When she woke, she blinked at the ceiling groggily, half-conscious and trying to remember where she was and why she was on the floor. Then she smelled something metallic, and she could feel dry blood on her face, hands, streaks down her neck, and she screamed in horror and rubbed her face with her grimy fingers, the blood flaking off. Not even looking for Erik—not even wanting to know where he was or what he was doing—she scrambled to her feet and stumbled to his bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind her. She fell to her knees and vomited into the toilet again and again. The smell of the blood was making her stomach twist, and she couldn't escape it. It was all over her.
Her stomach still uneasy, she crawled over to the shower and managed to turn the handle. Hot water immediately rained down on her, and she sat there, not even bothering to pull off her now-soaked clothing. She turned her face upward and let the water wash away the dried, flaky blood. What had she ever done to deserve this?
Christine put her face in her wet knees. She knew—she had made a deal with the devil. That's what she had done. God was at last punishing her for agreeing to let Erik teach her to sing. She had promised her soul to the most evil man alive. Now she was paying the price. She was completely alone. There was no Pappa to help her…no Raoul to rescue her…No one knew she was down here except Erik and Mr. Khan—and she had always insisted to Mr. Khan that she was fine down here. He thought she was going to stay here!
No, that couldn't happen. She had to get away immediately. She couldn't stay down here anymore, not when Erik looked…like that.
Everything was still so fresh in her mind. She had shrieked at the sight, unable to help it, and he had yelled at her—"Shut up—shut up, you—you—!" And then he had grabbed her and thrown her to the ground, pinning her between his knees, his awful face too close and his shapeless lips twisted into an insane leer.
Feeling bile rise in her throat again, she crawled out of the shower and over to the toilet once again, choking out acids and spit.
Her stomach ached, and she doubled over for several long moments, resisting the urge to groan with pain. It might alert Erik…and he was the last person she wanted to see.
Did you think I was handsome under the mask? What did you expect to find, my dear? No—NO. Don't turn away from me. This is it! This is what it is! And it is real!
She returned to the hot, somewhat-calming shower, this time peeling off her wet clothes as well as her ring, which had flecks of blood on it. There were still some streaks of dried blood on her, and she lathered the lavender soap all over her skin, the scent familiar.
None of it was her own blood. Every drop of it was Erik's, and every drop came from his face. She scrubbed at it until her skin was pink and raw, and then she scrubbed some more. It all needed to come off, all of it!
He had taken her hands in his own and had then clawed at his face with her fingernails. The thin, brittle skin had torn instantly, and blood had begun to ooze down, thick and warm. It had dripped from his face onto hers, and then he had smeared it around, all over her forehead and cheeks—some of it onto her lips…
Her throat was raw from screaming. She had been an incoherent, hysterical mess: pleading and shrieking and wailing, begging him to get away from her. Her right arm and shoulder hurt a little bit as well, as she had tried to bolt as soon as she had seen, but he had been too fast, and he had grabbed her wrist and had pulled her back to him. She rubbed her shoulder a little, wincing.
It was all made so much worse by the fact that she had actually cared for him. He had been so good to her when she had been brought down here. He had seemed anxious to please her, to make her stay here as comfortable as he could. She had enjoyed his company and his strange conversations. And the music had been ethereal. Could an evil man truly write such angelic music? How was that possible?
Christine pressed her fingertips into her eyes, feeling exhausted and shaky. With a fierce aching, she wished that Gustave was there with her. He would help her, protect her, tell her what to do…Even in his lies, he had done his best to protect her. Throughout all of the things he had done, he had always done them in hopes that they would be for her good.
She washed her hair, knowing that some blood was probably dried in her curls as well. There had been so much blood—all of it, everywhere, dripping from his face to hers…She felt her gag reflex simulate, and she heaved for a few moments. Taking deep, calming breaths, she closed her eyes tightly. Erik was probably hurt by his self-inflicted cuts. And she was locked in his bathroom, making him unable to get to his medicine cabinet. For a split-second, she thought that she should leave so he could get into his supplies, but then the thought vanished. For however much she was worried about Erik, she was terrified of him ten times that amount. The anger in his eyes…
You have made your corpse bleed for you. It is for you, Christine. I doubt your boy would do this. I would do anything for you—anything. Don't you know that?
After she had thoroughly scrubbed every inch of herself, she turned off the shower and wrapped one of the towels around her, shivering on the floor and staring at the doorknob, praying that it didn't twist. What if it did, and he came in here…without his mask…and saw her completely soaked on the floor in a towel?
Christine shuddered and again put her face in her knees, sniffling a little. She felt incredibly sick and very shaky, and she breathed deeply once more, leaning against the wall for support. The steam from the bathroom cleared after a while, and she was freezing. Her clothes were still soaked, however, and so she grabbed all the provided towels and wrapped them around herself, curling up on the rug for warmth. She felt pathetic and horrible.
She didn't know how long she lay there, trembling and blankly staring at the cabinets. She kept trying to keep her mind off of Erik, as if she could trick her brain into thinking of something that wasn't dominating her thoughts. But Erik's face continued to creep back up—that grotesque, yellowish-grayish brittle skin, the flaming eyes, the hole in his face where the nose should have been…She pressed a towel over her face, screaming loudly into it and feeling her throat throb in protest. His face was something out of a crazy man's nightmares. She would have never imagined something like that. She had thought…perhaps a burn or bad scars…but never anything like that. How could he be alive and look like that?
Eventually, she closed her eyes and fell into a fitful doze, exhausted by all the emotions that had run through her body in the last few hours. She never fell asleep fully, always jerking herself awake with the thought that she would fall asleep and Erik could walk in and see her asleep and naked on his bathroom floor. That would…not be ideal.
Her clothes were still too wet and cold to pull back on, and so she had to make do with the towels, covering herself as best she could for modesty as well as for warmth.
She continued to doze on and off, unsure of how much time had passed. However, it wasn't long before the pains in her stomach began. Christine attributed it to the violent retching she had done, and the pains began to grow sharper and longer. She tried to soothe her empty, hurting stomach with water from the sink, but it only seemed to make it hurt more.
Wondering if she was going to end up vomiting out her entire stomach, she curled up on the floor, clutching at her midsection and trying not to groan or whine. Erik might hear her…and he might want to know what was happening…and her clothes were still not dry enough to put on. Their drying was not helped by the fact that she was in a bathroom with no windows or anything else to air them out.
The pain in her stomach increased to an unbearable level, and she couldn't hold back a long whine, tears springing to her eyes. Just the thought of eating something made her sick, but she knew that she had to eat to soothe the empty churning in her stomach. And the thought of Erik's face did nothing to help her sickness.
His face. Why had she wanted to see it? Why had she convinced herself that she would accept it—whatever it turned out to be? She hadn't been prepared for that. There was no way she could have ever been prepared for that sight, not even if Erik had described it in detail. Just the thought of those glowing eyes fixated in that skeletal, twisted face…She shuddered and rubbed at her eyes, as if she could grind the image out of her brain.
With a heavy ache, she thought of Raoul. If he knew what had happened to her, he would probably run down here and—and grab her and take her back to his apartment. Then they would be safe. His big, modern apartment suddenly seemed like heaven at this moment. No one had ever screamed at her there. No one had ever smeared blood all over her face. The most that had happened were silly disagreements between her and Raoul. Christine swallowed an oncoming sob. Who cared if Raoul didn't support her singing? He supported her in everything else! He was virtually perfect, and she had given him up. Why was she so stupid? If she had gone with Raoul, maybe they would be…planning their wedding. Instead she was lying naked on the floor of a deformed murderer's bathroom. And she was afraid that he would kill her when she left. Because she had to leave, eventually.
Her stomach was still twisting, and she was in tears because of the pain. Her hair was dry, and her skin had settled on a numb chill, goose bumps prickling up and down her arms and legs. She glanced over at her damp clothes. Even if they were dry, she wouldn't want to put them back on. They were stained badly. With a heavy moan, she sat up and stared at the door, carefully holding a towel around herself. Maybe if she was lucky, Erik wouldn't be in the house. She wasn't sure how long she had been cooped up in the bathroom, but…maybe he was out doing something, and she could sneak into the kitchen for food without having to confront him.
Feeling her aching limbs protest, she half-crawled, half-scooted over to the door, reached up for the knob, unlocked it, and twisted it carefully, listening intently for any other sounds. The door opened soundlessly, and she peeked out of the crack. As far as she could tell, the bedroom was empty. There were no noises—no piano music or anything else that would indicate that Erik was in the house.
Christine pulled the door open wider and stuck her head out, hardly daring to breathe. The light from the bathroom spilled into the dark bedroom, illuminating the wide, empty, neatly-made bed. Using the knob for support, she pulled herself to her feet and then took a few shaky steps into the bedroom.
Locating some fresh, dry, clean clothes, she hurriedly pulled on the first things her hands could grab, and she nearly sighed in relief after she was finally fully clothed. Then came the daunting prospect of leaving the bedroom, and she took several deep breaths, trying to think of what she would say if she saw Erik.
She couldn't think of anything. There hardly seemed to be anything to say. Hi, Erik. Remember the last time we were together, and your mask was off, and you were putting your blood all over me? Yeah.
Maybe she wouldn't say anything. She could just walk past him for the kitchen. But what would his reaction be? What if he grabbed her and started screaming at her again? Christine could envision kicking him in the shins and bolting back to the bathroom, but she knew that she probably wouldn't be able to. She'd just start crying again.
Her stomach gave another nasty, painful tug, and she pressed an arm over it and grimaced in what she hoped was determination. With a shaking, hesitant hand, she pulled open the bedroom door.
There was dim light in the front room, coming from one of the standing lamps in the corner. Her eyes instantly went over to the piano. No one was there. She sighed in relief and tiptoed to the kitchen, trying to control her frantic heartbeat. If she was lucky, she could grab some food and sneak back to the bathroom. Maybe that was how it would be for forever—sneaking back and forth for food. She never wanted to see Erik again.
As she was piling whatever food she could find into her arms, she heard a creak, and she turned to the doorway to see him standing in it. They stared at each other for a moment, Erik holding his shirt up over his right shoulder. His mask was back on. His dark black hair was rumpled and untidy, and his hands were bare. However, the more she looked, the more uncomfortable she became. He was wearing nothing but his pants and his white shirt, and the shirt had been undone by one or two buttons. She could see an extremely bony collarbone and the top of an emaciated, discolored chest.
There were dark, brownish stains on the collar of his shirt, and she looked closer and realized that he had streaks of dried blood down his jaw and neck, trails coming from beneath his mask. He apparently hadn't washed since…it had happened.
The food then toppled out of her arms, and she immediately dropped to the ground, grabbing everything quickly, intent on walking past him and back to her safe haven. When she had everything, she straightened up, only to find that Erik had moved closer. She took an automatic step back when his hand reached out. And when it carefully encircled her arm, she jerked away.
"No," she said immediately, her voice quivering. "Please…no. Don't—don't touch me. Please."
Intense pain crossed his eyes, and she almost felt bad for making him feel that way. Almost, but not quite. It wasn't hard when she saw the blood on his neck, a reminder of what he had done to her.
"Put that down," he said, his voice raspy and hoarse. It sounded so different from his usual elegant voice that it almost frightened her. "I will—I will feed you."
"I don't think…" she began, but she trailed off. There was a long moment in which they simply looked at each other, and then she reluctantly put the miscellaneous food stuffs on the counter, carefully skirting around him and going to the dining room. She was actually feeling shaky from being on her feet for so many minutes. Her lack of food was making her feel dizzy and sweaty.
After a couple of minutes of complete silence, Erik came to her and set down a plate in front of her. He then stood off to the side, and she wasted no more time, quickly tucking into her meal. The food tasted fine, and although it was painful to swallow and settle, she knew that this was the way to make the pain in her stomach go away. As she ate, she tried not to pay any attention to Erik, who was still standing, watching her silently. He oftentimes shifted his weight from foot to foot, his glowing eyes never leaving her. When at last she was finished, she sat in silence and counted slowly in her head. She got to twenty seconds before she began to feel panicked, and she glanced at him and softly said, trying to break the stiff silence, "Is your…I mean…my nails. And the blood on your—the cuts. Are you okay?"
"I am fine," he said stiffly. "Facial wounds bleed severely."
"That's good," she whispered at the plate. "There was a lot of blood…I was worried."
All of her emotions were bubbling up, and coupled with her exhaustion from her time spent crying and vomiting in the bathroom, it was almost too much to handle. She felt as if everything she had worked for was crumbling, and it was all her fault. Her relationship with Erik was broken, and her fragile happiness while being here with him was gone. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she began to sniffle and wipe at them, feeling angry as well. She didn't want to cry. That was the last thing she wanted to do—cry some more, but the tears continued to come, and she stared at her lap and wiped them away with shaking fingers. She just wanted to go home and forget about this whole mess. She didn't want to have to deal with it anymore. She wanted Gustave. She wanted her Pappa. He would have wrapped her up in his secure, loving arms and told her that everything would be all right. He would have played for her until she fell asleep, or pulled on her hair and read her stories, or held her hand tightly and kissed her forehead. She just wanted someone to turn to.
"No—no." She heard Erik's voice, and it sounded somewhat frantic. "You will not cry. Not anymore. You will not see my face again. You will forget Erik's face." He awkwardly pushed his handkerchief into her hands. "It will be forever covered by the mask. In time…you could see the mask as my face. It is a much better thing to look at, is it not? And you will not see my face. We would be perfectly happy down here, you and I, together. Now that you know, you'll not remove it again. Everything will be perfect."
He was sounding absolutely insane. Christine took some deep breaths, trying to calm herself down. Crying wasn't helping her in the least bit, and it was only further agitating Erik, who was clearly already pushed to the limit. Christine couldn't help but continue to remember the things Mr. Khan had told her about him. They were painful.
"You still cry," Erik continued. "You are afraid of me! But I'm not an evil man. You said so yourself. You said that I am a good man. I will be good to you, Christine. Everything you want will be yours. We'll be perfectly normal, just as you wish."
Christine sniffled a little and then said tremulously, "Erik…maybe it's best if I go home."
She knew it had been the wrong thing to say as soon as it came out of her mouth. Erik's eyes flashed, and he towered over her at his full, daunting height.
"You want to escape the monster!" he hissed. "You wish to leave me forever!"
"I told you I would come back!" she argued timidly. "I promised to visit you!"
"Do you think I can be taken in by such lies?" he said. "You will run—as soon as you leave me, you will run from me, and you will not return!"
"No!" she tried to protest. "I just thought that it—"
"You are not leaving this house!" he thundered. "You belong here, with the music, with me! You will be here forever!"
"Please," she said. She swallowed, realizing just what she was saying. "I promised to visit you. You're my teacher, Erik. I'd…I'd come back to visit you. I would."
There was a long moment of silence in which he looked at her closely. He still looked frightening and slightly crazy, with his messy hair and blood-stained skin and shirt. Christine met his gaze, still afraid but determined to make him believe her…even if she didn't believe it herself.
The moment stretched on too long, and suddenly his hand shot out and carefully twisted itself into her curls, but he didn't pull at all. Christine had flinched a little at his sudden movements, afraid that he was going to hit her.
"You want to run from me now, but you can come to see that I am not a dead man. I am alive, Christine. A man who is alive needs a woman who is alive. And you are so very alive…" His grip tightened, but he was still careful not to pull. "You cannot leave me. Erik would die if you left him."
Christine couldn't make herself answer him. She had already lied enough for one day.