Chapter 2
(excerpt from the journal of the late Vicomtess de Chagny)
Dear Diary,
It went much better than I originally expected. I feared that he'd sent the things to the Persian so that he could try and lure me back to him, but this was not so. I…I'm not sure whether or not to be mournful or happy. I suppose both would be in order, but my heart mandates that I choose only one. Oh, this is too much like that dreadful night; I was only allowed to choose one… Out of courtesy, no, out of love for my dear departed Angel—Erik will always be an angel in my sight, no matter what Raoul or anyone else might say—I shall choose to be mournful. Sometimes, I still wonder what it would have been like to…to stay with him. No doubt it would be dreadful, but he really was very kind to me, when I followed his instructions. And, this time, I did follow his instructions, to the letter: once I found him, I took off the ring he'd given me, placed it on his chest, and closed the lid of the coffin; I was crying, I hope he doesn't mind that some of my tears fell on his mask… Well, I then went to fetch the letter he said he would leave in the bureau drawer, placed it on top of the coffin… Oh, Diary, I took something of his, something to remember him by. I don't want to show Raoul, or anyone, and I don't even know if I should be even writing it down in here, for fear someone might find it, but I…I took a sheet of his Opera, Don Juan Triumphant, only a sheet…it's in the pocket of my coat even now, as I write.
Christine sat back against the carriage seat, sighing. She put the journal she'd been so diligently writing in aside and stuck her hand inside her coat pocket, pulling out a worn sheet of paper.
She unfolded it, gently, as only a woman can, and looked intently at the scrawled red writing, the notes dancing across the page, given a life of their own. She could still hear the music reverberating inside of her mind, from that one evening he'd played some for her. Oh, the music…
When she'd reached the house by the lake, when she'd finally found the coffin in the sitting room, as promised, she half expected there to be no body; she was of the conviction that Erik, angel, demon, or man, had been made solely of music. In life, he'd eaten it, breathed it…surely in death, he would become it, joining one of his own creations, becoming the talent that, so wrongfully unwanted in life, would live forever? For, just as surely, he would live forever, in her thoughts. He'd been so imprinted, so ingrained in her mind that it was almost as if he were living, breathing, singing, raging still, only inside of her flesh.
And yet, when she'd approached his coffin, quite literally his deathbed, there he was, laying still, masked face gazing up to the heavens which he adored, yet so deeply despised.
She closed her eyes in sorrow at the thought, intending to whisper a prayer for him under her breath—only, it didn't happen, for it suddenly grew very cold.
Puzzled, she reopened her eyes and looked around. Why had it grown so cold? Had the carriage stopped? She didn't know.
"Christine," called a voice, barely a whisper, hardly a sigh.
She sat stock still, terrified, clutching the sheet of music she'd taken in her pale hands; she knew that voice.
"Christine, won't you speak to me?"
She wanted to scream, but her breath refused to leave her throat.
"Won't you even look at me?"
Horrified, she felt her gaze inexorably, forcibly drawn to the paper.
It was blank, so very, frighteningly, disturbingly blank. All of the red ink was gone, leaving the white, naked expanse of the paper in her grasp. But wait…what was that…?
A blot, in the very center of the paper, a hideous red blot, growing wider and wider by the second, engulfing the paper in the scarlet bath, leaking onto Christine's lap.
"Look at me!"
She felt a force on the back of her head pushing her face violently into the pool of red.
She pulled her face up half a second later, shrieking in pure terror, clawing at her face, trying to be rid of the crimson horror.
It was blood.
-----
At that moment, the horse pulling the carriage began squealing in fright, kicking out in front of him, sending the pedestrians on the street and on the sidewalk running as fast as they could away from the crazed animal.
A few men ran forward to help the driver get the animal under control, a few more prying open the carriage to check on the passenger, only to step back, aghast.
The scene that met their eyes was that of a young woman, her blonde hair a mess, hands swiping angrily at her face, screaming.
"Get it off!! Please, someone, help me!! Angel, please!! Someone, help!! It's bleeding, it's bleeding, can't anyone see!! Help!"
Those conducting the inspection of the carriage afterwards noted in a post-assessment report that, while they identified both Christine's travel bag and journal, they found no trace of the alleged sheet music.