The man played and played. The house was filled with wonderful music, music so joyful that one would never had guessed that the source of it was a sorrowful, pitiable creature that had killed so many people that he had lost count. The music disguised the hurt the man felt deep down inside of himself, hurt that had been turned into anger numerous occasions.

He stopped the music. Looking at his hands, he was horrified by the fact that his hands had taken away the privilege of life from so many human beings. Pushing himself away from the piano, he ran to the kitchen sink. Turning on the hot water, he forced his hands into the scorching stream.

He wanted to wash away the guilt, the murders, the terrified faces on his victims, the laughter of the little sultana, everything. He was insane – he knew that much, as one can hardly survive three years in Persia committing assassinations without the person in question's sanity being threatened. Even before the rosy hours, he was always a tad bit mad. Scaring his mother and tricking her into thinking that the little shepherd statue was her wonderful, perfect son was only a small display of his insanity.

Breaking free of his thoughts, Erik was horribly disturbed by the fact that nothing would wash away those things. Staring miserably at the sink, he turned off the water and dried his hands. Slowly turning around, he zombie-walked to the couch.

Flinging himself down, the wretched man prepared himself for another nightmare-filled slumber.

Sleep did not come. He decided the terrifying dreams of his past were too much to handle, and instead, he busied himself by studying his mask. He kept getting sore spots, but he had no way of fixing the small, annoying inconvenience. Flinging the object to the side, Erik sat up. He brought his knees up to his chin and put his hands together in a praying position. Thinking of the only prayer fit for the situation he found himself in, he whispered the words to the Almighty. He prayed until he was exhausted to the point where he fell asleep simply by blinking.

"Erik, I love you!" Christine called out. The disfigured musician looked at her, eyes full of confusion. "I love you, Christine," he told her. He looked down at her perfect little face, examining her perfect little lips. Brushing away a golden lock from her cheek, he cupped her chin with his spider-like hands. He leaned closer to her. She raise herself up to him. He was amazed by what he thought could never be. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mask on the ground, forgotten. His eyes were glued to the girl in front of him. Their lips were so close together, only a petite finger would fit between. The girl leaned closer to him – now only a sewing needle would fit between -

The morning came too soon. The church bells chimed, signaling six in the morning. Erik gazed around the room. To his disappointment, Christine was not there, nor was anybody else there. He had been a fool to think that his dream was real!

Sitting up, he felt less weighed down than before. Had his guilt been lifted?

My guilt will never leave me, Erik chided himself. However, he could not believe that lie. Standing up, he knew for a fact that he had been forgiven of his crimes as he realized that he had finally had his first joyful dream in his life. No nightmares haunted him that night, and he hoped they never would again.

Time passed slowly. What was there to do? Nadir cocked his head to the side. A year free of Erik had left him extremely bored. His only activity before, after all, had been chasing after the mischievous magician and keeping track of where he went. There was no hope of doing that anymore. Erik was dead – he had seen the corpse himself.

Erik reached for the D flat. What horrible things dreams are, he decided gently. No matter what happens in them – if it scars you for life or gives you the best moment in the world, you still wake up disappointed or scared.

Softly pulling the song to a close, the mysterious pianist closed his eyes. Opening them, he saw the house as it really was – light was streaming in through the windows, creating beautiful sunlight patterns upon the carpet. Erik stood up and walked onto one of the sun spots, feeling the heat radiating from the outside. The house was naturally beautiful. He hadn't seen it that way when he was younger; he had hated the house which had held him captive for nine long years. But now, when he had returned to the house of his own accord, he decided it was quite nice. It was paradise.

Reluctantly leaving the spot, Erik sat at the writing desk. He wanted to make peace with his old friend, Nadir Khan, and repair the friendship which had died out in the torture chamber, or maybe even before then.

Starting the letter, he let the words pour out of him, words that came straight from his soul. If he couldn't have Christine as a wife, he would have Nadir as a friend.

An hour later, the letter was finished.

AN: Missed me? Anyway, hope you liked the story so far. Italicized because the story isn't finished yet.

Me: Next chapter should come soon. Don't be surprised if it takes a week.

Erik: Don't be surprised if this annoying brat is dead by then.

Me: Yeah. Wait – what?

Erik: Nothing, nothing...

Me: Okay!

AN: Review! I like reading your comments and predictions! It's very enjoyable, actually... but, I'm not begging. I don't beg. Begging would be like:

AN: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW!

AN: I don't do that. So yeah, I like reading reviews. Have a problem with that? Because if you do, that's perfectly fine. If you don't... HIGH FIVE!