Everything at the hospital was a blur to Erik's mind. He couldn't remember what, exactly, had happened at the construction site, but Andre had looked quite shaken and told him what had occurred—the cement bag had nearly taken him over the side of the balcony, breaking his hand and wrist and wrenching his shoulder in the process. He had screamed so loudly, apparently, that his voice had broken.
The doctor advised him not to speak. He'd written a prescription for pain medicine, set the broken bones in a cast, and sent him on his way, telling him to limit activity until the pain stopped. Andre accompanied him back to his house, still rattled as he looked at him.
"I wish I could do more," Andre kept saying as he helped Erik walk into his house. "I'm so sorry, Erik. But I have to get to work at the opera house."
He helped him sit down on the couch and then cast one last regretful look at him before leaving. The sound of the door closing felt so final to Erik, sealing him in a tomb of silence. He was alone.
Utterly alone, and broken.
How was he supposed to limit activity? He needed to work. He needed to take care of himself. He couldn't afford another live-in nurse, or even a visiting nurse. How was he supposed to take his medication on time? And not take too much? The siren call of the bottle was louder than ever with the pain throbbing through his body and his hand numb and burning.
Ayesha crept out from the shadows and trotted up to him, mewing. He couldn't even lean over to pick her up. She jumped up on the couch, sensing something was wrong, sniffing him. She curled up on his lap and began to purr.
He squeezed his eyes shut as tears began to roll down his face. Poor Ayesha, normally his one source of comfort, was, in his current state, just another chore that he couldn't complete. How was he going to feed her, let alone himself? His tears fell on her, wetting her fur, but she only purred all the louder as if that could heal him.
He had saved the life of the person at the construction site, but now there was no one there to save him.
He didn't know how long they stayed like that, him contemplating his fate, unsure of what to do next as the pain only grew and grew. Ayesha, his faithful companion, was by his side the whole time until suddenly there came a knock at the door.
"Erik?" Called a muffled voice from outside. "Erik are you in there?"
In a wave of despair, Erik realized that his back hurt too much to even stand up and answer the door. The fur on Ayesha's back prickled as she stared in the direction of the door. The doorknob rattled and opened, and Ayesha leapt off of Erik's lap, yowling. He realized, distantly, that Andre hadn't been able to lock the door behind him.
A teary-eyed Christine entered, a look of shock on her face.
"Erik!" She said, her voice sorrowful and thick with tears. "Andre told me—he said your voice got ripped out!"
Erik put a hand up to his throat, unable to answer her, and her expression crumpled.
"So it's true," she said, her own voice wavering. "Oh, Erik and your hand! You poor thing!"
Her eyes fell on the bottle of laudanum on the table in front of him.
"Have you taken your medicine yet?" She asked, picking it up and holding the bottle to the light of the window to see if any was missing.
Erik shook his head. He hadn't dared open it, afraid he might be tempted to drink the entire thing at once, putting off the moment of temptation.
She took the bottle to the kitchen and returned a moment later with a spoon, carefully carried and offered to him. He swallowed it down gratefully and closed his eyes, trying to take deep breaths as he waited for it to start working. He could hear Christine going to the kitchen and putting the spoon in the sink before bustling off to some other room.
She returned a moment later, and he opened his eyes as she sank down to sit on the short table in front of him and the couch, leaning forward so that she was between his knees, face to face with him.
"This can't be comfortable," she murmured, reaching for his mask. She let one hand linger there a moment before slowly removing it, giving him a chance to protest if he wished.
The mask removed, she set it next to her on the table, not taking her eyes off his face as she did so. Against his better judgment, Erik kept his eyes open, watching her expression as she looked at his bare face. But there was no revulsion there, no darting glances away, no catch of breath that he was expecting. There was only kindness and concern lining her face as she opened the little jar of ointment she'd brought with her from the other room, and she dug some out with her fingers, wiping it gently across the planes of his face. He blinked, trying to understand through the slowly fading pain and fuzzing of his mind from the medicine—she had gone to his bathroom and found the lotion he used for his face when it was chafed from the mask.
Had she really remembered this from when they'd lived together? After everything, all that time apart, and she still thought of this? The accident has caused his mask to scratch his face in several places underneath, but not even the doctor had thought to look or ask, at least not that he could remember.
The tender touch of her massaging her fingertips over his sunken cheeks and across the bridge of his missing nose was suddenly more than he could bear. He flinched away from her, and she pulled her hand back, regretful at causing him pain, not realizing that it was the emotion and not the pressure of her touch.
"I'm sorry," she said earnestly, setting the little jar aside.
He only blinked hard,trying to not break down into a sobbing mess.
"Are you comfortable on the couch?" She asked, tilting her head.
He shook his head slightly.
"Would you rather lay down?"
He nodded, still not able to look directly at her, and she held her hands out to help him stand up. He winced at the motion, but he knew he would be feeling better once he was laying flat.
She walked him to his bedroom and pulled back the covers for him before going to his dresser and pulling out a nightshirt. She held it up for him to see.
"Do you want to change?" She asked, her brow creasing with concern.
He stared at her. What he wanted was to remind her that she was going to miss her train if she kept this up much longer. How long had she been here already? His mind was getting muddled and he wanted to sleep, the pain finally fading to a dull ache. He nodded. He didn't want to sleep in his clothes.
"Do you want me to help?" she offered meekly, noticing his difficulty in attempting to unbutton his shirt.
He hesitated, glancing up at her. Surely after everything they'd done together, they were past the need for any pretense of propriety. He gave a single nod, looking away again.
She deftly unbuttoned his shirt and without hesitating unlaced his pants before helping him to remove the sleeves of his shirt. His shirt removed, she helped him put the nightshirt on, standing on her tiptoes to put it over his head as he stooped down as best he could. Once it was on and covering him, she politely looked away to preserve his modesty as he pushed his unlaced pants down underneath the long nightshirt, stepping out of them on the floor. She held her arm out for him to hold onto and he tried—and failed—to find a less painful way of getting in the bed. Once he was in it, he breathed a sigh of relief and she pulled the blankets up over him, fretting over his pillows. After he was settled, she hurried out of the room, and he assumed that that was it. She had a train to catch, a future to go chase. He fell asleep quickly, weariness overcoming him at last.