Erik did not sleep that night. His mind refused to quiet, continually replaying the events of the evening before…his opera…the fire…Christine. Christine! Why, Christine, WHY? Why did you choose to expose me to the world, after all I did for you! All I ever tried to do was love you! Despair finally won over, and Erik sobbed into his pillow. He felt like a weak man for crying, but he could not stop himself. Everything he had held dear had been taken from him, and the reality of it all came crashing down upon him in that moment. He was used to having a plan for everything…but none of this had gone the way he had planned. He suddenly felt like a lost little child again, and it terrified him. He had begun to feel vulnerable the moment that she…his Christine…had kissed him. My Christine? He questioned. No, she is clearly not mine. She chose that boy…that miserable, insolent boy…that boy who could offer her everything that I could not. It angered him that he had let her into his heart…that he had not seen this coming. He had waited so long to let anyone in…anyone…and in the end, she had handed his heart back to him, wounded and bleeding. Never again, he thought. Loving her has cost me too much.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The morning light crept through the small window in Erik's room. He lay, wide awake and emotionally and physically exhausted, still wrapped in his cloak. He stared at the ceiling and sighed. He decided that it was useless just lying there, so he swung his legs over the side of the rickety bed and sat up. He saw his room in the morning light. The walls were completely bare, save a crucifix that hung directly above the head of the bed. He thought it strange that he hadn't noticed it the night before. The room was barely a room at all…more of a closet, really, he noted—just enough room for the bed, a nightstand and a suitcase, if he had actually owned one. Still, it was warm, at least, and there was no dampness in the air like that of the fifth cellar.
He stood up slowly, and his head began to throb. Apparently, all this weeping has given me a monstrous headache! He cursed under his breath. He decided to suffer through it as his curiosity about the small church won out, and he opened the wooden door, peering into the hallway. All was silent; everything was still gray in the new light of the dawn. He stepped out, glancing around and trying to familiarize himself with his new surroundings. He walked gingerly; he did not want to wake Father Michel if he was still sleeping. He glided softly down the stairs and opened the doorway to the first floor, leading back into the church. He closed it silently behind him and listened. He heard nothing but the wind, and the church seemed a bit drafty. He pulled his cloak more tightly around him and headed for the priest's study. As he passed around the church pews, he looked up toward the ceiling. Great wooden beams crisscrossed above him, and there were a few stained glass windows on each end of the room. There was no real grandeur to this place, yet Erik noticed that there was a sense of tranquility about it. Then something caught his eye. In the darkness of the night before, he had not noticed it…an organ loft. An organ? For this tiny church? The organ was small, but it was in fact a pipe organ—much smaller than any of those in the large cathedrals. But for this church, it seemed well suited, Erik thought. He saw a door directly underneath the loft, and he assumed it must lead upward. He was correct—a small stairway led him up to the loft, and he couldn't resist laying his hand lovingly on the organ. Like an old friend. It served me well. His hand caressed the top of the organ as he slid it across the wood frame and stepped around to the keys. He wondered what this organ would sound like when played by a gifted musician…by him. It was too early in the morning to be playing the instrument, however, and he felt a bit bemused when he realized that he chose not to play it simply out of courtesy for the priest. He smirked. Am I turning soft so soon?
He turned and retreated down the stairs. Making his way at last to the priest's study, he felt his stomach rumble. His hand instinctively flew to his abdomen—the growl had genuinely surprised him. What is happening to me? He thought, disgusted with himself. I am growing weaker by the hour! He had not seen any food in the priest's study the night before, however, and he wondered where he would find some sustenance. Just then, Father Michel came up behind him. Erik, of course, had heard him enter, but chose not to acknowledge his presence unless first spoken to.
"Good morning, Monsieur Erik! How did you sleep?" Father Michel asked cheerfully.
"I did not." Erik replied darkly.
"Ah, I see. Well, perhaps you would care for some breakfast, then?"
"Don't trouble yourself, Father." Although he was hungry, Erik's pride got the better of him. "I rarely need to eat."
"Do you mind if I have some breakfast, then? I am quite famished!" Father Michel stepped around Erik and strode over to a large curtain. He pulled it back, exposing a small alcove—a makeshift kitchen. Erik stared. Apparently, there are some small surprises in this place as well as the opera house, he noted. The priest went to work straightaway, preparing tea and producing croissants with jam. He placed the food on a large serving plate and set it in his arm as he grasped the steaming tea kettle with his other hand. "Ah, Monsieur, would you mind terribly…" he said, nodding his head toward a pile of cloth napkins near a large pantry. Erik sighed and grasped two of the napkins. Father Michel raised his eyebrows as if to question Erik. Two napkins. So perhaps he is actually hungry, after all, the priest chuckled to himself.
Erik followed Father Michel to his study and again seated himself in the armchair nearest the door. The priest merely smiled at him and placed the plate of food on the small table between the two chairs. He retrieved two teacups from the curio and proceeded to pour tea for the both of them. He leaned toward Erik, handing him his cup. "Please, young man, help yourself." He motioned to the croissants and jam. Erik's stomach rumbled as if on cue. Father Michel laughed loudly. "Well, it seems that your lack of sleep has earned you quite an appetite this morning, Monsieur Erik."
Erik looked annoyed. "Apparently so," he replied coldly. He spread jam on a croissant and hesitantly took a bite. It tasted better than he expected. How long had it been since he had last eaten? He couldn't recall.
"So, we have much work to do today, correct?" the priest addressed Erik casually.
"Work?" Erik nearly choked on his breakfast. He quickly swallowed his mouthful. "What are you talking about?"
"Gathering all of your necessities, remember? I am sure that I can help you to secure what you need."
"I won't be needing any help." Erik spat out. "I know where I can find everything. There are many shops…" He was interrupted.
"Yes, but how are you planning to get to these shops, Monsieur? After all, it is daylight and you are still a wanted man. I have several contacts in the community who will help me gather whatever I ask of them and it would not raise suspicion. Now, please make out a list of what you will need and I will take care of the rest." Father Michel stated, while he finished chewing his croissant.
Erik couldn't understand it. Why did this man want to help him? Why did he speak to him as if he were in authority over him? It annoyed Erik greatly. In fact, it was beginning to make him angry. He had been patient with this priest long enough. However, he reasoned, the old man had a point. The gendarmes would still be searching for him, and he would look very suspicious in the light of day. I must be exhausted, he thought, for me to think I could simply walk down the street like any other man! Erik replied sharply, "Very well. I will make your list. But you shall get the items exactly as specified. There are to be no deviations from what is written. And you will ask me no questions."
"Very well, then. Everything you will need is over on my desk in the corner. I am going to go and get dressed now, but I will return shortly, Monsieur." Erik nodded, and the priest left the room.
He tried to picture his old home in the fifth cellar. He didn't want to forget any items that he might have need of, and he mentally walked through his old home, taking note of necessary items and jotting them down. By the time the priest returned, Erik's highly detailed list was complete.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
It was hours before all of Erik's supplies had been gathered from various shops in Paris. Erik had tried to occupy himself with several activities during that time. He had stalked around the church for a while, looking behind every curtain and in every corner. The priest had left him at the church alone, and he was glad of it. Father Michel's cheerfulness was almost too much for him to stomach. Though he had been trying to keep his mind off of the events at the Populaire, he could not fight it in his exhausted state. He thought back to his old friend, Madame Giry, and he wondered if she had escaped the fire. He hadn't intended for that fire to start, and he hadn't intended on killing anyone…well, not anyone except perhaps Piangi and that stupid Vicomte. Erik smirked. He leafed through one of the books in the priest's study. So many useless religious books, he thought. Isn't there anything worth reading here? Finally, he spotted a book of letters, which seemed to be of possible interest. He opened it. St. Jerome…yet another useless book, perhaps? He flipped it open and his eyes fell at random upon the page. He shuddered as he read: "They drink potions to ensure sterility and are guilty of murdering a human being not yet conceived. Some, when they learn that they are with child through sin, practice abortion by the use of drugs. Frequently they die themselves and are brought before the rulers of the lower world guilty of three crimes: suicide, adultery against Christ, and murder of an unborn child." Suddenly Erik felt nauseous. They drink potions to ensure sterility…practice abortion by the use of drugs…with child through sin…. Erik's head began to feel light and the room around him appeared to be spinning. The book fell to the floor with a thud and he grasped the nearest armchair he could locate. He fell to his knees by the armchair, gasping for air, as his vision began to grow darker. He was passing out. Panic engulfed him as he felt the unfamiliar sensation, and then…darkness.
Erik awoke slowly, his face pressing against the rug in the priest's study. How long have I been like this? He tried to recall what had happened as he sat up and rubbed his forehead. Then suddenly it all rushed back into his mind like a flood. Another wave of nausea came with the thoughts, and he fought to keep his breakfast down. He breathed deeply until the wave passed and he closed his eyes. He recalled the words of St. Jerome as the reality dawned on him at long last. This…my face…this was intentional? My mother…she…tried to…and she failed? Oh, God, oh, God… The room began spinning again and Erik fought to remain conscious. Sobs racked his body uncontrollably as pain surged through his heart. He had never been loved, never been wanted. This explained his mother's coldness toward him as a young child, as well as her later abandonment. "Oh, God, she never even wanted me to be born!" He choked out.