Chapter 2- The Despair of Erik

Erik's POV

"How I hate and despise you Raoul de Chagny."

My voice repeated the nine words which had become my mantra as I lay awake and alone in the small woodland cottage. My voice that even my mother had found beautiful now raw and more of a croak than the voice of the angel of music I had been once named. I repeat the words again and again lying on my little cot and staring at the ceiling. This is how I spend most of my days lately just staring at the wooded planks above my head and listen to the sound of the birds. I have been here for three months waiting to die…

Tears leaking down my face as my continuous sobs go unheard echoing in muffled wooden walls. I think of my beautiful home destroyed by those dogs that would see me in the gallows come morning. Those that would sooner laugh then even allow me the luxury of death preferring to torture me instead. I lay here coughing and sputtering from a lasting cough given to me from the long nights of despair as I passed my handkerchief over my brow. The memories of that painful night when the only kiss I have ever been given was really more of a piteous gesture. Little reminiscent than one of the love that I so desperately crave. Her voice haunts me, but worst of all is my last sight of her forever burned in my mind.

I had watched them leave me heard her voice as it sang to the boy and it rang through my ears. I looked on and on as the boy pressed his body closer to her. His perfect, perfect body so like that of a prince from a fairytale. I looked at his beautiful self and turned to the cracked mirror where my horrible visage looked back at me. My open skull, my cracked nose so twisted as to be grotesque beyond words. I put my face in my hands and cursed the Vicomte... I hate him... the man had everything that a man could want, the most beautiful woman in Paris at his side. The only woman I have ever loved.

When at last she had departed I looked around my home and though my vision was blurred through my tears I could see the wreckage my anger had caused. My home is destroyed, my clothes are tattered and filthy, but I no longer cared. Why should I when everything I have ever lived for no longer exists… in my life anyway. No, better to just lie here and think, reflect over that one brief time when I might have been loved for myself, that one time when I had dreams and music and an angel of which to focus my passion on. But that time had long ended, it ended in this very house in the very room where I had created everything of beauty that I had ever made.

Ashes, the pictures of Christine are scattered about all over the place, some wetted with the greenish muck of the lake water causing the golden hue her hair so painstakingly colored with my finest ink…her hair so beautiful having the purity of rubies just dully entangled within the weaves of her curls. The greenish water splotched it and destroyed its already feeble imitation of her beauty. It's impossible for one to truly capture the beauty of Christine such as she is.

I closed my eyes trying to block out the sight but then an even worse thought pooled in my mind. Her with him, I wonder what they're doing right now… Was he sitting with her at his side or with his head resting in her lap as she stroked his hair? Was she singing him to sleep, kissing his face? Were they holding one another as they kissed passionately over and over? Was she sitting in his bed beside him with her head on his human chest? I picture her with him and her in the wedding gown I made her at the altar of some grand and gothic cathedral.

I see in my mind's-eye the Vicomte standing there with his back to the crowd wanting to be last one to see her. The Comte walks her down the narrow path in his beautiful tailored suit and handed her off to his brother. They exchanged a kiss on the cheek and then she was holding a bouquet of roses as beautiful and golden as her hair. The ring I gave her twinkling on her finger in the sunlight as she entered a world of light when she would give up her music and her career forever to become a breeder.

The thought of her and her boy is a painful thought indeed! As I lay here thinking of the kiss they had shared on the rooftop. Where she had used the gift I had so painstakingly given to her to shun me. Her loving mouth that had once called me an angel was now cursing me saying that I was so ugly that she could not even look at me. But worst of all was the painful kiss she had placed on my poor face. She would never kiss him again and I knew she was kissing Raoul right at this moment.

A picture forms in my mind of them. His arms were around her and he whispers about the wedding night to come where their bodies would mingle in the picture of two angels. Her red-golden curls, her soft features, her forget-me-not eyes soft in the dance of candlelight, his pure golden hair rusty in its glow. Her body naked beneath the sheets of his canopy bed, her beautiful voice crying out his name in need, but then that passion was not as explosive as the one that I had given her. But nonetheless her lips would cry for him and afterward she would whisper goodnight to him.

Then not long after, maybe a year I could see her there singing to a fat-cheeked blonde child with her eyes, the next heir to the Chagny line. I found her eyes smiling as her husband kissed his child. Beautiful and sickeningly perfect while I did nothing but dream and weep for many hours and wonder how my love could have left me so. My mind told me that I already knew why and that I should stop asking ridiculous questions. She had left me because she did not love me. Simple as that and yet the thought of her crushes me… is it possible to die of love? I think so… even if it is not I know it is possible is possible to die of torture, and what an exquisite torture this is!

Every night I am haunted by these unrelenting dreams. So much so that only physical pain can wake me now. If I looked like a freak before well I have made it worse with my constant beatings of myself. Sometimes even that is not enough and I must burn myself, torture my poor wretched body to the point where I can do is shiver as the instrument I was using falls from my hand. The sound of the object hitting my cold stony floor whether it is a piece of shattered glass or a blunt whip for a beating makes me cringe. There are nights I cut myself hoping to bleed out just to find some peace but it never works. So I lie here in pain both hating and loving the pain as it makes me sleep.

There is nothing I can do about lest the sleep I need to live never comes, but then maybe death would be a relief. Of course, due to my catholic childhood I am going to hell if this continues for suicide is after all what father Mansart and old fire-haired man of sixty wearing a black hat and wizard-like robe, had called the unforgiveable sin. It cannot be worse than this; I fear that I am already in hell, my own personal hell. Does the so-called 'good book' not say that one who commits an unforgiveable sin shall have the blood of their worst pain cast upon their head? If not it says something like that.

The thought does not trouble me, for surely any ring of hell would be more merciful than this. I would rather suffer the fires of the lowest ring than deal with the pain of loss anymore. I would rather be destroyed entirely, turned into a true demon than suffer any more of these dreams of a love that I never had. Oh the misery of it all, the torture of the endless remorse! I still see the beautiful girl who stole everything from me, my music, her voice, my very heart in its entirety worse my very soul. Everything I had to give and all I asked in return was her love… she could not give me even that but then again who could?

Love was meant for beautiful and pleasant things neither if which I am. But as ugly as I appear one fact is undisputable the fact that I am human and was born with all the needs and urges of a human male. In the end I am still a man who has all the feelings of the human race…perhaps even more so. Is it not true according to science that those who are hindered in one way are given other are given to heightened senses and emotions…as though in compensation for the shortcoming although in my case it is more of a pain than a pleasure. My 'compensation' is mostly in my brilliance of course but also in my imagination. I dream every night, such a beautiful and terrible dream that I had every night.

Christine is in the gown I made for her. For many days and nights I had longed to see Christine in that gown since the moment I laid my poor unworthy eyes on her beauty. Oh my wretched eyes, how greedy they are, how evil to dare cast themselves on her beauty. Christine has placed the veil on her head and now… she stands before me the vision of a living wife, so gorgeous no not gorgeous… it is not a word to describe her! Oh heaven of heavens, oh joy of joys, it is a pain and a pleasure to contemplate such a word!

Christine is coming closer to me, dressed in the wedding gown looking angelic and tired. Circles under her eyes tell me of the many hours she has spent singing to herself in order to induce the sleep that one so pure deserves. The dress looks lovely on her, white as the first drop of snow on Christmas morning; it flows delicately down her form so lovely it makes me weep that such a beautiful creature can come near one such as me. I, the wretch that I am! I, the opera ghost the poor unhappy Erik, one whose mother deemed him a corpse and could not bear to touch him nor even give a name.

Now Christine comes to me, timid and shy as she places her delicate hand on my icy cheek. Her hand is so warm on my poor neglected face, so tender and gentle, she raises her other hand to mine and laces her delicate fingers through my own. She kisses my cheek and turns to the Daroga who she is asking to be our witness, witness to what I wonder? Her eyes turn to match mine and she reaches up to touch me, tracing the pads of her tiny fingers trace the small bumps underneath my eyelids.

"You know," she whispered, "Your eyes are beautiful."
I choked back a mocking laugh, no part of me was beautiful and I knew Christine was trying to Of course this was impossible as my angel was incapable of lying. I shook my head only to realize that I was trying desperately to believe that she thought me beautiful in any way when only moments ago she had so rightly dubbed me as what I am…a monster, a freak and a pitiful creature of darkness so unworthy of her love that she needed God-given-courage to touch me. And then she kisses me, warm and passionate that she can't bear to let go of me.

"I love you…" she whispered and kissed me all over my face.

But alas it comes to an end as it always does and I awake in the morning alone and full of heartache. Worse yet is the fact that there was a time when I would wake to the doting care of the two kind people I have ever met. That is over too for once again Christine has tortured me with her memory. It happened when I was ill as I often am and the little Giry tended me while her mother took a much needed nap. Madame Giry was snoring so loudly that it hurt my head and I tried to block it out but it didn't work.

"Ow…" I moaned as my head began to pound.

Her daughter came to my side with a tender tisk-tisk, "Poor thing." She said and wet a cloth for me.

"I don't need your pity!" I spat as she held it over my forehead.

"Shh," she whispered, putting one finger on my lips, "just rest."

"Very funny…" I said.

'Just rest', who did she think she was kidding? Still she shushed me and was mopping up the sweat from my forehead while I groaned with the agony of a splitting migraine. The dancer sat by my bed and washed my neck soothingly, causing me to close my eyes.

"Thank you…" I coughed belatedly remembering my manners she just smiled gently.

"No problem." She said kindly.

Then the most peculiar thing happened, she leaned down and kissed me on the lips. Apparently in the time she had spent tending me she had come to feel a certain kind of affection for me. The kind where a girl develops a crush on a man and has fantasies of an ever-lasting love that may or may not be returned. In her innocence had mistaken it for passion and I am ashamed to admit that I did not pull away from her. I was drawn in by the kiss and responded to it with equal shyness as I have never kissed anything before let alone had a woman kiss me…unless you count the inebriated slobbering of women of the night. It was a sensation that I should have found shocking and even grotesque for she is technically my nurse but then I am a man. A man so desperately starved for sex that my body responded automatically growing hard at her feminine touch. Her skin was soft and warn and so real, an actual woman was kissing me and in my arms.

"Mmm, stop it." I said wanting more than anything to quit before I did something I'd regret.

"Shh, it's only a kiss." She whispered

"But a kiss can elude to other things surely you know-"

"Oh would you just shut up!" She interrupted and kissed me again, causing me to groan.

She sighed into my lips and deepened the kiss and when I opened my eyes I noticed how lovely she was. Her blonde hair was tumbling down her back in cascade of straight golden weaves. Her lips seemed fuller from my kiss, her hands were delicate and tenderly touching me, warming me. But then her face began to change and her hair developed a reddish tint to it I closed my eyes and kissed her but then as is the way of a man on fire from another woman when he loved someone else I ruined it.

"Christine…" I said and she pulled away from me.

"Christine! Christine! Always Christine!" she shouted shrilly, turning on me, with anger and hurt in her eyes. When she sang her voice was strained and cold.

"In Paris
when the mob surrounded you
who was there?
We were there
Where was she
When the law men hounded you?
Gone long gone
We stayed on

And who stayed with you helped you and advised you?
We stayed with you loved and idolized you
She betrayed you shunned you and despised you
She chose Raoul chose his beauty and youth
It's long past time you faced up to the truth!"

"Enough!" I cried out, tears streaming down my face.

Her words were biting me in the worst way and they were true. She turned on her heel and walked out slamming my door hard behind her. Madame Giry woke and glared at me.

"What did you do to her?" she asked.

I said nothing because I had was not about to tell her about kissing her child, almost dishonoring her and then to top it off I had rejected her. All I said was, "Your daughter is in love with me…"

"Oh and you don't return it?"

"No… "

"Why?"

"She's just not Christine."

Madame then spun on me and smacked me so hard that my face bled. "Christine," she sneered, "my lovely daughter offers her heart to you and all you can say is 'she's not Christine.' Well here's news for you Erik, she's not coming back."

"I know, "I moaned, "Do you think I don't know that? I know I've lost everything that's ever mattered to me! "

She scoffed, "You are pathetic."

This was just too much for me, my blood was boiling and my rage came out in a ferocious roar. I shoved her against the wall so hard that her head slammed against the wood so forcefully that her head cracked viciously. I shook her savagely determined to shut her up, to lose my temper so much that I couldn't here her shouts of 'let me go you monster!' I slapped her so hard that she screamed and when I finally let go of her she turned on her heel and walked out.

"Go to hell Erik," she said, "I hope you have a horrible life. "

I watched her leave, standing their slack-jawed and horrified at what I had just done, realizing that I had just lost my only friend. I put my face in my hands and cried. Cried for Madame Giry the one person who had ever loved me unconditionally with all the heart and affection my mother never could. Cried for the little Giry and the loss of the gift she had offered me and most of all cried for Christine and my unrequited love.

"My Christine…my Christine…lost and gone…lost and gone…"

With these words I put my face in my hands and cried, lying down on the cot and slowly dying. I would never see her again and it was time to go.