To my Journal:
I have made my decision. I wrestled with it for hours after I last wrote. Two steps forward, one step back… not really coming any closer to some sort of conclusion. That is when I heard it…
She lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, exhausted, but not about to sleep. All night she had alternated between pacing and lying down.
Then, music traveled down the hall from Erik's room, filling every crack and every corner with unearthly sound.
Christine sat up and listened for a moment, trying to make sense of what she was hearing. At first it sounded like one long, inhuman moan. But, as she listened, she soon heard the tune transform and represent every aspect of suffering ever known to mankind and a few--she was certain--that could only be felt by the angels (or demons) themselves.
Don Juan Triumphant.
For a few minutes she could do nothing but listen. Her body, her mind, all frozen in place by the hypnotic melody.
Her mind broke free before her body could respond. It begged her to react, to weep, to scream, to do something to release some of the pain that was threatening to consume her very soul. But she could not weep, she could not scream. All she could do was listen.
He was not lying when he said that it burned not with fire from Heaven.
She began to panic. Since her mind didn't know how to react, it told her to escape. She shut her door, put her hands over her ears, hid under her pillows. It did not matter. The music was still with her. It was everywhere. It surrounded her and saturated her so fully that she could no longer decipher what was in her ears and what was coming from her mind.
The burning of Don Juan is not a warm, fuzzy feeling. It is a true fire that burns through your soul. It is not the kind of burning that one might hear about in stories of heroism or romance either. No, it is the kind of burning that one would feel trapped in the pit of Hell. An anguished, lamenting, tortured burn with no hope of escape or relief.
Her breath quickened, her heart raced, her eyes burned with tears that would not come, she tore at her hair and paced like a caged animal. When she could take no more she threw herself onto her bed and pounded her fists into the mattress. Her mind screamed what her voice could not.
STOP IT! STOP IT! GO AWAY! MAKE IT STOP!
I thought I could stay here in Hell with Erik. I knew I would be unhappy, but I was unprepared for this. No, it is no longer a question of happiness, it is a question of sanity--for I know now that, if I stay, Don Juan would surely drive me mad.
The music ceased as abruptly as it began. She almost had to wonder if he had heard her silent pleas. Christine lay on the bed, trembling, and trying to recover from a torture worse than the hot irons of the executioner.
Meanwhile, footsteps could be heard down the hall... a soothing, steady beat in the aftermath of what she had just experienced. They gradually grew louder as they approached.
The footsteps stopped in front of her room and Erik opened to door just a crack.
"Christine," he said coldly, "I am going out for a few hours. I will return to fix you supper."
Then the door shut and she heard the lock click into place.
I know now what I have to do. There is no other way. I only pray that there is forgiveness somewhere in Heaven or elsewhere for what I am about to do.
Christine stayed still for a few minutes, until she was sure he was really gone. Then she made her way over to the door that was once again hidden in the wall. It took her only a few seconds to find the latch.
Then, pulling out a hairpin, she set to work at picking the lock.
Kyrie Eleison.
Christine
