For a long time, the only sounds reaching Cecily's ears were the scratching of her sobs and the intense thud of her heart. Hours passed before she gained control of herself. Her breathing began to even out, and she stared at the back of her eyelids.

She hadn't even realized the sound was there before it was ringing in her ears. It was still faint, but recognizable. Erik's voice drifted up through the tunnels. "Then at last a voice in the gloom seemed to cry 'I hear you!' I hear your fears, your torment and your tears."

Cecily wondered what the song was. Perhaps it was for Don Juan; he had been busily pounding that out on his organ for some time. "She saw my loneliness, shared in my emptiness. No one would listen! No one but her heard as the outcast hears."

Cursing silently, Cecily understood that the song was not meant for her ears. It was meant for no one but himself. And it was a gift for Christine. Christine, who was his heart and soul. Christine, a little slip of a girl who didn't even understand how to let go of a dead man, much less love a man like Erik. Christine, who, despite her younger age, had something that Cecily had a raging jealousy of.

The singing faded into humming, but the source was coming ever closer. She made to roll over, to at least straighten herself up a bit, but an intense pain ripped through her back. The blow from the cane must have done more damage than she thought. She opened her eyes and tried once again to move. The wrap on her hand was soaked through with blood, leaving a print on the sheets where it had rested.

Gritting her teeth, she forced herself up slowly. She had grabbed the second bandage and was beginning to wrap it when the humming stopped. Erik was at the door.

---

Erik was rather pleased with himself. He had just completed another song for Don Juan, the managers had not done anything to detrimental to L'Opera, and Christine was excelling. Ah, Christine, the light in his darkness! He was on his way to get Cecily to continue their discussion on the finer aspects of Dostoevsky's Poor Folk when he heard the sound of a pained gasp.

Stepping through the door, his eyes widened when he saw Cecily. She was sitting on her bed, pale as death. Her bed was covered in spots of blood, and her cane had been thrown on the ground far from its regular place. "Cecily…" he breathed, "what….?"

Using her teeth to tie off the bandage on her hand, Cecily didn't even try to bite back the rage she was feeling. "Oh Erik," she said icily. "It's you."

"When did this happen?" He took a step closer, suddenly wary of her frigid aura.

"Earlier," was her only response. She felt herself slipping down the bed and bit down hard as she lifted herself.

It was her physical pain that prompted him to move forward again. "Little cat, you are hurt."

"Master of the obvious, aren't you then? Yes, I am hurt. This," she waved her hand," was a gift from an old friend's knife." Lifting herself off the bed with a speed born of anger, she gasped before continuing. "And this," she turned to show him her back," is from my own cane in her hands."

"Dear God, Cecily! These need care!" The wound on her back had obviously not been tended to. The blood had crusted her dress to her back, and in some places, small tears in the dress revealed a bruised and bleeding line across her lower back. In one step, he crossed the divide and made to help her back to the bed.

"Don't touch me!" She shoved him away with force he didn't know she possessed, sending him stumbling backward across the room. He tripped over her misplaced cane, and as he saw her walking toward him, he felt fear from the first time in his adult life. "I did not ask for you to come here to help me. I don't need you," she spat. "I don't need to hear your songs about Christine; I don't need to feel the pounding of your organ as I walk down; I don't need your company; I don't need your music; I don't need you!"

The final statement sent a shockwave through the room. Cecily was almost certain she felt her heart break. Her eyes widened in sudden fear, and the pain she felt in her stomach was almost unbearable. She backed up to the bed slowly. "Oh God, oh God," she whispered prayerfully.

Erik did not react with such emotion. He had, over his life, learned that when threatened, the safest way was to become the Phantom. At that moment, he felt that mantle descending upon him, and tempered it only enough to not harm her anymore. "Very well," he intoned slowly. "I am sorry that I burdened you with my loathsome," he emphasized the word, "presence for so long. Be assured it will not happen again." He disappeared so swiftly then that Cecily could understand the rumors of his being a ghost.

As he door slid into place behind him, Cecily rolled to her left, barely making it to the bedpan before emptying her stomach. The rancid taste still in her mouth, Cecily knew she had done something unforgivable. Despite the blood, she knew now that the worst blow was one she had dealt. It was a blow that yielded two wounds, wounds she feared would never mend.