Chapter 7: Memories
Erik always knew he would end up condemned to suffer an eternity in hell. Since childhood he had been told nothing else besides the extent and depth of his every fault. First his mother's whispered condemnations, then the Gypsy and his violent tirades filled his mind with the shadowed guilt and anger that would later condense and become a Phantom's fury. Each, in their own way, had forged the man destined for damnation from the innocent boy he once had been. And God, Erik knew, when he had been young and believed in such foolish superstitions, had long since forgotten him; dooming him to a life of misery and suffering. Why should Erik expect his afterlife to be any different? He accepted this as fact.
And yet, even in his darkest moments, Erik had never imagined that the fires of hell could be so agonizing, so absolutely consuming. He felt every fiber of his being permeated with unimaginable heat. An inferno lapped at his body, each burning flicker tightening his skin until it stretched over his thrashing frame like the skin of a drum. Lava-like sweat pooled in the dips and valleys of his body doing nothing to assuage the misery. He was literally burning alive.
But despite the terrible boiling temperature, Erik could not see any flames. He was suspended alone in a sea of darkness more complete than any he had experienced under the Opera. It was crushing, this blackness, more so than any starless night. His darkness destroyed the hope of ever seeing light again. It destroyed even the memory of daylight, making coherent thought impossible.
Erik arched his back as another wave of misery washed over him, his muscles straining and trembling with exhaustion. He gasped and clenched his teeth against the whimper rising in his throat; his fierce pride even now, when his mind was close to flying apart at the seams, unwilling to show weakness. Rallying his courage he fought against the punishing agony, forcing his mind to focus beyond his physical discomfort. He could feel his hands fisting into the soft cloth surrounding him but, as his determination wavered, his mind couldn't seem to wonder as to why it was there in this hellish expanse. Somewhere in the distance a clock was ticking, but it barely registered within his waking nightmare as he fell back into the darkness.
Just when Erik was sure he couldn't stand the pain any longer, another presence made itself known; breaking through the rolling, heated hell with a soft sigh. A cool hand gently reached through the flames and brushed over his burning forehead; the small delicate fingers stroking his face with a completely foreign kind of gentleness. He nearly wept at the small relief, turning his face instinctively toward the mysterious presence. Gradually the tension thrumming through his battered body began to ease; he slumped back onto the feather pillow under his head.
"… now. There, there now. I'm here. Hush, now. I'm…" A soft lilting voice murmured, drifting to him over the waves of heat and darkness, sounding hushed, as if coming from a great distance.
The rolling vowels and blurred consonants of the words blended together correctly in the air, but in his confusion, Erik couldn't quite make out the meaning of each sound. Language, which had always come so easily to him, was now far beyond his comprehension. The voice continued to speak calmly as the hand on his forehead withdrew. Moments later the hand was replaced with a cold wet cloth. Another cloth was placed onto his bare chest. Erik jumped at the shock of the soaked rags then sighed at the reprieve and relaxed against the sheets under him. The small, delicately boned hand found his; cool fingers gently smoothing across his open palm, further calming his shattered mind.
The voice grew silent after some time, its comforting words dwindling into a gradual and seemingly tired quiet. Growing restless in the ensuing silence Erik grimaced and turned his face toward where he thought the voice originated. It felt empty, this stillness, and he was becoming lost in its vastness; sinking ever further into the black pit of his broken heart and fevered mind. Thoughts of Christine sprang up within him like the clawing vines of a blood sucking tropical plant, spearing through his chest and wrapping his heart within their deadly embrace.
He remembered how Christine's eyes, usually so forlorn with grief, lit whenever he spoke through the mirror; how her face glowed with rosy expectation. She had come alive under his tutelage, waiting for hours just to hear him speak, singing as he had taught her, her voice glorifying his name. It had all been for him. Or at least he had thought it had been, but not any longer. He had lost her, and with her had lost every ounce of happiness he had ever possessed.
The ache of what he had lost tightened its hold on his heart until he could hardly catch his breath. It hurt worse than even the burning of his body. This pain sucked him dry down to his very soul, leaving him stark and empty; leaving him without hope of ever feeling anything but this vast and black pain. Every breath hurt, every beat of his hear stung because it meant he had to continue on without her. He could not bear to continue on.
He would never see her face again, never hear her sing. It made him feel as if he were drowning, dying alone and in the dark. Do not think of her. Do not think of her! He silently begged of himself; wishing desperately to be free of this unbearable agony. Moaning audibly Erik jerked his head back and forth in an unsuccessful attempt to shake his former student's beautiful face from his mind, but her sad, doe-like eyes continued to haunt him.
From far away the comforting voice from before ended the silence surrounding him, breaking through the crushing walls of his grief with a few softly hummed notes of an unfamiliar song. Stilling at the sound Erik felt the sheering agony of the broken pieces in his heart ease gradually, no longer piercing his chest with blistering anguish; thoughts of Christine, of her betrayal and his failures, drifted out of his consciousness.
The humming stopped momentarily, as the now warm cloth on his head and chest were replaced with cold ones, then began again; shifting fluidly into a gently lilting lullaby. The words, though he couldn't understand them, moved over Erik like the cooling ripples of a clear watered stream, washing away the hellish heat and bitter feelings. The song held a strange, mystical quality that enthralled his composer's soul, distracting him from his misery. For a few blissful moments he listened to the haunting notes, floating along on the simple melody, his mind remaining thankfully blank. The darkness surrounding him seemed to recede, no longer wrapping about him like a shroud, and for those few stolen seconds he allowed the song to comfort his aching heart.
He blinked his eyes and an unfamiliar room slowly came into focus. An unadorned oil lamp sat on a table next to where he lay, it was lit, though the flame burned low. Dragging his gaze slowly away he became vaguely aware of other objects within the room, a dresser, a scattered assortment of chairs, a fire burning brightly in a hearth. Flinching from the flames he closed his eyes for a moment. He had known there were flames somewhere; seeing them only seemed to make the burning worse.
Another cool cloth was laid across his chest, the singing seeming closer now. Struggling to find the voice's source Erik fought exhaustion and slit open his eyes once more. A hand slid into his open palm that lay limply next to him. He stared at that small hand for a moment then followed it the length of a delicate arm up to a blurry face. Large, steady eyes stared back at him though no other features came into focus.
"Chris..tine?" Erik rasped, his throat feeling as if he had swallowed glass. "Please…Christine…"
The lullaby stopped abruptly and the blurry face drew closer as the young woman leaned forward; her featured slowly becoming clearer. Erik could make out the lines of a mouth and a nose. But he could not look away from her eyes. They held him captive, glimmering in sharp clarity when everything else remained insubstantial. Not Christine's lovely dark eyes at all, but soft and gray as a morning fog.
"No, darling. Not Christine," the voice murmured. Erik grimaced and gripped the hand in his as he felt his grief rush over him. He felt wetness on his face that had nothing to do with the moist cloth on his forehead.
"Hush, my sweet. Hush now… Rest… Just rest awhile. Do not cry," she soothed, her gaze sad now, the gray darkening to the color of rain-wet stone.
"Sleep, sleep, Grá mo chroí. Here on you mamma's knee. Angels are guarding and they watch o'er thee," the song picked up again far, far away. The notes drifted sweetly for a moment but Erik was falling and the fires were fanning ever higher.
His mind began drifting from thought to thought, until it shifted unintentionally through long ignored memories; revisiting sorrow after sorrow as the comforting voice grew distant, continuing to sing from far off into the darkness.
The outline of a woman materialized within his mind. Gradually the fuzzy memory cleared and solidified into the face and figure of someone he recognized, someone he once knew very well but had not thought of in decades, his mother. In his mind's eye he watched the memory of her turn towards him and smile; smile as she had never done in real life. It was beautiful, her smile, lighting up her face with an almost ethereal glow. And for a moment Erik could imagine that that smile was for him; if just for a moment. But reality's ugliness began to slither into his mind as truer memories killed off the dream. Her happiness shifted, and something ugly moved into her eyes.
Erik's mother had been a woman of unusual beauty. Her flashing blue eyes and smooth dark hair always drew attention; and eventually caught the eye of the man who would become Erik's father. His father had supposedly also possessed a handsome face before he died at a young age. They had seemed meant to be together, perfect together. Perhaps that was why Erik himself had been such a disappointment. Had he been born to ugly parents would his life have taken a different road?
It was from his mother that Erik acquired his deep and unquenchable thirst for beauty. He grew up loving all things pleasing to the eye, for it was beauty which always denied his deepest desires. His mother had withheld any sign of human affection. Her glorious face strained whenever she glanced his way. Even with a mask on, she couldn't look at him with anything but simmering disgust, couldn't quite pretend the love he had always yearned for.
Eventually her undisguised disdain had driven him from the only home he had known. Running away he had wandered through the woods for hours, secretly praying all the while that she would come to find him, but of course she never did, leaving him to his fate as she always had.
Eventually he had wandered into the camp of a passing gypsy fair, drawn there by the light and tempting odors of cooking food. They fed him and gave him a place to sleep but the price for these amenities was far beyond his imagination. He had been forced to show his distorted face to crowds of curious onlookers to earn his keep.
He had been only nine when his mother had let him go into the night alone. Damnable, cruel woman. She couldn't have known the hell she had condemned him to for the next five years. Even if she had, Erik doubted it would have changed his fate. His face had been slowly driving the woman mad. She had obsessed over keeping his simple cloth mask firmly in place; checking it twenty times a day towards the end. No, it couldn't have ended any other way.
He shifted, uncomfortable with where his memories were leading him. He could almost feel the rough cloth of his earliest mask pressing against his face. Erik raised a hand slowly and ran his fingers over the smooth leather of his current mask, checking compulsively for its presence. He opened his eyes momentarily when a soft sigh sounded near his left ear. Shocked to see the dim outlines of a semi-familiar room rather than the inky blackness he was growing used to Erik frowned weakly at his surroundings.
He turned his head slightly, fatigued even by that slight motion. A woman was sitting next to the bed her head resting upon the mattress next to his hip. She appeared to be sound asleep. Her long pale hair was loose, fanning out across the sheets by his side. The woman's face was turned towards him her, features glowing rosy in the firelight. The sigh he had heard must have come from her. Her lips were parted slightly still, as if on the verge of another deep exhalation. And yet, she looked terribly exhausted, even in sleep; the dark circles under her eyes and the worried crinkle between her brows giving silent testament to the continuation of some deep care.
Erik wondered for a moment what could be troubling her. She looked so sad that it must be something terrible on her mind. Dimly Erik remembered the soft notes of a lullaby as he watched this woman sleep though he couldn't say why it came to mind.
Staring at the stranger for a more few confusing seconds Erik finally gave up trying to identify her, though something about her face continued to tug at his memories. His muddled mind simply refused to cooperate.
His gaze fell to where the woman's hair lay loose near his hand. It was pale and glimmered like sunlight on snow. He moved his fingers slightly until a lock of it flowed under his touch. The silken feel of her hair sliding under his fingers felt like heaven, and she seemed an Angel. It was then Erik knew with grim certainty that this was a dream sent to torment him. He had never caressed a woman's hair before and never would. He was one of the Damned in hell. Nothing so fine would ever be his to touch. Tiredly, Erik's eyes slid shut. He instantly returned to the dark tomb of his own thoughts.
As heartbreaking as his earliest years had been they, in no way prepared him for his time in the gypsy fair. Those years were the darkest of his young life; never had he been so close to death as he had been at that fair. Daily beatings and poor nutrition had nearly destroyed his young body. Most days he had only eaten what was thrown through the bars of his cage by those that passed by. Most days he hadn't eat anything at all.
The gypsy who had kept him loved only two things in life. He loved gin with a deep and everlasting passion. And he loved the lash. Whether he was throttling boy or beast made no difference to the man. Pain is universal and he had loved to be the cause of it. Even to this day Erik's back bore the marks of his childhood abuse; long, raised white scars crisscrossed his powerful shoulders. It had been a long time since he'd thought about them. He had spent years trying to forget.
Now, it seemed, his fevered mind couldn't let those memories go. The darkness he was floating in faded as gaudy and jarring colors began to bleed into his mind's eye. A terrible smell assaulted his senses. He never could forget that smell, a mixture of rotting food, refuse, and animal manure. It stung the eyes and clenched the gut.
The colors swirling about in his head slowed and finally came to rest in a horrifyingly familiar scene. Before him was the inside of a dirty yellow tent. One flap was tied back slightly, allowing him to see the muddy fair outside. He could almost feel the straw under his feet and the steel bars in his hands. His back stung from remembered lashes.
Erik tensed as his mind relived the pain he had experienced at the hands of the gypsy man. The old scars on his back began to burn at the power of the old memories. He cried out when the familiar hollow, smacking sound of leather meeting flesh echoed within his mind. Thrashing upon the bed, he fought the memory as he never could have fought in reality.
A pair of hands materialized out of his nightmare and pressed down onto his shoulders, partially stilling his frantic struggles. Roaring in rage Erik lashed out blindly at his assailant, the back of one hand making contact with warm flesh. There was a pained gasp and the hands upon him instantly released him. He continued to desperately fight off the shadowed demons of his past despite the hand's retreat. His fingers rose claw-like into the air, his legs tangling within the sheets. The heat, the terrible black, boiling heat, pressed in around him, filling his lungs and searing his skin until he was certain he would die at any moment.
Then a soft voice spoke to him through the fire and blood raging through his mind. Slowly the voice shifted into the sad lilting melody which he vaguely remembered from before. Erik gradually stilled, suddenly exhausted from his wild flailing and calmed by the sweet lullaby floating through the air. He sighed heavily, withdrawing into the confines of his thoughts, leaving his aching body to be soothed by the strange foreign song.
The fever magnified even the dimmest memories into crystal clearness. Many things he didn't want to remember. Some of his worst memories had been born within that Gypsy's tent. There hadn't been a single moment of peace during those horrifying years at the fair. Not a single act of human compassion.
Then, unexpectedly, the faint memory of young, wide eyes staring at him through the bars interrupted his dark thoughts. They stood out within his memory, those lamp-like eyes gazing upon him without a hint of disgust or terror. Fearless, piercing eyes.
Erik's mind tried to focus on the hazy memory but the sound of cascading piano music began to interrupt his rambling thoughts. He frowned as his mind was jarred from his memories back into the waking world. He listened silently to the tinkling notes even as the heat from his fever once again began to burn his entire body.
Erik slowly opened his eyes. He stared up, dazed, at a burgundy velvet canopy hanging directly overhead. Shifting his gaze downwards, he saw that he lay in a large four poster bed that was surrounded on all sides by thick, dark cloth except for a small crack on his left. A column of brilliant sunlight streamed through the opening falling in a horizontal bar across his chest. He winced in automatic reaction to it.
Suddenly a sharp voice called in the distance and the music crashed to a halt, the final note ringing in the air.
"Aria, what did I say about playing so loudly when there is a patient in the house!" a woman called in accented English from somewhere else in the building. Silence followed her question. Then a heated argument broke out between the woman and a deep voiced man.
It was the man who began the fight, his voice hushed but carrying clearly into Erik's room nonetheless. "Bri, you can't honestly expect to keep a stranger in the house. I know that night at the Opera was hard on you but you just can't take care of everyone!"
There was an exaggerated sigh before she replied. "Conner, I did try to place him in one of the hospitals with the other victims but no one would accept him. He was so ill those morons suggested I drive him to the city morgue and wait. I would die before I merely sat back a watched someone pass away. I had to do something."
"You don't know anything about this man Bri! He could be dangerous! What if he wakes up and does something terrible to you or even Aria?" Erik couldn't see the two people as they fought, but he could feel the growing tension as a weighted silence followed the man's last statement.
"You know I would never put Aria in danger," the woman began quietly, her voice even and logical. "He won't be waking up and doing anything for a long time. He must have been down in those cellars for far longer than I was. The smoke caused an infection in his lungs. If he had been taken anywhere else he would have been dead by now."
"That is another issue Brielle. You are killing yourself taking care of this man. You have to sleep sometime. It has been nearly a week now. I don't see how you can even be awake right now." The man's voice softened with worry.
"I know Conner. I promise to rest tonight. I was just compelled to stay up with him because…" She paused at this, suddenly sounding very tired. "Because I didn't think even a stranger deserved to die alone. I am astonished he lived this long. He seems to be in so much pain. And not just from his infection. He has nightmares as well, and calls a name over and over again. It is enough to break my heart."
"Bri your heart is too soft for your own good. What in the world am I to do with you lass? I cannot allow a stranger to be here with you and Aria alone."
"I am afraid Conner that, in this instance, you haven't a say in my actions," Brielle replied, a note of determination cooling her voice. "I understand your worry but I have made up my mind. Please try to understand."
An irritated grunt sounded from the man. "Arguing with you is like banging my head against a brick wall! Do as you please then! Forget I even mentioned it!" The sound of a door slamming in the distance ended the conversation. The household fell into silence.
Erik sighed as his eyes threatened to drift shut. He had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. Obviously he was no longer in his home, or anywhere within the Opera's cellars. The sunlight had never touched those places. Yet here it streamed in through the curtains surrounding the bed. It had been a long time since he had awoken with the sun in his eyes. He had forgotten how nice it was.
Slowly he turned onto his side, his body surprisingly drained by the simple action. Sliding a hand over the sheets, Erik reached across the mattress, his long fingers brushing the bed curtains. Straining, he hooked the drapes and slowly pulled them aside. The sunlight spread over the dark linens and lit his pale face. As the buttery yellow rays warmed his skin, a small, rapturous smile graced his features. God it has been a long time. I had forgotten how much I missed it. Simple sunlight…
For a moment everything else disappeared and Erik was left with the best of himself. He was a man who could take joy in the light, who reveled in it. In that moment the Phantom of the Opera didn't exist. He was simply Erik.
Reluctantly, he released the curtain and slumped back against the down pillows. The drapery slid back into place, casting him in shadow once more. The moment had passed and his more recent memories, though vague, began to filter once again into his thoughts as he tried to piece together how he had come to his current location.
Christine's tear stained face filled his vision. For one terrifying moment Erik feared that the sight of her would bring back the crushing pain of heartbreak. Frantically he hurried to protect himself, shoring up his broken heart with layers of burning anger. As the threat of pain faded Erik felt his heart began to pound with fury, remembering in more detail Christine's betrayal. Despite his love for her, despite his years of teaching her she had left him to rot alone in the darkness. Charming, cruel Christine. He began to shake with the power of his emotions, hatred further infusing the hurt and loneliness. To hate was far simpler than to hurt.
As he lay still upon the bed, his mind raced trying to make sense of the garbled memories assaulting his senses. Erik could see the young Vicomte before him, a noose about his neck. He watched as Raoul struggled against his bonds, the boy's eyes bright with unshed tears. Unexpectedly, he remembered the feeling of Christine's lips upon his own, the softness of the touch slowly growing into a frantic pressure. Though there had been passion, something about the memory was odd. He could still feel her lips trembling against his, not with need but with fear. It had been because of that subtle terror that he had allowed her to go. His love for her could not stomach the thought of forcing her into his embrace forever, and so he had watched her go; staying alone in the darkness he was so familiar with, ready to die.
After Christine left with her boy, Erik's memory faded. He could not recall exactly what had happened. He had fled into the darkness, his heartache making every breath painful, every step a chore. He remembered the smell of smoke and then nothing but a terrible flameless inferno.
Somehow he had managed to flee the Opera, considering his current surroundings. How that had come about was beyond his knowledge. As he furiously tried to drag the memory from his brain, the image of a pale figure leaning over him flitted behind his eyes; but despite his best efforts, he couldn't bring the angelic image into focus.
Erik was once again interrupted from his musings when the door to his room quietly snicked open. He opened his eyes and tensed as a pair of footsteps walked over to the side of his bed. Through the crack in the thick curtains about his bed, he could see the silhouette of a woman setting a tray upon the bedside table. She casually turned and pulled the curtains back.
Erik started and pulled the sheets covering him higher over his bare chest as the curtains snapped open. His other hand instantly flashed up to spread across his accursed face, only to find it safely hidden behind his mask. The woman jumped at his sudden movement her small hand rising to rest over her startled heart. Staring at the stranger with a touch of panic Erik quickly assessed what level of danger she may pose.
Petite in stature, her frame small boned and delicate the young woman vaguely reminded him of Christine, but something barely discernable in the way she held herself put the comparison to a quick end. This woman held her shoulders back and her spine perfectly straight, utilizing every inch of her height and creating an imposing air of calm authority. Shocked by this Erik instantly brought his gaze upward.
The woman's light hair was pulled back into a simple bun; the sun behind her haloing her head in soft yellow light. She shifted slightly, tilted her face to the side, moving out of the sun's direct path, the golden rays leaving her hair not a pale blonde, as was Erik's first impression, but a peculiar shade of snow white. Looking to be somewhere in her mid twenties her features were smooth and perfectly symmetrical, her mouth full lipped and heart shaped, her nose straight and slightly upturned at the end, like the carved face of an ancient Greek sculpture. And in the midst of it all were a pair of large, cool gunmetal gray eyes; which were currently meeting his gaze with an eerie, unblinking calm. These were not the eyes of a young woman, there was no wistfulness or fancy to soften their edges. They were a warrior's eyes, toughened by some past hardship or deep sorrow, watching him as if they could see to the very deepest corners of his soul.
She was strangely beautiful, this woman; looking more like a mystical being born of snow and ice rather than a mortal woman and for a moment Erik was too stunned to move. Then, horrified by his automatic fascination with her appearance, Erik quickly shook himself out of such fanciful thoughts. Narrowing his eyes at the woman, he forced himself to look at her with the lessons Christine had taught him.
He had been wrong moments before. This woman wasn't anything otherworldly or magical; she was merely odd, her paleness strange and foreign, and Erik certainly didn't find her appealing in the least. The inkling of strength he had seen in her stance and expression had merely been an illusion created out of the fog of his mind. She was nothing more than just another vacant-hearted woman. Not a threat at all.
And Erik noticed, without much surprise, that her gray eyes were now pointedly averted away from him, staring instead at her feet. Christine had exhibited the same behavior after first seeing his face, never quite looking him in the eye. He could practically feel the gut clenching rush of shame he had felt then slinking its way through his blood, feel the sharp sting of heartache, and the boiling of impotent fury. Gritting his teeth against the inner onslaught Erik forced the shame aside, and drew the rage closer. The anger he felt for the young soprano easily transferred now to the woman standing before him. He dropped the hand covering his mask back down to his side.
When the woman turned her head to glance awkwardly at the tray she had brought, he recognized her as the woman who had been snooping about the Opera all week. Erik scowled fiercely at the realization. This woman had invaded his Opera house without so much as a by your leave. She had shrugged off his warnings with unbelievable amounts of insolence. In his anger, he conveniently forgot the way she had stared up into the darkness of the Opera's catwalks with fearless eyes, that she had met his gaze just a few moments ago. It had been years since anyone had reacted to him without fear.
Opening his mouth, he snapped at the young lady without a thought to his words. "What is the matter, can you not even bear to look? Your feminine sensibilities must be terribly fragile to prevent you from meeting my gaze even with my mask on."