fear.
He flings it off his face so it lands on the other side of the floor and clutches at me again, looking so eager that I want to smile as I brush my lips against his.
In our dark, depressing world down here, I suppose we have found solace in each other. I have found that I, at the very least, enjoy Erik, perhaps not as much as I should, or perhaps more than anyone else could believe, but perhaps that is love. Erik loves me. Why must I be so harsh on someone like that?
"I can kiss you," he says, trailing his lips over mine as they grow more and more rapid. I do not push him away. "I can kiss you because I can, because every husband is allowed to kiss his wife! Yes, Erik is a good husband because his wife makes him happy! See! Do you truly gaze upon my face and say the words that make me happy?"
I am slightly frightened of his intensity. I feel like I am doing something I should not be. All my life, I have been a little girl and I am being thrust into womanhood so soon and abruptly…
"I have given you happiness?" I ask, mostly to distract him more than anything else. His passion bothers me in many a ways I cannot explain. I want him near me, but when he oversteps his boundaries, I want him as far away as possible. I am a wretched woman! This is love!
"Yes, you have given me anything Erik could possibly ask for," he says, turning grave, immediately sensing my discomfort and drawing back. "And I must do the same for you, my wife. Shall I give you anything, Christine? I could give you freedom, you know, I could give you your young man, anything you ask for because I love you!"
He is half-crying now, and I can't tell if it is from joy or despair. Was there no end to his tears? If I hated him, he cried. If I loved him, he cried. His hands have slid down from my chin and are clasped together, and I am struck with a flashback of us holding hands in this very room as I promised to be his living wife. Erik had offered me freedom then as well. He had just as quickly taken it back.
Now he stands before me, and if I told him to release me, I think he might have. What I wouldn't have given to have been offered this gift two months ago! But now, my choices are different.
I think, and say, "I want you to burn your mask."
He looks at me as if I have four heads.
"Yes, that's it," I decide aloud. " I have burned it before and will do it again, but I want you to do this time."
Anything that would help him. Anything that could change him for the better. He could never be happy so long as he was hiding behind that mask! How was he to be emotionally open to me if he still insisted on shielding himself?
"My face, Christine," he says. "You cannot love me because of my face. You will learn to forget my face, but you must stop asking—"
"I've had enough of you!" I say irritably. I have the strongest desire to stamp my foot, but Erik would not find that funny at all. " You said you would give me anything. I am choosing this. You have no say in the matter. My feelings for you, both good and bad, would hardly change if you had a different face. How would you like it if I hid my face all the time?" I bring up my hands like a child playing peek-a-boo.
"Christine," he protests, but his voice has a surreal note of surrender to it. He sucks in a breath as I go across the room to get his mask and then slide back into his arms. He watches me with wary eyes.
"It was so lovely to see you smile," he says slowly. "Does your smile mean... does it mean you are happy?"
His expression of complete desolation contrasts oddly with his words. Carefully, I approach him and raise my hand to his cheek. He shudders as I touch his cold skin, his face of death.
I have made my choice.
Yes, another choice. I have chosen that I will try to be happy. I will learn, in time. I can be happy with Erik. I must only apply myself.
I hold out my hand. "Come. When we burn this mask, I will be even happier."
.