No More Gifts
"The Opera"
(Part VI)

CHRISTINE DAAÉ'S (SECOND) JOURNAL

All the rest seems a blur to me; just a few mere moments stand out now from the fog, like dreams interspersed across the star-lined canvas of a restless night's sleep. I shall attempt to write what I can, in the order that they return to me, in the bleak hope of making some sense of the way things fell in the end. I obviously claim no responsibility for any of what follows these grim letters, only the obligatory remorse an unwitting bystander should have. Because Erik was right, as he always was. I never made a choice in anything. I am guiltless of everything… no matter what Doctor Gradus scrawls in that old moleskin book of his.

But I digress.

The opera L'Homme is billed as a grand tragedy, but the truth of the matter is that it's nothing more than an incomprehensible spectacle of gauche noise and movement. The sum of the night was earthly indeterminate: we must have watched a hundred people die, must have seen a hundred funeral pyres, all alight for no real reason but to startle and annoy. What point was there in all those massacres, those slaughters, that carnage? I cried for the first few, feeling their injuries as tenderly as my own… then grew steadily wearier as they kept on coming. I grew testy for some, impatient for others, blasé in the end for them all.

Looking back, I am appalled by my own coolness in the face of all this bloodshed. I have never been one to be taken in by the dark delights of nature. I have read but only one horror novel in my life, and it is one that I penned myself: this journal. So I must assume my nonchalance was a product only of my lack of adequate time with which to process the scenes rapidly occurring before me, rather than an indicator that I have become hardened to the brittle-edged concept of death. Because it never gets any easier to view these things, truly, even in a comical light. Even when performed on a stage. Even when you know it isn't real. Even when you forget to be afraid.

Nonetheless, I would say I quite enjoyed the opera… that is, once I submitted to the futility of trying to understand the point of it all.

I will spare little words for describing its inane twists and turns, as I feel I've already wasted enough ink explaining my opinion previously. This is a recounting of my time at the Opera with Erik, not a critic's scathing review. Thus I will not waste a minute more writing about the humdrum sets, nor the repetitious yet spiritless music, nor the unmemorable characters who entered one scene only to exit the next. I will not describe the lonely old erudite who sorrowed over his wasted life so much so that he implored of the devil again and again to make a deal with him – who begged on his knees for a bargain, for a chance, for a girl, for a life – only to be ignored each and every time; and then, in a final furious fit of despair, drove a rusty paperknife through his heart to end his miserable existence once and for all. I will not describe the way he collapsed with only a shout and nothing more; I will not describe the way he did not survive; I will not describe the way the scene ended and he was carried out by some stagehands under the cover of darkness, never to be mentioned again.

I will, however, describe Erik's reaction and our ensuing conversation.

Erik was entranced throughout the scene. We both, obviously, were greatly familiar with the grand opera Faust, in all its many incarnations, and could not ignore the similarities it held to what we saw now. In seeing this Faust's bargain be so utterly thwarted, and all other symbolism and meaning drawn and quartered from the story, leaving just the barren hopelessness of a lonely old man's death to be viewed with a bored yawn… it came as no surprise to me that Erik would feel personally devastated by such a grim showing of events.

So when the spectacle ended and gave way to a new scene, with nothing but a lonely jester jingling strangely about the stage, causing the audience to burst into a fit of laughter (because what else were we to do?), I caught Erik staring morosely down at his palms, which were turned upwards in his lap in a show of something that I can only describe as helpless defeatism. I swallowed thickly, immediately knowing that he was thinking of me, and knew I had to say something to distract him from sinking further into that bottomless pit of despair.

Tonight was for him, after all, and I wanted him to enjoy himself… to deceive himself, I suppose, and to be happy for once with this little cloud he pulled down around himself… for a little while, at least, like he asked to be…

"Erik?" I prodded. "Why are we really sitting in Box Seven?"

I can offer no explanation for why I asked it, other than it was the first question that came to me. I thought it not an unreasonable question, and perhaps one he might fancy answering – either with a lie or with the truth, I did not mind which.

But he moved not a muscle, besides those with which to sigh wistfully… and did not answer my question.

So I insisted further: "Who are these women behind us, Erik? Why are they here?"

Because I knew they were not here by chance. Nothing Erik did relied on such temperamental odds as the spontaneity of life. We sat with these women on purpose – these specific women - that alone I was sure.

"I told you…" he mumbled only, still utterly morose, much to my chagrin.

"You told me nothing," I reminded him.

He clenched his hands finally, and turned his gruesome face to me. An amicable smile was set upon those taut lips, playful as a loose spark upon dry grass. "Who do you think they are, Christine?"

"I wouldn't know."

"And you would presume I do?"

"You certainly admitted as much, earlier."

He shot his eyes over his shoulder, frowning. "I suppose I did, didn't I…?" Then he shot his eyes back over to me, that dangerously innocent smile flickering back upon his face, and said, "They are my acquaintances."

"So they know you, too?"

"Did I ever say that?!" he sneered, his entire foul face corrugating itself into its most detestable pitch, ever deepening those cavernous crags between his two bald brows, before settling back down immediately and assuming once again the poise of a proper gentleman. In fact, he became almost frightfully calm in his demeanor. "My wife, can it be that you are jealous of your husband for the company he keeps in your absence?"

I, of course, could never dream of being jealous of Erik. And yet I had to respond, for his sake, with – "I fear I am, my husband."

"You shouldn't be," he said all too gently, as if he believed me. "I am much too detestable."

"I do not think you so," I said. "And I think those ladies might not think you so, either."

Here he paused once more, a trapped word caught upon his silent lips. He blinked at me several times, apparently mulling over the next thing he wished to say…

Then, like some sort of creature without society, he turned around physically in his seat, so that his bony knees pressed into the velvet cushion and his long fingers curled around the brass embellishment of the backrest. He beckoned me to do the same, and with much confusion and embarrassment and awkward displacement of skirts I did.

"Be quiet," he reminded me, as we peered over the frames of our seats, and surveyed the women behind us.

"Look here," he said, leaning close, flicking a long finger in their shared direction. "Observe these fine specimens of the Parisian populace. What do you see?"

"I fear it rude to speak like this –"

"Nevermind your propriety, my good wife. They are in a manner blind and deaf, for all you should care. They will not mind our speaking like this."

"…What do you mean by that? 'In a manner'?"

He cocked his head and thought a moment . "They are both blind as bats, in a way that makes the stagnancy of darkness a most bosom friend, lover, and suitor to them in equal parts."

An incredibly cryptic answer, I thought, but I expected nothing less from Erik.

"Lover?" I thus questioned, trying to pick the most curious thing in his web of nonsense to tackle first.

"They are widows, as you can plainly see," he gestured, and now I really did look. "One is a Princesse named Ada, the daughter of a great Lord you've maybe heard of; the other, the older one, is her much less notable cousin, and also her chaperone. Both lost their respective dear ones in a shared tragedy, which is why they are together right now." He hummed softly. "No one should be allowed to grieve alone."

As he spoke, I gazed upon these two women, squinting to make out their funereal shapes against the darkness surrounding them. Paying attention now, I spotted things I had not noticed before. I saw the younger one, the Princesse Ada (as Erik called her), had a pretty fan sitting atop her folded hands. Upon closer inspection I found the lace to be yellowed, as if with age, and greened, as if with mold; not only with that, but I spotted many small circular lenses hidden carefully in the elegant knots of the lace. With fascination, I recognized its similarity to a prop lorgnette we had used once in a production of a very grand and famous opera (the name escapes me at the minute), but certainly this lorgnette upon her folded hands was a real, working binocular! What regal privilege this Princesse had, I thought to myself, to bring such an antique relic into such a modern space! Even if it did look quite its age…

Moving my eyes from her, I looked upon the older widow and realized with a small start that she sat not upon a theatre chair but upon an unordinarily opulent push-chair, of such fine manufacturing and construction that it did not seem out of place amongst the gaudiness of the Garnier. Her skirts were spread out fashionably, as if someone had taken great pains to arrange them, smoothing out the wrinkles and fluffing out the tulle to conceal the wheels and distract from her disability as much as possible. She held a very new-looking pince-nez in her hands, rather than on top of them like the Princesse did, and I noted the pearl embossments around the rims matched the pearl handles of her push-chair perfectly. An expensive set, no doubt, but it seemed only fitting for the companion of royalty.

Still though, I had to wonder… two ladies at an opera together… alone, without an escort…

"Do you know what happened?" I asked.

"Yes, but it's not very interesting. Would you like me to make something better up instead?" he replied. I nodded. "Samarkand, then, it was. You see, our little Princesse Ada here loved a man who was the general of the most brutal army in the history of the world… and this man, this heartless commander… well, he loved her, too. But the fact of the matter was that he was a violent and merciless warlord, and she was but a simple, decent girl whose knowledge of the world and its evils went only as far as the tip of her shadow on the pavestones. There was a cleft of understanding between the two so deep it could have consumed the world. So he left her, this man they called Tamerlane; he went off and bloodied his soul some more in his heartbreak, directing the slaughter of millions, wielding his triumphant sword without discrimination. He conquered the entire world, and Hell and Heaven as well, and founded himself a throne on the broken backs of crying cherubim and shrieking seraphim, all which he had driven his heel down upon and torn the spattered wings from, to adorn himself in a magnificent feathered cloak and to garnish his temple with the rubian diadem of their empyrean sanguinity. He did, you could say, very well for himself. And Ada? Well… Ada stayed back and wept over his departure for a sequence of years. She never did marry, the foolish git of a girl; and yet now you must wonder why she wears black, I suppose? The answer should be clear: her Tamerlane is dead. He sent word from his sickbed just last week, just to let her know that he was dying, and that now she must mourn. And so she does! Do you find that as asinine as I, Christine? Why bother with crying for a man who rode away? A man more empire than person? Why bother with any of it? I say, do you know who I pity the most in this tale?"

I shook my head.

"Why, Tamerlane, of course. Here was a man, a brilliant tactician, a domineering strategist – who had ambition and potential and the world clenched in his iron fist – and he let it all pour out like sand! He was victorious, Christine! Utterly victorious! No man, nor country, nor kingdom had ever defeated him! Had ever locked his wrists in chains! Rattle your arms, Christine, rattle them hard! – can you say you've ever felt such freedom, yourself? An enviable condition, that liberty is! I, miserable I, have spilled blood for far lesser pursuits! And still this Tamerlane wasted his last breath on regretting it all for a girl. No thoughts about her, by the way; only greedy regret for himself, for his human heart, for not forsaking all the blood in the world to be with her. I say – have you ever heard a more stupid thing?"

I could not tell if Erik meant to imply our situation with this fairy tale of his… I figured it must relate in some fashion, for everything Erik says always relates back to his love for me (exhaustingly so!) and yet for the life of me I could not determine which role I had been cast as. Was I the heartbroken Princesse Ada, with her embarrassing grief for a man who abandoned her? Or was I the world-hungry Tamerlane, with his boundless potential curtailed by regret for a far less ambitious love? What did Erik mean by all this?

What was Erik trying to warn me about?

"What about her cousin?" I asked, ignoring my own burning questions about Ada, about Tamerlane...

"What about her?" Erik quipped. "Who cares about her?"

"You have nothing to say about her?"

He groaned and rolled his hideous eyes. "Fine, you impertinent thing. The cousin loved Tamerlane, too, and she mourns him just as much as the Princesse does, if not more. In fact, I'm sure a few dozen or so other women mourn him and the little graves he shared some little deaths with them in. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

Oh! Was I being curious? I certainly didn't mean to be! Curiosity was a dangerous thing to wield around Erik; I was merely trying to continue the conversation he started. And yet I had to ask, for his sake, because I could see (despite all his lofty airs of annoyance and peevishness) he was clearly itching to finish his fiction. I knew he needed my prompting to lay that final blow, like the way a vaudevillian needs a feed, and so I made myself ask him, in the perfect and proper tone required of me, "But did Tamerlane love her, too?"

And his answer, which he gave with great sneering satisfaction:

"Well, you loved Raoul, didn't you?"

Here he laughed heartily, as if his antagonism was just some flippant joke only he understood (because surely I would be laughing too, if only I understood)… and I felt that burning pit in my stomach deepen as I flared with sudden resentment… and anger… and shame… and in the span of a moment I contemplated a great many things better left unwritten in this journal… but still, forcing these thoughts back down, I made myself swallow this mystery and elsewise continue on in my interrogation.

"How does this relate to their blindness?"

Erik tapped his fingers on the chair back, reveling in a puckishness that was driving him rapidly to incomprehensibility . "What is blindness but marriage to darkness? As you are married to me, dear wife, you must doubly understand their predicament. I am a gaping black void that consumes all the light it touches; I am the eclipse that enshrouds your life entirely. What is there for you outside of me, when you and I are together? There is nothing for you, and there is nothing for them."

"I love you," I said, because it sounded like an appropriate time to say it.

"And I love you, too," he fancied back, leaning over and pressing a cold kiss to my cheek. I couldn't help but shiver and stiffen, which made him curl his mouth near my ear and whisper lowly, delightfully: "Feel, now, how the touch of my lips lingers still on your marble skin for the remainder of this conversation – feel how you wish to reach up and wipe away that thin line of spittle from under your eye, but know there is nothing there, know it is already dry – try to recall a moment your porcelain cheek was ever kissed by another, and realize you cannot – not by your father, nor by your mamma, nor by your Raoul – because though your mind might recall, might conjure up the most spectacular memories of yesterdays and yesteryears, your cheek burns now only with my fresh kiss, only mine, forever and always mine – will continue to burn even when I am finally gone – and understand, Christine, the blindness these women have been wed to is exactly the same as to you."

I had no retort to make to equal his declaration. He was right; my cheek burned wildly, all three scratches made along that smooth cusp of my socket alight with a pulsing desire… a desire to be touched, just once more, with even as little as a brief feather-light caress… something to relieve that incessant prickling, to remind my skin of that feeling just momentarily… and I realized I burned – I burned! – but I burned not even for Erik, because all Erik could do was touch my skin and replace the prickling with a new one… no, I burned for that phantom feeling upon my face, to stay upon my skin and to never, ever leave… I burned for a past moment that was growing more and more unreachable with each second that spawned up between, infinite seconds that have since sacrificed themselves to the holocaust of time with each relentless stroke of the clock… infinite seconds that have by now been long lost to the abyss of nonexistence and have no proof of ever having occurred… not this second… nor this… all replaced with a singular moment, ever more inadequate than its predecessors, which it now joins in the span of a breath, just to be replaced by yet another moment… again… and then again… and with a certain madness I realized I did not want to ever be kissed again, if it meant it would quench that scorch upon my cheek and make me forget much too soon this one burning, drying, cooling, fading kiss.

So no retort I made – instead I leaned over and kissed his own cheek, too, so we might be incinerated in this black inferno together.

To his credit he took the assault very well this time. He did not recoil, or lash out against me, or even mope to himself with that quivering bottom lip. He stiffened, but only in that way that I'm sure all husbands must do when kissed by their woefully endearing wives.

"You are kind…" he mumbled softly, all his mischievousness gone as I pulled away. There was a gleam to his eyes that I had not seen before this night, reminiscent of a child's after being stirred from a dull and empty sleep to a far more fascinating sight. Disbelief wrought itself in his weary brows as he attempted to see past the bleary fog of this theoretical repose to determine if this was not, in truth, another figment of his imagination – that is, a dream within a dream – and a battle was fought, behind those lilted lids, against the specks of sand sparkling at the watering corners of his eyes, beckoning him to give in to their siren's call once and for all. He closed his eyes, almost as if to submit, but gripped the backrest with such white-knuckled defiance that I knew he would not let himself be laid to rest so easily. "Much too kind, I fear… for indulging this fetid corpse. But kisses are… unnecessary… at this point, Christine. Words alone will do; I'm afraid that's all my heart can take right now."

"I am not kind," I corrected, leaning into overt passion as I knew it was his weakness and so thought he would appreciate it. "I am unpardonably desperate for your affection, dear husband of mine, and selfish to the point of cruelty in my pursuit. I would hardly call myself kind."

Now he groaned, as if assailed by some arthritic ache in some hard, taut tendon deep within himself; hanging his head, he whined out his dreadfully soft plea: "I beg of you to tell me you do not lie."

"I do not."

And in an even quieter, but more urgent, voice he said, "But can you tell me you love me?"

"I can."

"No, the words, Christine, I need the words now, again, right this second –"

"I love you."

"More, Christine, please just say more – do not ever stop talking – do not ever lie to me – please just make me believe –"

I did as he asked. I buried him with a hundred frivolous sentiments. I took from my heart the first words I thought of, whether they were true or not; and using my actress's slickened tongue, I lined them up one by one until they strung out a coherent sentence, then grew bolder and cleverer as I formulated declarations of devotion far lovelier than those found in any of the works of Verdi, spoken with a voice far sweeter than any of the strings on my father's violin as he played his favorite lullaby for me, the legend of the Angel of Music… his bowing gentle and expressive, his tone quiet and steady… and, much like my father back then, I managed to become quite good at convincing my wishful, craving, hungry listener that not only were these things I said things he wanted to hear, but also that they were things that were all quite perfectly true. There are Angels that sing to us in the dead of night, that stanch our tears when our fathers have gone away… and there is a love, much too formidable and raw to have been admitted before, that is alive and beating in this opera box tonight.

"Oh, Christine," he moaned at one particularly daring sentiment, raking his writhing hands through the wisps of his hair, "I am nearly forgetting… quite nearly forgetting…!"

What he was forgetting, I could only guess at. But the threat of his fluctuating indecisiveness suddenly rung in my head and a fear sprang up within me that I was playing along with his game a little too well. What if – what if he forgot this was just a game of imagination? What if he changed his mind and decided not to let me go after all? What if he took me back down there and locked me up again – made me his dependent prisoner, submissive entirely to him and his foul whims – tied my wrists and threw me down to the base of his tremendous organ – forced us both to glut ourselves on his fatalistic hatred as he thrashed his entire being against those stiff, unforgiving keys?

What if, indeed…!

It stood to reason, therefore, that this would definitely be a perfectly terrible and unfavorable path for us both to continue down. I am not a woman without wisdom, and I am certainly not in the habit of conducting exercises of sheer stupidity just for the sake of doing so (even if my heart and mind will differ in their opinions from time to time). Thus I quit my present torture of him, and moved to steer the conversation back away from such dangerous territory.

"What a silly mood you have yourself in, my husband! Ha ha ha!" (I commend myself for managing such a convincing laugh despite my nerves.) "Forget it all, then, and let us focus on the things you do remember. The women, my husband; tell me more about the women."

"Who!" he said, moaning still in his abrupt confusion.

"These two women right here," I implored, sociably gesturing to the darkly shrouded widows sitting before us, side by side, as still as statues in their plush seats. Erik picked his head up and squinted at them, looking lost, and slowly let his lamentations die as I continued. "The Princesse and her chaperone – Ada, I believe you called one of them. You said they are deaf?"

(At this point I certainly hoped they were, after all this conversation we'd been having!)

"They are Turkish," Erik said, after a strange, strangled beat. "There is a language barrier. That is… all. They can hear us speak, but they cannot understand the words – only our inflections can bridge that gap. And of course, your precious little Ada can hear us say her name…" The Princesse tilted her veiled head, as if to give some credence to Erik's explanation; I startled, for some reason not expecting her to be able to move, and Erik's bottom lip finally stiffened at my ridiculousness. He slid his elbow on the backrest and leaned his despairing chin upon his hand, turning entirely to me, as if he no longer wished to look at them at all. Setting his infinitely tragic eyes upon my own, he said, "Some things transcend language, dear girl: names, for one, as you see… but also slurs and insults, those hateful vulgarities that litter our most temperamental moments. It's important for you to remember that, Christine, if nothing else. The words you say to other people, even if you don't think they can hear or understand you… they matter, Christine, and they matter deeply. My personal lexicon is broad, as you know, but it is not all-inclusive. There are so many words I still do not know. The tongues that raised against me with aspersion and contumely were my unwitting tutors for a great many languages. Do you know how many different dialects I can say 'mangy mutt' in? It's quite a number. The pastoralists of Namibia have over one hundred words to describe the coats of their cattle; Erik, your husband, has that same amount to describe his pathetic excuse of a nose alone. My vocabulary is bolstered with all of the worst words of every language… does that make me a linguistic scholar, Christine? If I can curse my mother's tainted teat in perfect Kansai-ben, but I cannot say a simple 'good evening' to a mere passerby in Walthamstow… if I cannot understand it when a Swedish girl says 'I love you'… what is the point of language at all, except to hurt me? But then, there is also music…"

"Music transcends worlds," I murmured, continuing the thought I assumed he had. "It is no wonder you found such a balm in it, for a solace against the great calamities of your life."

But bitter was his response! "On the contrary, Christine: music transcends nothing. What is a song without its lyrics? Who is a composer without his notation? What would the Roman letters that make up the word 'larghissimo' mean to a man hailing from Burma? What meaning do Don Juan's crimes of scrupleless perversity have for the remote councils of the Althing – what meaning do they have for any of us at all? Has anyone even read the work of Lord Byron? Of Tirso de Molina? Goldoni? Zorrilla? Does anyone care about why we sing at all?" Then he sighed. "Ah, but I'm sure you think I'm being an intentionally miserable little cretin right now. Forgive me."

"Erik, I would never think that," I said, despite thinking exactly that.

"No, no," he waved me off. "Music is ephemeral and miraculous and all those beautiful things. Certainly."

"Perhaps you are looking at it from the wrong perspective," I said with great delicateness. "Perhaps music cannot convey a literal meaning perfectly. But surely it can speak from one heart to another? It can, after all, pass through borders as solid as stone walls… through borders as solid as glass mirrors…"

He pressed his lips together prissily, wrestling with some other reaction deep within.

"Do not kid yourself, Christine. You said it yourself before: you only believed me to be the Angel because I knew a few easy words in Swedish. The music had nothing to do with it."

"Yes, but I did not love the Angel – for that, anyway."

He gave a sarcastic hum of capitulation. "Ah, I forgot. You grew to love the Angel for his orchestration of your career. A succession of promotions was all it took to win your heart."

"No…"

"Then was it for all the consolations and intimate conversations we shared in that small dressing room together?" Erik asked, seeming pleased with himself. "Language, Christine. You would not have loved me without it."

"You mean the Angel."

"I – yes." Abruptly he spun back around and slunk back into his seat. "Do you enjoy defeating me, Christine?"

Surely it would feel nice to be his victor every once in a while! And yet… "It was not my intention to do so. I meant that I loved the Angel for his words, but that I love you for something more."

"And what would that be, exactly? It's hard to believe a celestial creature would be less impressive to you than the pathetic excuse of a man I turned out to be in the end."

Oh, sorry man! Could he truly not see? "Music, Erik. You gave me music."

"The Angel gave you music, too. Trained you, promoted you… chastised you…"

"But did not share his music with me."

He snorted. "The Angel sang for you many times –"

"As a demonstration."

"Then what are you getting at, Christine? I fear my patience is waning."

I moved to slide down into my own chair, to level my glance with his. I clutched his hand, which he let me take without fight. "Why did you teach me to sing?"

"Your voice," he huffed. "It was as painful on my ears as a piccolo quartet. The fact that there was nothing technically wrong with it made it all the more grating to listen to. All proficiency, no passion. It was like listening to a caged canary. I needed to remedy it, and teaching you was the best way I knew how."

"And when exactly, in the course of all this, did you come to love me?" Unsaid, of course, was the question: When did a begrudging need to refine turn into an obsessive need to possess?

"When I heard your voice."

I laughed. "How does that make sense, dear man? You said you hated it."

"I never said that," he huffed once more. "Like I said, your voice was already perfect… it just needed some refinement… like a crude diamond extracted from a mine. All it needed was some polish and some bruting. And immediately I knew just how to do it… I knew exactly how to do it."

Ah.

"Then it is a sort of pleasure, would you not agree, to know a person has some happiness to learn from you? To recognize in yourself a surplus, and in another a deficiency, and for an occasion to arise which allows you to settle the difference?"

"I would say it is far greater than a pleasure."

"Then you see, Erik," I said with considerable patience, "why I love you."

"I don't understand."

My considerable patience became... rather less considerable. I allowed myself a short, frustrated sigh and hoped it would not offend him too terribly. Then I began my explanation, willing him to please understand, just this once, even though he never has before, even though I've:

"When you are happy, I am happy. When you are sad, I am sad. We are different people, but we come together from time to time, like two travelers upon a long and lonely road. Our paths are not the same – but for a little while we might find ourselves sharing the road, finding little commonalities between us, making each other laugh, making each other cry. Others might hurry past without a word… but we, just we, will keep each other company, maybe for a bit longer than we should… and then one of us will find themselves miles and miles from where they should be, growing further away with each fond step, not wanting the path we walked together to ever end. And we will walk the long path together to the point where the pavestones turn to dirt, and then to grass, and we will trample over moldering twigs and golden leaves as we approach a dark forest that no person has ever dared to breach before. The one of us who refused to turn back will wonder what sort of path their companion has set out upon, to now be passing through a forest as sinister and formidable as this… but the truth of the matter is that neither of us is on our original path any longer, for we both had the same thought to keep our company together. And so despite the terror, despite the fear, we will walk beside each other without ever admitting our paths have diverged – and eventually we will exit the forest on the other side to brighter pastures, and yet still we will walk on, oblivious to the fields, oblivious to the sun, oblivious to the road that appears once more beneath our feet; for none of the passing scenery will matter at all, as we'll both keep going as long as the other does as well. This, Erik, is our present situation. No words are required; just the two of us, sitting next to each other, enjoying each other's company, just like we are doing now. That is what our love is. That is all it is. Companionship. Do you understand what I'm saying or…?"

In the course of my speaking, Erik had returned his attention to the stage. I wondered several times if he was even still listening to me, or if he had tuned me out entirely; in the hopes that he hadn't I had pressed on, but now I wasn't so sure. I watched him awkwardly, uncertain if I should bother waiting for an answer, or move the conversation on to another topic.

"Yes," he finally said, after a troublingly long bout of silence. "I think I do understand. But I'm not so sure you do."

"Perhaps not," I conceded, "and yet every moment we pass in disagreement over this is still a moment we pass together."

Now he turned back to me and smiled. It was a small smile, as his always are when he's not being a spiteful, hateful wretch, but curiously it held a warmth that I'd never seen in him before. A warmth nearly reminiscent of summertime… and he drew my hand up to his smile and held it there.

"I am not ready to turn back yet," he said, like an apology. "Are you?"

"No, Erik… no, I don't think I am."

I said it before I realized what it meant.

Did I mean to say it? It was becoming increasingly difficult to tell where my lies began and ended. I was wishing Erik to feel better; but at the same time I couldn't help but find little grains of truth in the course of my words, turning them from outright fibs to murky, half-veracious confessions. Would it be better for me now in this journal to claim it all was a lie after all? Perhaps. At the same time, I hardly think it matters much any more.

But certainly – certainly! – Erik will assume these all to be lies, I thought (or rather hoped). He was the one who asked me to pretend, from the very outset of our sitting in this Box, and he has always been the preeminent distruster of my affections in the past. So, I thought, it should be of no consequence if I allow myself a moment of sincerity in the midst of all this delusion. Erik will never know the difference.

"Of course, I realize," Erik said now, stiltedly, pulling me from the thoughts in my head and giving me my hand back, "the harm I have done to you. But I cannot admit I have any desire to part ways with you. Now or ever. Do you understand that, Christine? I would be your companion forever… I would, if only I were as naïve as those two travelers in your lovely little story."

My heart beat a little quicker. "What makes you think they are naïve?"

"How far into the wilderness can two people wander before one of them realizes they're lost and going the wrong way?" Erik asked of me. "One of them at the very least should know better than that. No person's path should ever lead them into darkness. I walked with the Daroga once…" Erik shut his eyes suddenly, and a small tear sprang up at the corner of his eye. "Christine, if that story is as you said – I would be a very wicked man to let us both keep walking into that forest. A very wicked man, indeed."

"But we are both –"

"– going the wrong way," he interrupted. "It is fine for me to condemn my own self to Hell. I know I am a viciously unhappy devil, and so I heed not that my maudlin heart is always finding a new way to trap itself in more misery. Desolation is my finery; and finally, after all these years, I can admit that I do not mind wearing it – just so long as I am the only one who does."

"You are afraid," I accused.

"One of us must be. The forest is dark, Christine. It is not as simple as just walking through. The things one sees in the darkness… the things one feels and does… it can reduce a life to ash."

"We all become dust eventually."

"Some of us sooner than others," he quipped.

"Must you always be so obstinate?" I pleaded. "Perhaps the situation can be different. Perhaps the two of us, as travelers, do not walk into the woods. Perhaps you see I am headed there and you convince me to change my route. And still we walk, and still we talk – it can be better this way, Erik, I promise, if only you let yourself believe."

"Believe what? Who would this be better for?" he demanded. "You forget that you did not choose this current path freely. I have held you to it for over a year. Whatever you think you feel is a fiction, made up by your mind to distract you from the horror of your reality. We are connected, Christine, but not in this simple romantic way you think we are. I told you before: we are not, and have never been, lovers."

"I must disagree with you, then. What does it mean that I feel you, so closely to the way you feel yourself? That I am the tear falling from your eye – and the other one, there, that's welling up as well? That I am the redness on your cheeks, as you blush against my attentions, despite yourself? What does it mean that we are so much the same like this, other than the fact that we are lovers? What does it mean that, when you are unhappy, I am just as equally so?"

"When you are unhappy," he pronounced gravely, "I am dead."

"Who's lying now?" I returned, thinking myself valiant. "I have been unhappy in your company more times than I can count, and yet still you sit beside me as alive as any other man. You exaggerate your misery, Erik – that is all."

"I do not."

"You do! You do. You said it yourself. You do this intentionally. Wouldn't you rather have me stay here beside you? Aren't you at the very least tempted? We are married, Erik, don't you remember? Not just within this Box, but outside as well, in the real, legal court of Paris? Don't you want to live like a married man? Have me as your wife? What was the point, Erik? What was the point of this entire last year, if not for that?"

He quivered, a tautness running through him like a bow. "Dare you tempt me now with talk of the outside world? Just this box, Christine – I told you, just this box! Are you stupid, Christine? Or are you martyrous? Do you not realize you are not free yet? That I might still change my mind yet – against my own wishes?"

"You are the one who asked me to lie. You set the rules," I told him, with firm resolve. "So believe now what you will."

His eyes seared, furious. "I am weaker than you could ever imagine. It will not take much to sway me right now."

"Then be swayed," I urged him. "Be swayed."

I was being wicked, I knew, as I laid the salt of my affections over him again. But as I had reminded him, he was the one who asked me to do this. He had been the one to ask me to pretend. To love. To seduce. I was only following his orders. And wasn't he the one who warned me not to believe any of it? Why should I have believed him – him, the master of deceit – when he asked me to stop? Wouldn't the fantasy be all the more believable if I pressed on, against his retractions?

Wasn't this exactly what he wanted?

"I was miserable…" he rattled, squeezing his eyes closed as I kept speaking over him, "I was mistaken…"

He was now begging me to stop, pitifully and wretchedly begging… but truly, what was there to stop? What lies were I telling anymore? Perhaps I was saying things I would not normally say, at his behest… but did that make them any less true?

"For the love of God – Christine," he gritted out, and suddenly grabbed at his chest. He clawed at his tie, falling over himself as an attack overwhelmed him, before finally throwing himself against the back of his chair as he gasped wildly for air. "I need you to stop. Stop pretending. Let me breathe… I need to breathe…"

I opposed him with steel.

"None of it was real," I said. "Is that what you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you I never loved you?"

"Yes – no," he hissed, clutching still at his heart. "Christine, I want you to love me –"

"Then I love you!"

"Damn you – don't say it! – please just –"

"I love you."

"No, you don't!" he exclaimed, springing from the chair. "I am nothing but a rotten husk of a cadaver, pulled along the dusty path of my barren existence by strings tangled all about the devil's fingers, strangling them as they contort my limbs into sinful obedience – forcing me into temptation, forcing me to act, forcing me to be –"

"You are not possessed!"

"– a soul corrupted at birth, a changeling spawn sired from Lucifer himself – created from a flaming mallet pounding against the brimstone of hell, a pulsing lick of fire, a burning red tongue within my mouth, a searing down my parched throat as I swallow it all with gratitude – happy to serve my master, the devil who watches, who toys, who lavishes –"

"You are not a demon!"

"Everyone thinks so!" he hollered. A peeved face peered around the divider of our box at his outburst; Erik flung his face at them and they recoiled in horror, disappearing at once with the clear lesson learned to mind their own business. Then Erik turned back to me and shouted, rather unnecessarily, "Be quiet, girl!"

"Don't speak to me like that," I said with an extraordinate amount of calmness. "I've told you before that I will not tolerate –"

"You are causing a scene," he hissed, hand still rubbing at his chest with agitation. "Sit down and be quiet!"

"A scene? I am the one causing a scene?!"

"Yes, Christine! You! You are being a nuisance!"

"How dare you!" I cried, my patience lost at last. I sprang from my seat and flew to where he stood, trembling and wrenching, and held my chin high before him. "Is this how you would treat your wife?"

With that Erik collapsed in a pool before me. Gutterly he sobbed, clutching at my skirts, sniveling into my elegant petticoats as if they were naught more than large handkerchiefs. I did not dare pull them from his hands; we were still in Box Seven, and were still bound by the rules of imagination. And besides, he was the one who had commissioned the dress. It was his to dampen and soil as he saw fit.

Several long minutes this went on. I have unfortunately become quite accustomed to these crying fits of Erik's, having lived with him for over a year, and knew there was nothing to do at this point other than wait for him to drain all his hot, sticky tears onto me. At first I found satisfaction in seeing him prostrating himself like this… but swiftly I found the passionate fire and fury of my anger draining rapidly as I watched the way he cried on. I clutched the balustrade as I shifted on my weary feet, and with something like boredom I gazed down at the opera still proceeding below and waited for him to finish.

At long last he drew away, wiping his dripping nose socket with the frilled edge of my petticoat one last time.

"I think," he said, releasing my skirt from his rotten clutch, "I'm finally content."

And with that he rocked back on his knees, head still bent in deference, and curled his hands within his lap.

"You may go now. I won't stop you," he continued, fiddling with his ring as he did. "You have done more for this old man than you were ever expected to. You have given me a taste of life and love, and finally I am… content. Life is not so glorious as I once thought. I feel no envy any longer; no ire, no anger, no regret, no shame. I… I simply do not need you anymore." As an afterthought, he added, "I can't imagine you'd take it personally."

I had the feeling as if I had been dropped unexpectedly into a large pool of water, and a hundred thoughts swam about in my head. Not a single one seemed clear enough to voice, save for one…

"The opera isn't over yet."

Even I could hear the desperation in my voice as I said it. I couldn't deny that I was afraid – to go, to leave, to never look back – but even more than that, I couldn't deny that I'd cherished our time together. Despite all the wrongs Erik had done to me, despite how grating he could be at times, I still had been looking forward to spending this entire last evening with him. I enjoyed hearing him talk aimlessly about everything and nothing, lecturing me about things I knew nothing about, waxing eloquently about topics I firmly disagreed with him on. To leave now, earlier than I thought… what would I do without him?

"Truly, I will be okay," he said with a firm hand upon my own, as if he were the one comforting me and not the other way around. He was standing now, taller than I'd ever seen him. "Do not worry about me anymore. Go, Christine. Go and live."

"But I keep my promises," I said weakly.

"You know it was an unfair agreement that only benefited myself. I see no reason to force you to uphold it, now that I have been satisfied."

"Do you despise me?"

He laughed, sadly. "Oh, beautiful, perfect Christine. You have given me the only taste of Heaven I will ever know. How could you think I could ever despise you?" Through my own tear-studded eyes I could see him studying me, those two golden flares warming my vision against the shuddering darkness. "You are a very good girl to want to keep your promise. Perhaps if I were a devil, I would make you. But you have showed me that I am not one, and so I release you from whatever binds you to me. Take your freedom, Christine, and run with it to wherever your life leads you. Erik wishes you only happiness from this moment on."

"I will die if you make me go now," I told him seriously. "I could not live with myself if I left you now. I promised you an opera. I will not go until it is done."

The golden light went out, and he took a careful step back. "You truly think you love me, don't you?"

It was not a question.

"I know I do," I answered anyway. "I know we could find happiness with each other, if only you would let us try for it. Please, Erik. I know you love me, too. I know you want me – us – this. Let us try. Let us be as other people are."

"I am the most wicked man who ever walked this earth, then," he breathed, and then turned his back to me. "I have hurt you beyond all forgiveness, if you mean what you say right now."

"Erik –" I called, as I saw him walking to the door. "Erik, where are you –"

He did not stop his stride, powerful suddenly with conviction, and his tone was nearly rude as he said, "If you are so adamant to see this thing through to the end, you will do it alone. I have no desire to torture you any longer – nor anyone else, for that matter."

"You are leaving?!"

"Yes, Christine. Is it so hard to believe that I would one day find the strength to walk away from you?"

His hand reached for the door, yet he paused before he turned it. I could see indecision overtaking him, wrapping its cold arms around him. He was faltering, grappling with second thoughts, and for a moment I dared to hope. Perhaps he would turn around. Perhaps he would reconsider. Perhaps he would -

"I will go," he decided at last. "I will walk the path to my house and back. It should take me the normal amount of time. That will give you approximately fifteen minutes to decide what you want." Then, more softly, he added, "Please do not stay here, Christine – not for me."

And just like that he left.