Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. I also do not own this translation of the dies irae--that came from some Catholic book I have in my library, the title of which currently eludes me. If it truly matters to anyone, I'll look it up... but I can't imagine anyone cares about those kind of details.

Journal,

Three days, counting today. That is how long I have been here.

"Christine," he called softly

She was sitting, with her back to him, at the little desk in her bedroom. After their short encounter a few hours ago, Erik had left again to prepare lunch. Christine returned to her desk to write again in her makeshift 'journal'.

She did this for several reasons. The first, being that it helped her calm her nerves and keep her composure. If she could pour all her feelings into something else… music, writing, something… she could purge them from her mind and keep them from showing. The other reason, one she would never admit, is that, in the event something happened to her and she did not leave this place alive, she wanted somebody to have an account of all that occurred here.

When she heard her name, she winced ever so slightly. Christine never thought anything special of her name. She didn't dislike it exactly, she just didn't think it was as pretty as other girl's names she'd heard before. However, something about the reverent way he pronounced her name made her heart jump. Even now, when she hated him more than ever, the sound excited her enough that she wished he would say it again and again. It was, currently, a most unwelcome feeling.

Slowly, she turned to face him, calm as ever.

"I have prepared us a nice lunch, please come with me."

He extended his hand to her and, for a moment, she moved as if she meant to take it. Then she remembered the icy feel of his skin; how she had allowed it--welcomed it even--when she was ill; and how she regretted it afterwards. She snatched her hand back away from him with an angry glare.

"Forgive me," he moaned dejectedly and ushered her out of the room. You fool! Why would you aspire to touch an angel? You soil her perfection with the very thought. But she let me touch her before! She was sick, you idiot… you should know, you made her that way! You greedy fool! Isn't it enough that she is here with you?

She sat down at a small table and he placed a plate of food in front of her and poured her a glass of wine.

"I tried to make food that would be easy on your stomach. Are you feeling any better?" He was so very childlike in his inquiry… like a little boy trying to make amends for breaking a vase.

Christine nodded, though none of the food in front of her appealed to her still queasy stomach. However, out of politeness (you see, it would not do for her to be rude… that would ruin her plan altogether), she nibbled a bit and tried to think of something to talk about.

"Won't you be eating anything, Erik?"

"No, my dear, you enjoy your lunch. I have already eaten." Actually, he hadn't eaten anything all day. He truly wasn't hungry, but he knew that Christine, being the truly compassionate girl she was, would not believe him and would not be able to eat her own food in peace if she was worried about him. And so he lied. Such a sweet girl. Always concerned about others.

Christine nodded and turned back to her food. She really hadn't heard his answer, as it wasn't particularly relevant to anything she was thinking of at the time. She was just trying to make conversation.

Suddenly, it occurred to her how odd it would be to make small talk with this man. As much as she wanted to look calm and casual, discussing weather with her masked kidnapper was a little much.

She figured it was best to cut to the chase and see what information she could get from him.

"Erik?" she asked casually, "If you don't mind, I have a few questions."

He tented his fingers over the table and looked into her eyes. He had been expecting this.

"Of course."

She didn't want to come out with the obvious questions right away until she was confident in his reaction. She decided to start with the easy questions and work her way up.

"How long have I been here?"

"Today is your third day."

Two of those days were spent violently ill. And why was I so sick?

"Three days…" she whispered, more to herself than to him.

He cleared his throat. "Although, you were barely conscious for two of those days. You cannot know how pleased I was to see you up and about this morning."

"How… why… that is, um…" don't be a coward, Christine, just come out and say it "It is not like me to become ill like that. Do you know how that could have happened?"

At this, Erik sighed and looked down, the table cloth was suddenly very interesting to him.

Finally he returned his gaze to her and said guiltily, "You have no idea how sorry I am… please… try to understand… I couldn't have known you would react that way." Oh, Christine! Can you ever forgive me?

Her voice remained even, "Explain. Erik, what are you saying?"

Because he drugged me! That horrid man put something in my tea the other night. To his credit, he didn't mean to poison me. I had an unexpected reaction to the opiate he used to knock me out.

Erik took a deep breath. The confession had drained his emotions. Now he sat, awaiting her response. He could not bring himself to look into her eyes for fear of what he would see in them. Instead he fixed his gaze on her wine glass and silently pleaded with her to forgive him.

Seeing where his eyes were fixed, she brought her wine glass to her lips, drawing his gaze back to her face. Oh no you don't, you evil bastard, you look me in the eye!

Christine, for her part, was doing an excellent job hiding her fury. You awful man! You are not the misunderstood little mouse… you are the big ugly spider, nasty and mean and out to hurt me! I hate you ! I hate you! I hate you! Let me go you wicked spider! She clenched her fists under the table, bunching the table cloth into her little hands. Stay calm.

For a moment, the two just stared at each other--he maddened, she furious--both trying to hide from the other, but neither willing to back down. She was the one who finally broke the silence.

"Take off your mask" she demanded, more harshly than she intended.

At this, the trance was broken. "That is not a question, my dear." he smirked. He stood up gracefully, once again the dominant. "And you shall never see Erik's face."

"Come," he said firmly, "I will give you a tour."

Mamma Valerius would be proud of my self control. Why, at this very moment I am refraining from saying or writing all the profane words that are running through my mind. He drugged me!

He raised his hand, not touching her but beckoning her to stand.

"Would you like to see my room? It is really quite curious…"

Actually, no, you lunatic. That is the last place on earth I would like to visit. "Sure…"

He led her to a dark room at the end of the hall.

He was good enough to show me around his flat. His room, however, was what left the biggest impression on me. It was a shrine to death… complete with coffin.

She gasped when she entered the chamber. It was dark, like a funeral home. The walls were black and, on them, hung the notes of the dies irae repeated over and over.

As she took in the room, the words of the hymn echoed in her brain with the notes on the walls.

Day of wrath and terror looming!

Heaven and earth to ash consuming,

David's word and Sibyl's truth foredooming!

What horror must invade the mind,

When the approaching judge shall find,

And sift the deeds of all mankind.

The thought gave her chills.

And the coffin upset her so much that she turned away.

He merely shrugged and said, "That is where I sleep. One has to get used to everything in life, even eternity!"

Is he trying to make a joke? she wondered Or is he really that disturbed? Maybe both… I imagine one should be pretty disturbed to joke about such things.

All in all, the sight was unsettling to me.

I asked him to return me to my room, a request he happily obliged--partly, I assume, out of relief and gratitude that I had not so much as mentioned for him to return me to my home.

When they reached her rooms, he watched from the doorframe as she continued inside. He seemed unwilling to breach that barrier without her permission, a show of respect that Christine was tremendously grateful for. Thank heavens for little miracles, anyway…

Before he turned away, he spoke again--once more, timid and childlike.

Something he said troubled me more than anything else I have seen or heard today.

"Christine… I… I love you, but this is the last time I will say it until you allow me--a day that will bring me infinite happiness. In the meantime, however, our time here will be spent with music."

"Our time here? How long will that be?"

"Five more days," he said with conviction.

Her eyes widened. Is that all? There must be a catch… "And then you will let me go?"

"Yes. In that much time, perhaps you will see me, not as an angel, but as a man. Then, maybe, you will return every now and again to visit your poor Erik."

It was not his announcement of how long he expected me to remain, nor was it his plans for me during my time here. It was not even his expectation for me to return that troubled me so.

It was his first statement--he is not looking for me to love him… just for me to allow him to love me. I don't know exactly how I feel about that. He says he loves me. But, does he care so little for me that it does not matter to him if I return the feelings? Am I some sort of pet to him? Or, am I missing something else entirely? It is something I will need to think long and hard about.

"Forgive me, I have taken up so much of your time. You must be tired. I will leave you to rest and tomorrow we will continue our lessons."

Then he bowed politely and left.

She stood, looking at the door that had seemed to disappear when it closed, and was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to laugh.

Then he left me to rest. I know that it is inappropriate to be amused at such a time--but I just had another thought: Why is it that, when a gentleman doesn't know how to end an awkward conversation, they tell me I must be tired and command me to rest? Am I really so frail that I must take a nap between every conversation? Erik is not the first man to do this. How much sleep do they think I need?

In all truthfulness, I am not remotely tired. After all, I have only been awake a few hours.

So, here I am, writing for the third time in one day, wondering how much of my week here will be spent this way.

At least I have a lesson to look forward to tomorrow. Music has always been our bond. Perhaps there is something there I can use to get him to release me.

I don't believe for a second that he will let me go in five days. Sure, he said he would, but the man is not the most stable of individuals. One does not simply go through all the effort of impersonating a heavenly messenger, stalking a young woman for months, working inside her mind, and kidnapping her just to release her in five days. What would be the sense in that?

The uncertainty of it all unnerves me.

Until next time--be it an hour or a week…

Christine