Chapter 4: Stanger Then You Dreamt It

Erika awoke. She knew where she was, but when did she fall asleep? She got up, adjusting her hair back into place, for it had shifted while she slept, and started moving through the wonderful world she had ended up in towards the faint music she was hearing.

"I remember there was mist
swirling mist upon a vast, glassy lake
There were candles all around,
and on the lake there was a boat,
and in the boat there was a man."

She turned the corner and laid eyes on her father who had heard her singing and turned from his work at the organ. She approached him.

"Mother once spoke of an angel

I only dreamed she told truth,

Now as I sing I see him

And I know he's real!"

She went up to him. What was under his mask? Did she look like him? Was her face more monstrous, or less? She raised her hand. He pushed her away and jumped up. "No!" The words themselves were almost enough to push her over. The instinctive and inherent anger built up in her.

"Why?" she sneered. "Do I not have the right?" he turned from her. Her fury built up inside, leaking out in cruel penetrating remarks. "You're afraid. Coward! You are afraid of your own daughter! Ashamed of what you are! Sniveling wretch! Vial! Beast!" And then she said the most awful thing yet, something that even she didn't think she was capable of. "I bet the only reason mother came with you was because she saw your fear of everything!"

He turned. "I do not fear you!" He yelled.

P: "D*** you!
You little prying Pandora!
You little demon
Is this what you wanted?
Curse you!
You little lying Delilah!
You little viper
Now you cannot ever be free!

D*** you...
Curse you..."

She regret the words almost immediately as she said them. They spent the next hour in silence. She began to pass the time by sketching. She would look toward her father every now and then, and then back at her work. After a while his curiosity got the better of him, and he came to see what she was doing. He saw on the page a makeshift family portrait. Erika was on the left, and to her right was a boy who was obviously related. He was a few inches taller than her with slicked back hair and a handsome face. The immediate appearance of him was a kind, trustworthy person to whom you could tell everything. But there was wisdom in his eyes of a man far beyond his years. Behind him stood Christine, and behind Erika stood the phantom. Erika was drawing in his face.

Erika looked up from her work, to the picture of the boy. She smiled sorrowfully. "Christon really was the artist." She said. "He was smart, handsome, kind, and most of all, he was accepting. Christon was the only person in the entire world who was ever there for me.

Mother and Raoul always liked him best, but I wasn't jealous, because he was my favorite too. He was everyone's friend. What fascinated me as I grew older was that he was nice to me. He played with me, told me stories, calmed me when I was angry, or scared. It would have been easier not to take on my troubles, to banish me like everyone else, to become the same, but he didn't. I always thought that mother had given her generosity to Christon, somehow, because she was just worn out.

After a long time I was able to tell the difference between kindness to other's and his personal preference. Although it seemed that all he did was give, and for the most part it was, he would do extra for those that he liked. It's hard to explain, but he would get a certain look whenever he was around true friends. One of these people was Ida, a servant. She's a kind but shy girl who never presses for anything to go her way, no matter how bad she wants it. I got her a job in the kitchen mostly because my brother liked her. I wouldn't have noticed her otherwise.

For a long time it seemed as if nothing could go wrong whenever Christon was around. But life is cruel, especially to those who don't deserve it.

Two years ago, January the fifth, is a day that I will dread for an eternity. I was sitting in the window watching my brother leave to see one of his friends. It had just stopped snowing so he figured that this was the best time to go. He stepped into the street after looking as he always did. Around the corner came a hurrying carriage, off to who knows where? I opened the window and cried out, but I was too late. He jumped out of the way, but the driver, obviously drunk, swerved to try and miss him at too wide of an angle. The back of the carriage ran smack into him, throwing him into the wet slush by the side of the road. I didn't even think twice. I ran downstairs and flew out the door, landing by his side to aid him.

There were others who saw what had happened, neighbors mostly, but very soon a crowd gathered to help. There was so much fuss, no one really paid any attention to me, except James, who was one of Christon's friends and already had met me by accident a long time ago. The doctor was called, but Christon had no serious injuries and was expected to make a full recovery. It was some days later that he contracted pneumonia from getting dosed with wet snow.

And so I watched my best friend die over a period of ten days. It was awful, but what was worse is that he appeared to know that he was not going to get better, and when he would die. He called for me at exactly one sixteen on the fifteenth of January. 'Hello, sister.' His voice was weak, almost gone. The strong companion that had been there with me for fourteen years was replaced by a frail dying boy.

'I missed you sister. But that's not why I called you.' He went on. 'I needed to tell you…'

'What?'

'You know what I have been working on?' I nodded 'Good. I want you to finish it.'

'No! You can't mean that! You can't-'

'It's alright. It's my time-'

'No! it's not! You're only fourteen! Don't give up on me, on mother, on Ida!' I could see his sorrow, especially at the last name. 'You know she loves you! What will she do if you die? Don't give up!'

'You're just worried you won't be able to draw. Just practice a little, you have enough talent.'

I was silent, stunned. How could he talk about that when he was telling me to finish it after he died?

He tried to smile. 'I see. You think you won't be able to find father. You'll get the answer out of mother someday, I know it. And you'll find him.'

I said nothing.

His face suddenly got that hard look that it did when he was determined to get my attention. 'Promise me. Find father. Finish the painting. It's vital that you do so.'

'But-'

'Promise!'

'I will. I promise that I will look for father, even if mother says him dead.'

He seemed at peace after that. But I didn't leave him, not even after the doctor came an hour later and pronounced him dead. I only left his side when they put him underground. He was the only person I ever loved."

She looked up at her father.

E: "Stranger than you dreamt it
Can you even dare to look
or bare to think of me:
this loathsome gargoyle, who burns in hell,
but secretly yearns for heaven,
secretly... secretly…

Fear can't turn to love - you'll never see
or find the man behind the monster:
this repulsive carcass, who seems a beast
but secretly dreams of beauty,
secretly... secretly..."

She sighed. "I think it is time that I return. My mother might be missing me."