Gift Five and a Half
"A Gift From Erik"
(Part IV)

THE BACKSIDE OF A PAGE FROM
'DON JUAN TRIOMPHANT - ACT VI SCENE IX'

My anger at Erik remains as fresh as it was so many hours ago. My cheek still burns, though the nail-marks have since crusted over into three thin black lines below my left eye. I no longer bleed, and I am no longer crying – but it hurts, still, so very terribly.

He has taken my journal with him into his room and left me now without an outlet for my hot tears. I assume he has thoroughly destroyed the thing by this point – if not with his own tears, then with the brute strength of his rigored hands… the very same hands which—. And so anyway I do not think I will be getting my book back. Therefore I turn my pen on his 'magnum opus' instead, for lack of anything else upon which to write, and with a furious, shaking hand scribble out all these crude letters and thoughts which will doubtlessly be unrecognizable by tomorrow. Already the ink is running off the page…

I heard him weep for hours after he went to his room. A part of me felt satisfied by the wretched noise… let him cry, I told myself. Let him cry and wail and sob. God knows he has let me cry in my room far too many times before.

I was very nearly happy for his tears… but regrettably I must assume, if I could hear his sputtering sobs, then he could just as clearly hear my random, perverted fits of laughter through that single paper-thin wall which separates our two bedrooms.

Am I really as cruel as he says, then? I do not mean to be…

I know I hurt him deeply. I spoke out of fear and anger… and though I still do not regret a word I said to that foul-tempered man, I do feel a flame of remorse flickering quietly within the trappings of my aching heart.

He deserves so much more than just my hastily-flung insults. He deserves to be shattered, completely shattered, to the point of total and utter disrepair. He deserves to never recover - or if he must, I want it to be on my terms. He deserves to be broken apart again and again, and when he puts himself back together there should always be something crucial missing. He deserves to never be forgiven.

I know I am not cruel enough to hate him, though. I cannot do that to him. Perhaps there is someone else who is stronger than me… someone smarter than me... someone who knows better than to pity the man who's always lying to her, who knows better than to try to please her hell-bound captor with ridiculous little gifts as a way of saying an ill-deserved 'thank-you' for his undying, suffocating affection.

I am not strong. I don't think I was ever meant to be. Erik chose me for a reason; he knew I was vulnerable and he knew I wouldn't put up much of a fight to his advances. He hardly had to lie about the Angel of Music… I was just so willing to believe everything that mysterious voice said to me in my dressing-room. Why wouldn't I want to believe in that? Still — was I really such a fool in allowing myself to become so enchanted with him? He brought me so much happiness back then. He spoke with me when I was lonely, night after night, when everyone else had gone away… he listened to my dismal maunderings like no one else had ever done before, and he listened so quietly and so sweetly, with all the patience of a real angel, that I thought – that I really thought…!

More than anything, though, I never smiled more than in those depressing first months that we shared together in my dressing-room. He was my only friend, just as I now know I was his only one as well. There were times I even wished he wasn't an angel, and was a living man instead, just so I could have a real companion to spend my time with. It seemed so dreadfully unfair that the only kindred soul I'd ever managed to find in this world was an elusive, impossible spirit; and that while all the other girls in Paris had an arm to link with as they skipped up and down the Champs Élysées – be it a sister, or a cousin, or mother… or a father… or else some other sort of friend of a different meaning – all I had to settle for was a strange, disembodied voice in my ear. A comforting voice, maybe, that uttered so many kind and tender words that my constant pain born from years of loneliness and grief began to feel a little better with each passing day… but a voice it remained, and nothing more, never anything more; not a hand to clutch, or a shoulder to lean against, or a finger to wipe away my tears.

I am young. I never wished for love; or at least, not in the way Erik did. I dreamed of a living man: to share stories with, to sing with, to walk the streets with. A companion, just as the voice already was to me – but also more, so much more.

It was greedy of me to dream and I knew it; thus I made myself agree to the compromise I had been handed. For months, then, I contented myself with just the voice, and for months I was very, very happy. It was not the happiest I could have been, but I suppose we must all sometimes settle for a little less than what we desire.

Erik told me that once, at least. But that was back when we used to share a bed, before I knitted him that pathetic mistake of a blanket. Anyway I don't suppose Erik always has the best sense about him regarding matters such as these. I do wonder, though — did Erik ever smile as he stood behind my dressing-room mirror during our first months together? Did he ever go to sleep after our meetings with a warm, safe feeling encompassing his heart? I hope he did…

And here I am again - it's absolutely absurd that I should hope for that! I should resent him, or at the very least not pity him! I should not shed tears over him and his woes!

And yet – I still do!

I will always cry for Erik. Even on his worst days… no, even on my worst days, I will never stop caring for him. Is that love? I do not know anymore. I do not care to know anymore.

I just want to be happy. Since that seems to be such an unattainable dream these days — like a castle on a cloud, or a flat on the Rue Scribe — I will again have to settle instead for only the small crumbs of contentment that I am allowed in this lifetime.

It would be imprudent of me to become completely hopeless, though. For even if I cannot be happy… Erik can still be. And, God willing, perhaps that can be enough for the both of us.

The house was eerily quiet when Christine awoke.

As always, it was impossible to know the actual time. Her wall-clock had not been rewound, but that was only because its small, delicate pieces were laying in a ruined heap at the bottom of her waste basket. She assumed it to be morning, for no reason other than because it was always morning in Erik's world when Christine woke up, just as it was always night-time when she left him for bed. No matter how late she slept, it was always breakfast that greeted her… and it was always a full day that stretched out for her afterwards. It didn't matter how many hours she whiled away in her room; there were always sixteen more grueling hours just waiting for her just past her door - to spend like a blood-letted specimen, strapped to a chilly metal slab with the flesh of her chest pulled up to expose her innermost parts, withstanding an intense medical examination under the dissecting gaze of a morbid and single-minded pathologist…

Resistance rewarded her hand's light touch upon the bedroom door's crystalline knob, indicating a secure and safe lock, but still Christine found herself ever-dubious on the matter of late-night visitors who may or may not have come in her room while she slept soundly under the spread of her satin sheets. Her crafty housemate knew very well how to unlatch locked doors; was it so hard to imagine he might know how to re-latch them again when he went back out? A locked door might as well have been an unlocked door, then, for all that it proved – and yet an empty bed was still an empty bed, meaning that even if he had taken his liberties with her unconscious form, he had been decent enough to at least let her pretend her virtue remained as pure as it was when she first came to live here.

Where was he now? Clearly not here, but perhaps in another room? Christine pressed her ear to the door and listened through the painted wood. It was so quiet! Usually she could hear him at least moving around, or playing with his organ, or doing any number of other things… only when Erik was out was the house this deathly silent!

She could only guess where he might have gone to. She knew a little more about his habits, now that he'd shared about his walks in the Bois and about the little flat on the Rue Scribe, but that could only be a fraction of what he busied himself with. What else was he hiding from her? What else did Erik do in his time apart from Christine?

Funny, Christine thought to herself as she creaked open the door and toed her way out to the darkened hall, that he is the one who mourns his solitude, whilst I am the one who is left completely isolated down here, with no hope for escape and no hope for company… save for him.

She followed the long length of plush carpet down to the hall's end, passing by sculptures and paintings which were impossible to see in this gloom, until she reached the place where the parlor's dim gaslight wrought a blurry, unnatural pattern upon the parquetted wood floor. The hall was made to feel all the more darker with just these small strips of light as her guide; and something more than a shiver went up her spine as she reached with a white hand to turn the antique brass knob of the faded glass door.

Petals of every imaginable shade of bloom blossomed out before Christine as she stepped into the parlor. From every surface, every shelf, every tabletop, there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers cut neatly into a thousand porcelain vases that glittered in the glow of the candlelight. The room was awash in every color of human sensation, every peak of human joy and every pit of human pain, blending together to form the softest, gentlest hues she'd forgotten how to see. And these vibrant hues were painted from the velveteen petals of a great many jubilant gerberas and yearning orchids; of a hundred haunted hydrangeas and pining peonies; and most of all of an overwhelming and disproportionate number of tender lilies.

And, in the center of it all - as if to suck the life out of everything else around it - was the skeletal form of Erik, sitting upright but asleep nonetheless upon the chaise, dressed in his best evening suit and clutching a bouquet of dreary pale-green roses to his chest within a white-knuckled grip. His face was naked, chin touching lightly down to his chest, nodding slowly with each even, withering breath.

He startled as she came near, jumping to his feet as he thrust the flowers at her hastily.

"Please forgive Erik."

Christine took the flowers immediately into her embrace – he offered her little choice to do otherwise – and pressed her nose to the petals to smell its earthly fragrance. His hands rose up around the flowers to fluff their slightly crushed leaves, as if to force them into blossom even more than they were. Through his ruffling she managed to ask, "Is this what you have done all morning?"

"It is too little," he replied with quick, distracted regret. One hand reached forward through the bloom, ghosting the cold pads of his fingers against the three thin marks below her left eye. "My God… where on earth did this come from? My poor Christine. This isn't—? Oh, oh, it must be. You deserve so much more than this, do you know that? Erik fears he acted like a right beast last night, with all his colorful words and turns of phrases. Did he do this to you, too? Please tell him he didn't."

"You did a great amount of things last night," Christine said, his fingers pulling the corner of her lips into a small frown even as she spoke the words. "As did I. But let us not speak of them right now. I am heartily sorry for all my unkind words and deeds; as are you, I am sure. So let us forgive each other, and speak of last night no more."

"Can you tell Erik, at the very least?" Erik asked, running his fingers back up to the black scabs beneath her left eye. "Is he this monster after all?"

Christine brought up her hand to touch at his wrist, and then snaked her hand into his palm to pull it from her cheek. Clasping his cold hand with hers between their faces, in the midst of the flowers she held in her embrace, she feigned a light tone and asked, "What does it matter if you are? I am still here and I will not be going anywhere."

"No, you will not…" Erik sighed in agreement, tears welling in his eyes. "But, Christine, please know that I have never desired to hurt you."

"I know, dear," Christine lied. "I know."

She held his hand there, for a long moment, attempting to smile as assuringly as possible. Ignore it, she willed him. Because what good would it do to further discuss such marks? Had they not cleared the matter last night? She would not tolerate this sort of physicality from him again. She had dealt with it far enough so far in this lifetime; she would not permit it from him too. He had his words for that – no matter how ugly and painful they might be.

Or how true.

So what good, really, would it do to keep discussing it? Why further upset Erik? Wouldn't he be happier if she pretended everything was okay? Wasn't he the master at that game?

Please believe all that I say, her eyes implored of him, as she squeezed his hand gently, so that one day I can find it in myself to believe in you, too.

In the end he was the one to break away, quickly grabbing something up from behind a pillow on the chaise before hesitating.

"I have gotten you… something," he said deliberately, holding the thing to his chest, as if embarrassed now to give it to her. "A gift from Erik, you may call it. Though it is not truly a gift, as it is something you deserve as rightly as food or – or wine."

Christine couldn't help but let out a quiet laugh. "Really, Erik? Wine?"

He frowned deeper, the tears threatening to burst forth from his eyes at any moment. "See how funny your miserable Erik can be for you? Yes, Christine, wine. Is it very funny? I don't think so… Erik doesn't drink wine. Not unless someone serves it to him, and even then he just drinks it to be polite. But you, on the other hand…" He took a long shuddering breath, staring at the floor as the tears dried in his eyes. "You don't know what you do to me. I would have you drink a thousand glasses of the finest import if only you would let me. I would hold your head back and place the bottle to your lips… pour it down your throat until it made you dizzy and senseless… pour it even past that, until it spilled out of your mouth and ran down your chin. Until you choked on it, Christine, and you had little tears running down your rosy cheeks… and even then, I'd keep pouring until my bottle was empty. Until my whole cellar was empty. Bone dry. Some girls say it makes them feel sick… so I wouldn't make you, Christine. Not unless you wanted."

"Wanted to drink?" Christine asked, tilting her head to try to meet his downcast, shameful eyes. "Or wanted you to make me?"

He met her gaze with his own, chest heaving slightly. His mouth parted a nearly imperceptible amount to allow his tongue to slick itself against his thin, withered lips; and then, as if realizing the innate lewdness in his gesture, he suddenly thrust the gift at her and cleared his throat.

"I fear your other one has gone to the wild," he explained quickly, with some apology. She shuffled the flowers in her hands, and receiving his gift she found it to be a journal, of a better quality than she'd had before, covered with scuffed white leather and tarnished gold embossments. A scarlet ribbon hung out of the middle of it like a snake's forked tongue. He searched her expression for approval. "Do you like it? I did not wish to leave you without your words. Your words are so pretty, Christine. Even when they hurt. Look — I have transcribed my favorite entry."

At his bidding, she flipped the book open to find a single entry written on the front page, her words in his messy writing:

"Today I sang as Marguerite at the managers' gala and I felt as high as the heavens. It was not the song that moved me, but the one who spoke with me in my dressing-room after the gala. I was faint and could hardly open my eyes, but just to hear his voice beside me was enough to send my heart reeling. Oh, is this love? If it is, then I have never known love before this night! Oh! Oh, I must not let the Angel know…"

"You were charmed by the boy even then, it seems," Erik said, making a halfhearted attempt at levity. "You sounded very happy in that entry."

"Indeed, I was. But, Erik…" Christine touched the page with concern. "Do you really think I was writing about Raoul here?"

"I never know what to think anymore," Erik confessed. "You certainly waxed eloquently about your love for the boy in all the later entries. This entry happened to be ambiguous enough on the subject that I could pretend it was about me, even if logic would state that it wasn't. I read it many times, as you know."

"Do you truly enjoy torturing yourself so?"

"It is never torture to see you happy, my dear girl. Even if your adoring words were not for me, there was someone out there putting those sweet little hearts in your eyes. And, just seeing you happy like that, it was almost enough…"

"But not fully?"

"No, not fully," he replied with regret, pinching his eyes closed. "But almost. I could almost taste the joy you felt when you saw him that first time in your dressing-room. You had told me so much about him before then and I knew from your stories that your long-lost sweet-heart was bound to be a good choice of suitor for you. If I were a more selfless man… perhaps, I would have been happy just for your sake. But I am never happy, Christine, never. I am always just finding a new shade of sadness to shroud myself in. So I was not happy, as usual, with this turn of events – but for the first time in my life there was a thin silver lining to my misery, which I'd never seen before."

"Which was?"

"You," he said. "You were happy. So I made myself think, at least one of us can get what we want! I thought myself a very commendable fellow for that one. Imagine that. Over half a century, Christine, and I'd just learned how to empathize with another human being. It is really quite sad to think about."

Christine furrowed her brows. "I do not recall that being your reaction."

"You are correct on that," Erik sighed. "I suppose I did throw a small fit over the boy's first appearance to you. But must all the little insignificant words I say in a moment of upset be held against me? Surely you just begged my forgiveness for the very same thing." He snorted insincerely, and wiped a bitter tear from his eye. "But after, Christine, after that was when I grew to appreciate your happiness."

"How long after?"

"Days?" Erik shrugged. "Months? I do not recall. Time passes strangely down here, as you must know. But I grew to love your claim of love, for I felt the very same thing when I first met you. And it is the happiest entry of them all, for you have only grown unhappier in the time since."

"Have I?"

"Oh, very much so, Christine," Erik said, before touching her elbow to lead her to the upright piano at the far end of the room. He took the bouquet from her and laid it across the top board, before pushing back his coat-tails and taking up his normal place at the bench. She assumed her normal place as well, standing just to the left side of the piano – right where he could see her – as his fingers began to lull some sort of quiet, dreamy fantasie from the ivory keys as he spoke on. "You used to be so full of life. Look at what time has done to you down here: it has withered you just the same as me. See these roses? They shall wilt down here, as we have not the resources to keep them alive for much longer than a couple days. But Erik is very selfish and, despite knowing this would be their fate, he brought them down here anyway. When at last they die, we shall have to deal with their remains. Shall you press them in the back pages of your journal and preserve their crushed beauty for evermore? Or, if that is not your craft – shall we toss them into the lake as feed for the siren? Shall I bring them upstairs and reserve a space for them in the Opera house's finest waste receptacle? The time is coming quick, Christine; their death will be our errand in a few short hours. So shall I, in a few short months, be called to fashion you a casket of your own, too – not for death, not for death! – but because your misery has starved the plump flesh from your brittle bones so much so that you will begin to enjoy the little macabre delights just the same as Erik. You do not eat nearly enough to survive, and that is Erik's fault, especially in these recent days. But you must not lock yourself away for so many hours any longer… you have missed many meals, and Erik has missed you in return. And all this wallowing in isolation makes you very, ah, cerebral. Trust Erik on this - but do not mistake his meaning! He is not very good with his words, I'm afraid. It is a very good thing for a girl like you to think, despite what the rest of Paris might believe. But the mind needs reprieve from time to time, and it needs food for thought. Conversation, Christine, that is what I am saying. You starve your mind when you live as a shut-in, Erik knows it very well… and it makes you very ugly. Oh, but rest assured, my dear! - Erik will always find you beautiful…"

On and on he played and played, capturing a picture of a cloud caught in the light, the delicate airy tune spinning a rainbow as —he rambled on with his words. Christine didn't listen to half of it, his words becoming more sound than meaning after some point. This was nothing new; he sometimes spoke when he played, thinking out loud about whatever was on his mind idly drolling some Mozartian melody. Once or twice before, during their lessons, he had doled out some very specific instructions to her, just to scold her later for following 'such mindless and repulsive boobishness' which he swore he never gave to her. She learned after that not to trust a thing he said when he was playing – at least not outright.

But, oh! The things he said were so very beautiful sometimes! And so appealing…

"I really should let you leave," he therefore said, flippant as ever as he crossed his left hand over his right to strike at the upper board's E-flat.

Yes, you should, her mind agreed instantly — for even in the midst of all this madness, she was still a woman of reason — but to him she remained silent, watching as his left hand tickled its way back down the keys, tinkering out a descending chromatic scale.

"It is not right for a lady such as yourself to remain down here at all hours of the day – or night. It is always night down here, is it not? So Christine has become a lady of the night… to some perspectives, I mean. Erik is very crass; of course you must forgive him..."

Now his right hand was dancing across the black keys, four – no, five! – at a time, conjuring up a new, almost foreign melody to add to the ever-engulfing fantasie at his fingertips.

"You are a good and respectable woman – you have so many things waiting for you upstairs. You have been very accommodating, my dear girl, to indulge my fantasies for this past year… to play house down here with a raging madman for so many endless days… but I fear your suffering is quite nearly over now."

He isn't… he couldn't be… she couldn't bear to stay silent any longer. "Erik, what exactly do you mean by all of this?"

He startled at her interruption, pausing his playing as he turned to her in confusion. "What did I say?"

"You said you were going to let me go."

Two baffled brows raised to an almost comical height. "Did I, now?"

"Yes. You said it quite clearly just two seconds ago."

He chuckled. "I don't think I would say something like that out loud, especially not in ear-shot of Christine."

"And yet you did." Christine tilted her head worriedly. "Do you not realize how much you talk when you play?"

"I don't talk," he retorted, before pausing. "Do I?"

"So much, Erik. Just… so much."

He averted his eyes after that, picking at the ivory of a chipped key with a single, long, yellowed nail. He jumped when he pressed it accidentally, making it ring, and so he shut the fallboard and folded his bony hands across it in surrender. "Very well. It was something I have been thinking about for quite some time. I suppose I said it before. This farce has just about played its tune, don't you agree? All love dies in the end, Christine – even the love we fake. So… yes, I rather think — you should be reunited with your world shortly. I will bring you back up." He leaned against the fallboard morosely, sliding his bony elbows up its solid, polished wood and stooping low to roll his pouting, naked face into the cradle of his forearms. "Though, I fear I have made a sorry mess of your life, and it will take you a great amount of time to move past what I have done to you."

Wordlessly, Christine stared down at the man who once used to be her all-powerful, domineering maestro – the omniscient, wizardly Opera Ghost – and found him now reduced to a mere crumpled husk of a man. Here was the man who once inspired such grief in her soul; and yet, within that grief, he had seeded such profound ecstasy, which she never would have achieved without his penetrance into her life. Here the grand wretch was, slumped over his tool, surrendering to the great dissatisfaction of his unfruitful attempts at life. Her release was a mere trifle to him at this point – there was a larger defeat he was giving himself over to.

And Christine knew, as she looked down upon this beaten corpse: to go now would be no victory. Her caving captor had chosen deference at last, but not for her. Never for her.

But what was victory? Did she need to win against Erik? Release meant freedom, and she certainly wanted to be free. But did that have to mean 'free from Erik'? Or else – free, but only whenever Erik chose? Was her life always destined to be commanded by his whims, even after he made her say good-bye?

"You - you have destroyed me already," she mumbled, grasping the piano console to hold herself steady as she found herself tossed about by her tumultuous thoughts. "Must you continue to break me further? Down here is my life, my world, my home… do you not care at all for what I even want? How can this be what you want?"

He peeked up at her from over his folded arm. "I suspected you would be opposed to the idea, which is why it took me so long to even suggest it. But try to understand. You have always been very good at that. This is not a matter of what I wish… on the contrary, it is what you need. It is not healthy for either of us to remain down here together."

No, it most certainly is not.

"But I am afraid to return," Christine breathed. "Must I go now? This moment? I am not ready…"

Erik's fingers tensed on the fallboard. "No. Not now. But soon. Before I lose sight of reason again and decide to keep you here after all."

"You change your mind often," she reminded him quietly, a tremor in her voice. "How soon until then?"

"Tonight," Erik decided. "We will attend the opera tonight, and then you will go."

"Only if you still wish it so, at that time…" and only if I wish it so, too. Christine held her trembling chin firm as she asked of him: "And where exactly shall I go, if not here?"

"I don't know, Christine," he said. "I have no part in that."

"Should I go to my old home?" she asked. And then - the question which had burned in the back of her mind for so long, which for all this time she had wondered, worried, feared… but never dared to voice: "Is there anyone even waiting there for me still?"

Erik averted his eyes again, pressing his face back into his woolen sleeves. His voice was muffled in the dark fabric as he spoke. "You always are so painfully curious, aren't you? There are so many people who live above. Why do you always worry yourself about just those few who no longer do? But, fine — I will tell you this only so you do not go through all the trouble just to find yourself met with cruel disappointment: your old mamma died many months ago."

With a choked gasp, Christine closed her eyes as the burn of tears spiked at her eyes. She brought her hand to her mouth to stifle any further sound, and then stumbled over to the chaise to let herself down before her weak legs gave out.

After a few silent shaking sobs, she found her voice enough to say, with a fair amount of accusation, "You never told me."

"You knew I would not," Erik pointed out, lifting his head from his arms for a brief moment – just until another sob suddenly racked her body – and then he quickly turned away from her again. "But do not fret so, Christine. Your mamma did not die alone. In her final days, I visited her daily and fed her what little porridge she would take. When she grew feverish I dipped your worn stockings in cold water and draped them across her forehead and wrists. I held her hand as she passed on from this world and entered the next. She was not even afraid to see me… she had heard you speak of the Angel of Music, I think, and that helped her not to be so afraid. Her last words were 'Tell Christine she has always been very good to me.' And then she died with a smile. It was a very beautiful thing to attend – but awful, too, Christine, very awful, which is why I did not want you to know. I arranged her burial in the Père-Lachaise Cemetery. I have the slip in my office if you would like to see her."

Christine sniffed, pressing the back of her hand against her nose as snot leaked freely and mixed with her tears. "You do not lie?"

Slowly, deliberately, he brought his form around on the bench to face her fully, and held his gaze on her. He did not turn back around even when another silent tear trailed down her cheek. There was a regretful expression etched upon his face that did not quite meet his eyes.

"You know I always do," Erik said. "But this version sounds very lovely, does it not? Would it change things so much if you knew the truth of it all? Your mamma would still be dead. I cannot tell you anything more beyond promising you that she was taken care of, and that you can visit her when you please. Isn't that all that matters in the end?"

Christine looked down in her lap and twisted her skirts in her fists. "Did she suffer?"

"I cannot tell," Erik repeated, clenching a fist upon his knee. "Please do not ask me for details, Christine. You do not want to know."

Perhaps it was true. Erik was usually right when he said such things. Whatever happened to Mamma Valerius… whatever he did to her, or didn't do… knowing would do nothing now. At least if she left it up to her imagination, she could choose what version of the tale to believe. She could believe the best of Erik. Or the worst. It was up to her to decide how she wanted to paint him in her mind.

"Erik, will you sit beside me?" Christine asked, sniffing daintily one last time, attempting to regain her composure. "I wish to ask you a rather delicate question." And, before he could protest, she added, "…not related to my mamma."

"And to what might this question pertain?"

She met his eye, careful not to frighten him. "Your mother."

"You said we wouldn't have to speak of her again," he said, as petulantly as a pouting child.

"That is why I said it is a delicate question, my – my love," Christine said. "You do not need to answer it if you do not wish. We can drop the conversation entirely. I do not wish to hurt you with my words any more than I already have."

"You do not wish to hurt me…?" He eyed her dubiously. "How is it that you still do not understand?" His chest rose and fell with a few slow, deep breaths as he contemplated his options – before choosing to relent to her wish. He stood slowly from the bench and within a few long strides closed the distance between them. There he bent down stiffly to sit at her feet, folding his knees up to his chest as he gazed up at her from his lowly spot on the floor. "Christine, my dearest darling, my goodest girl: Erik will happily accept even the cruelest of words from you, if it only means you will still speak to him for this little time he has left with her."

Oh, unhappy man! "You must not settle for so little as that, my love."

"But Erik should never dream to ask for more," he said sadly, and raised his hand to pet at her skirt at the spot it fell over the edge of the chaise like a waterfall of taffeta and silk. "Christine has already given Erik everything he could ever hope for."

"You must not hope for very much, then."

"That is true, fortunately for you," Erik sighed, flattening his hand on her skirt, spreading his aching fingers deeper into the material. "But let us not return to that dreadful conversation of hope from last night. Erik has hardly recovered himself from it."

"Still, may we speak of your mother?"

"What is it to me?" He plucked now at small tat of lace, pinching it between his fingers as a grimace etched itself upon his face. "Ask what you wish."

"You mentioned... you wanted her to say that she loved you. Did you not think she did?"

"I knew she didn't," Erik said, picking at the lace with a little more intention. "I remember what you said last night, Christine. You think she loved me after all. That is a very nice thought. A tempting fantasy, even. You have a very good heart and you think the best in everyone.… please, my girl, whatever this world does to you, do not ever lose your childish naïveté. It is a beautiful thing to behold, when it is not being used against you. However… trust me on this. I am not being cynical when I say this woman could not have loved me. No woman can love Erik - not even his mother."

"So then why did you ask her to say she did?" Christine pressed.

"To pretend," Erik said darkly. "Have you forgotten? Erik has always wished to be loved like anyone else."

Christine eyed him curiously, and brought her hand to rest on his neck, curling around the thin grey strands of hair that settled just above his collar. "If you want that so much, why won't you let me say it?"

He leaned against her hand as she coasted it up to his cheek. "I am older now. I know better than to ask that of you."

"I do love you, though."

"And I love you, too, dear girl," Erik said. He brought his hand up to hers and drew it slightly down, so her fingers brushed his lips. A streak of moisture drew a path across her palm. "See how easy those words are for us both to say? I do not intend to lie – as I am sure you do not either, for you are so very sweet and demure in all other regards – and yet, in the end, it's an empty sentiment that means nothing. In the moment, you might not feel the damage they do. Some knives are so sharp they can slice off your head without your noticing. But these are all just words, words, words… meaningless, until some further action is taken."

"And what 'further action' are you implying?"

Erik hesitated. "It is not… what you think I mean. Volition, Christine, that is what I am saying. You must be able to leave me and come back of your own free volition. My own dear mother left me in that house all alone. I waited for years for her to return. She never did. No matter her reason – death or otherwise – she never came back. So, too, with you. You left me at that altar, Christine. There was a moment where you had me nearly deceived. I almost knew what happiness was, for that moment… but then you ran away. I chased you all the way out to the street. Did you see me? Did it break your heart to see me cry? No, no… you didn't even look back. You didn't see what you did to poor Erik."

She eased his head closer to her leg, letting it rest on the folds of silk atop her thigh. "I am sorry."

"Again – those are just words," Erik said. "I had asked you not to go. But you said you would return, and Erik wanted to believe, so he let you go… and then you left. Christine, what is a man to think? It was your first opportunity to run, and you took it. How can I ever bear to be so foolish again? How can I ever trust you again?"

"We are still going to the Opera tonight, though, aren't we?" Christine asked, just a hint of nervousness creeping into her voice. "You said you were going to let me go?"

"I will," Erik said. "Still, after everything… I can see now that there is only darkness to be found in this dismal world I have created down here. The sun will never rise. Erik can never have his living wife… and consequently he can never be happy. He is tired now. He is unhappier than he was before you entered his life, if you can believe it. So he will release you back to your world. He does not expect you to return. This - this is not a test, by the way. Erik does not want Christine down here with him anymore. Perhaps one day, when he is stronger… or weaker… well, it is no matter. Erik has many dreams that will never come true. Everything hurts so much now. I give up."

Bleakly, he rose to his feet and extended his dead hand to her.

"Come, Christine. Breakfast grows cold."