My Journal,

I am an idiot. Seriously. I should have talked with Erik while I had the chance, but I did not. Now--who knows?

"And that is why M. Chaffee switched from bassoon to trumpet."

Christine clapped. "Brilliant, Erik! I had no idea you had something to do with that!"

"Come now, my dear. What kind of Opera Ghost would I be if I allowed a travesty like that to go on in my Opera?"

"So true, husband."

The mood of the room changed slightly and Christine made a contemplative frown. "Erik," she started, "what happened to you?"

He tensed, but it was imperceptible. "Whatever do you mean, my dear?" he asked casually.

She looked at him stupidly. "Whatever do I mean? Oh I don't know… how about you start with the part where you came home full of holes?"

"Oh, surely you exaggerate. It's not all that bad now, is it?"

"Not bad? Erik! You were the one who thought you were dying!"

"Ah. Me? Ridiculous. I have been through far worse. This reminds me of the time…" he continued on telling another story.

I just got so caught up in… what exactly? I was so caught up in him

"No, child. You are all that I need."

"Still... not even a cup of tea?"

He gave a long-suffering sigh. "Alright," he conceded, "Do you promise to return quickly?"

"I promise." she said solemnly

After not even three minutes had gone by with Christine fiddling in the kitchen, she was startled by anguished cry.

"Erik! What is it?" she gasped, running from the kitchen. Erik was on the floor of the hallway, clutching his side and hissing in pain.

"What happened? What are you doing? What were you thinking?"

"What was I thinking?" he asked angrily, "YOU LEFT ME! I was coming to find you!"

Even as he yelled, Christine wrapped her arms around him and helped him to his feet.

"Erik! We just had this conversation. Remember... I went to get your tea?"

"No excuses, girl. You must not leave the room. Just because I'm injured does not mean you are free to escape. What kind of woman leaves her husband in such a state anyway? Wait... where are we going? My room is in the other direction..."

"I know the layout of our home Erik. But, if I am not to leave you sight, we are going to do it on my terms. I shan't spend yet another day in that depressing room watching you doze in a coffin. We are going to my room and you are going to sleep in a proper bed--which, I might add, you should have been doing all along."

I don't know what happened exactly. It was all so sudden. One moment he was sleeping, the next he was furiously pounding away at the piano.

"There now, Erik" she said gently as Erik settled into the bed. She stroked his hair and kissed his forehead.

"None of this is necessary, Christine," he said stubbornly, "I can take care of myself from here."

"I know you can, dear one," she replied, pretending not to notice the pained grimace he had made as she tucked him in or the soft sigh she heard when she kissed him. "Will you pretend that it is necessary? Just for me? I desperately need something to do."

He growled. "You know, I would much rather be in my coffin." He had to protest something.

"And I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your sacrifice. You knew how much I hated that thing and, like a true gentleman, relented for a real bed."

"I can't tell if you are mocking me."

"Shh. Don't worry about it now. Just rest and get better."

He drifted off quickly and Christine moved quietly about the room, busying herself with other things. All of a sudden he started to thrash in the bed, making agitated sounds from his throat.

Christine was at his side in an instant, rubbing his brow and trying to keep him from aggravating his wounds.

Something about the situation made her think of when her father was very ill--in the last few weeks before he died. She began to hum softly and, after a few minutes, Erik settled and the tension in his body subsided. She smiled to herself at his reaction; her father had also been soothed by her singing.

Now it has been over two weeks and I have barely seen my husband, much less spoken to him.

What she hadn't expected was what happened after that. His eyes snapped open so suddenly that it made her jump.

He grabbed her wrist in his iron grip and gasped, "What is that? What are you singing?"

The urgency in his tone was a little unnerving and she gulped nervously before answering.

"It's just a song… I don't remember the name… it's a Swedish lullaby. Have I done something wrong?"

"You? No! Not remotely! Help me up, Christine," he commanded, "I must go to the music room."

Christine was appalled by this sudden change in behavior. "Absolutely not!" she said, "You are injured… you need to rest."

He looked at her as if she was mad. "Rest? There is no time for rest, woman! I need to get up!"

Without waiting for her to respond, he sprung from the bed and practically ran to the music room. Christine winced when she saw the blood soaking through his shirt in a place where the stitches must have broken from his rough motion. Oddly enough, though, he did not seem to notice.

A few seconds later she heard a door slam and lock. As he pounded away at the piano, she recognized that the melody sounded suspiciously like the lullaby she had just sung.

That was unexpected. Where in the world did that come from?

I knew of his predisposition for obsession. Goodness! I know probably better than anyone!

"Erik!" she shouted, pounding on his door. It had been at least three hours since he locked himself away. It all seemed… unnatural, somehow.

"Erik, open up! Don't make me pick the lock!"

After several more minutes of her knocking, the door swung open. Erik looked at her with a bewildered expression, as if surprised to see her there.

"What are you doing out there, Christine? You know the rule… you must always stay in my sight. Have you forgotten so quickly?"

"But Erik--" she started, "You were the one who left me… you locked me out!"

He scoffed, unbelieving. "Nonsense, child. Hurry up now and come in here. I have no time for your games. Can't you see that I am composing?"

She was about to say something else but he shuffled her inside and quickly closed the door. In a second, he was back at the piano as if nothing had happened.

It is just odd seeing that obsession directed at something other than myself.

Christine shuffled. She was bored. Very, very bored. What's worse is that Erik showed no signs of stopping any time soon. He would play a few measures, scribble something down, and play some more.

Play... scribble... play... scribble...

How frustratingly repetitive.

Once or twice she tried to interrupt him. She figured that, even if he snapped at her, he'd be paying her some attention, at least. She was surprised, though, to find that he did not respond at all. Whether she called out to him or tapped his shoulder, he just shrugged her off as if he did not even realize she was there.

If I remember correctly, Professor Valerius used to have an obsessive personality. Once, as a girl, I had a conversation with him about it.

She hadn't seen the professor in four days. Every now and again he would lock himself up in his study and stay there for days or weeks at a time. Occasionally she asked Mamma what had happened to him. Her answer was always the same, though.

"Patience, child. He'll come out when he's ready."

Two days later he emerged. He was still clean and impeccably dressed, as always, but his eyes revealed that he had not slept in a while.

Some time later, as he sat in the parlor, smoking his pipe, she crawled up on his lap.

"Professor," she asked, giving him a kiss on the cheek, "What is it you do when you go away to your study?"

He chuckled and hugged the little girl. "It depends, really," he said thoughtfully, "Sometimes I just get a really good idea for a paper or a book. Sometimes I think I need to invent something. You see, when Inspiration visits me, I have trouble saying 'no' to her. She is very demanding and often insists that I do nothing else until she is finished with me."

She frowned a little. "What does it feel like… when you go away?"

"Oh, child! It is wonderful, actually. I go to my study and suddenly nothing else matters. Time has no meaning. All there is in the world is me and my ideas. When it happens, three days can go by in an instant."

"But how do you live? Don't you need food… and sleep? You can't live just by your work, can you?"

He considered this a moment. "I'm not sure… my wife always took care of me. She visits every few hours... I suppose with food or some other such trivial matter… I think… I'm not always paying much attention to those things."

Then, smiling, he added, "I always manage to pull through, though. Don't I, little one?" He tickled her and she giggled before running off with her dolls.

Professor Valerius had Mamma to take care of him. Thankfully, Erik has me. Although, I have not the slightest idea how he survived before.

For what it's worth, I have not the slightest idea of how I'm going to survive this. After being the whole of Erik's world for so long, I had no idea how much attention I require.

Christine spent a good long while pondering how to keep her husband alive during his fit of inspiration.

Sleep seemed unlikely. Even when he was sane he seemed to abhor it--though she never understood exactly why. She decided that was not worth pressing at the moment. She'd only get yelled at and ruin her chances of anything else she might want to do for him.

Food. That seemed like a good enough idea. It worried her how little he ate. She knew from previous conversations that, in his current state, he would likely forget to eat for several days.

Medical attention was a must. The last thing she needed was a ghost with a fever. No, if nothing else, she was determined to keep his wounds clean and infection-free.

That's a good enough start, she decided. Realizing that it was unlikely he would turn around any time soon, she snuck out of the room and made up a plate of simple foods.

"I brought you something to eat, Erik. I thought you might be hungry."

"I don't have time for food. I am busy."

Not to be deterred, she added, "I took that into account. See, everything is crumb-free and cut up small so that you can eat as you work without making a mess. I'll just leave it here beside your piano bench. That way you don't have to stop."

"But I can't eat with my mask on..." he protested.

"Erik..." Christine replied with a questioning expression, "You are not wearing your mask."

He sucked in a breath as he felt his face. No mask! You idiot! What must she be thinking of you? You have probably scared the child half to death! Where is it? There... on the piano. You always take it off when you compose. Why weren't you thinking of her? Didn't you realize you are not alone?

As he reached for it, he moaned, "Oh Christine! Forgive me!"

"Relax, Erik." she said, staying his hand. "It's nothing I haven't seen before. You have your back facing me, anyway. If it will convince you to eat something, I'll even keep my eyes shut."

That seemed to appease him and, after some more mumbled apologies and affectionate words, he was back at work. He did not even realize that he had eaten until he absently reached over to find his plate empty.

A few hours later, Erik was once again drawn from his trance when a pair of small hands snaked around him and began working the buttons of his shirt. Any other time, the fluttering sensations this type of attention inspired would have left his mind swimming with pleasant imaginings.

Currently, though, it was yet another disruption of the comfortable groove he had settled into.

"Don't stop," she whispered in his ear, "Keep playing. I'm just going to look at your cuts."

He sighed. Even in his profound irritation, he could not bring himself to protest her touches. Heaven forbid that he should carelessly reject her--she might never touch him again! Luckily, he had retained enough of his faculties even in his frenzy to see the imprudence of taking such a risk.

He continued to play, ignoring the sting of alcohol as she rubbed it against his lacerated skin. Eventually he forgot that she had been there save the fact that his bandages no longer itched and his shirt was missing.

The biggest problem here is that I still don't have the answers I need. I have come to realize that Erik is an expert at keeping secrets. Why is it that I know so little about my husband?

First, I'd like to know why on earth he came up with that asinine rule about not leaving his sight--a rule that he has still not recanted, by the way.

I know nothing about his past. For that matter, I know nothing about his plans for the future beyond being married and living like every other man. How does he feel about religion (though, apparently, impersonating heavenly beings doesn't seem to bother him) or family--my heavens, what about children? (Funny how I never wondered about that before now. I wonder what has changed? Personal note--ponder that later.)

Then again, do I know any of those things about Raoul? Does it matter? At the end of the day, it never made me love him any less.

But, for goodness' sake! I don't even know my own last name!

Speaking of Raoul, the fact of the matter remains that Erik has never explained what happened that night. Why doesn't he realize that this is not a good time to dodge my questions? How am I suppose to be married to someone who tried to murder the love of my life? Twice!

I wonder why it is that the one time I try not to jump to conclusions is the time when I should have done so. This is ridiculous! Why is he being so difficult? How long should I allow this to continue?

It is ultimately frustrating to be married to one so secretive.

Well that has turned into quite the rant, hasn't it? I suppose I should sign off now and see if my husband is feeling a little less consumed and a little more… what's the word?… normal

"Erik?"

"Erik!"

He whipped around on his piano bench with a murderous glare in his eyes. When he recognized Christine it immediately softened but his voice kept a tense edge to it as he spoke.

"Wife, I thought I asked you not to bother me. Did I not promise to meet you for dinner?"

"Yes, Erik." she said, trying not to look nervous. "But--"

"But nothing, my dear. Go back to the corner and finish your book."

Christine who, by this time, was infinitely frustrated with his commands, bristled ever so slightly as she said, "I simply thought you should know, husband, that I hear one of the bells ringing for the door."

She was going to add, Unless you like intruders in your home, but decided against it. In this mood, Erik was likely to kill whoever happened to be calling and she had a sneaking suspicion that it was the Persian.

"You are hearing things. I would know if someone was in my house."

She shrugged and, with a slight scowl, went back to her novel. Before long, Erik was once again engrossed in his music. Once she was certain that he was fully absorbed in his composition, she quietly slipped out the door.

It was indeed The Persian.

"Welcome monsieur!" she said cheerily, happy to have another friendly presence.

"It is always good to see you, madame."

"Come in, come in. I hadn't expected you to come by today. Can I offer you something to drink?"

"Thank you, no. I shan't be staying long. I have come to tell you that the vicomte awoke this morning and has been asking for you.

Until Tomorrow,

Christine