The first time she attempted to open her eyes after regaining consciousness, a searing pain radiated from the back of her head, and she gave a quiet groan and immediately slipped back into blackness.
When she woke again, the horrid pain in her head had receded somewhat, but she still lay there for several moments, slowly turning her head back and forth to stretch her neck. It was sore. She rubbed her throbbing eyes, willing her mind to stop spinning.
Sickness threatened her as what had happened came rushing back. She wanted to start screaming again, but her throat was raw and her mouth felt as if it was full of sand, rough and dry. She breathed deeply, deliberately for several moments. Mr. Khan—shot, alone, bleeding in that terrible room. Someone had to know. The police had to find him, or he would die, alone and in pain. And Erik…
Her eyes flew open. The room she was in was dark, and she pushed the frizzy mass of curls out of her face and sat up, shivering. She was on an unfamiliar bed, and she climbed to the edge and stood clumsily, seeing that she was still in the same clothes as before. Even her shoes were still on. Good—that meant she could try to run without worrying about her feet. Before she ran, she would have to figure out where she was, where Erik was, where Mr. Khan was…
Her thoughts threatened to spin out of control, and she paused, bending over slightly and taking another deep breath. She could not panic about everything at once. First she had to get out of here and find the police. Then she could figure everything else out. At least she hadn't been shot. Her own situation did not seem so bad. Even though it was very bad.
She didn't recognize the room as she looked around. There was a small bed, an even smaller window, a battered chest of drawers, and a door. A door that was halfway open. A bitter taste lingered in her dry mouth, and she felt nauseous. She needed water.
Using the doorframe to support her trembling legs, she cautiously looked outside of the door and into a small hallway. A soft light came from one end, and she heard quiet rustling and some murmurs. At the end of the hallway, she could make out what appeared to be the front door, as it had a deadbolt in addition to a handle.
The sounds were coming from that direction. She did not want to leave the bedroom, but she had to get to the door to escape. Maybe she would be able to sneak through the door before anyone realized she was gone.
Her heart now pounding just as fiercely as her head, she crept down the hallway, scarcely daring to breathe. Her hands were shaking as she pressed them against the wall to help her stay upright, and she closed her eyes momentarily before peering around the corner and into a shabby living room.
It took her a few moments to process the scene in front of her. Although her eyes saw, her brain would not tell her what was happening. Quiet, forceful words drifted to her, and she blinked, staring blankly.
"I told you...I told you...Now look where we are. You think this is how I wanted to spend my night? If you had stopped your damned meddling like I had told you...Quiet—stop moaning. You will wake her up...You're being melodramatic. Just lie still and let me finish…"
Erik was kneeling on the floor, his jacket discarded, his white shirt untucked and wrinkled. The front was spattered with blood. His hands and wrists were red. Mr. Khan was lying next to him, his face ashen. His eyes were closed, and his entire abdomen a mess of sticky blood. Rank. Metallic. Thick.
Unable to help herself, Christine let out a whimper, her knees buckling, clutching at the wall in a desperate attempt to keep herself upright.
Erik looked up at her. His mask was off.
Her own blood froze in her veins. Her head spun, her legs trembled, and she sank to the floor, her vision blurring. As soon as she saw a blood-stained hand grab her arm, she lost consciousness once again.
When she woke up next, she was back in the familiar bedroom of the underground house. Her head still hurt, but the lingering grogginess and nausea had left, and she took a moment to ensure that she could feel and move everything. Her entire body was now stiff and sore from being manhandled so roughly and from lying in one position for so long.
The familiarity of the bedroom managed to calm her just a bit. At least she knew where she was. That was something.
She lay there for several long moments, letting her eyes close again, wanting to go back to sleep.
The stillness of the room was then interrupted by the clicking of the door handle being twisted. Her heart seized in her chest, but she continued to lay there, unmoving. She could sense a sliver of light fall across her face as the door was cracked open just a few inches. After several seconds, the door closed again, and she forced herself to count to thirty before she climbed out of the hard bed and stumbled to the bathroom. She flicked on the light. She locked the door.
There was a smear of blood on her sleeve, and she ripped the shirt off, throwing it into the corner. After rinsing out her mouth and splashing her flushed face with cool water, she sank to the floor, burying her face in her knees and bursting into sobs.
Back here in this horrible bathroom, hiding from him once again.
How could this have happened? She had wanted so desperately for everything to go well for opening night next week. There was supposed to have been one final week of rehearsals, then opening night, and everything would have been fine after that. She did not have any idea what 'fine' meant in her situation, but she knew that this wasn't it. Mr. Khan was bleeding somewhere. And Erik—had he been helping Nadir? After he had shot him? What horrible world did he live in?
She was shivering without her shirt, but she could not put back on the blood-stained one in the corner. Sickened by the memory of last time, she nevertheless pulled out a towel and draped it around her shoulders, taking no comfort from the minimal warmth it provided.
The idea of sitting in this bathroom for possibly hours was torturous. What if Mr. Khan died? What if she could have helped him and all she was doing was hiding and crying? But she was a coward. She was too scared to go out on her own.
Eventually Erik would come to get her. He would make her leave the safety of the bathroom, and she would have to submit herself to whatever new horror he had for her. Maybe he would have a white dress waiting for her, intent on finishing what he had started. The thought made her stomach roll.
He couldn't force her to marry him. That was illegal. Wasn't it? But then again, when had Erik ever cared if something was legal or not? He had killed people. He had shot Mr. Khan right in front of her. And it was likely that he had done something to Raoul.
She had no idea if Raoul was hurt or not, and the thought made her want to throw up. Erik had not given Mr. Khan an answer when he had demanded to know what had happened to Raoul.
More tears welled up, and she tried to muffle her sobs.
There had been countless times she had wanted Raoul to come rescue her over the past few months. She missed his warmth, his stability. But she had known that it wasn't fair to drag him into it all. This was her own mess, and now she had failed miserably trying to fight her way out of it alone. Mr. Khan was badly injured, bleeding out somewhere, and Raoul was…
Christine could not even entertain the thought. Her sobs were becoming more hysterical, and she pressed her palms to her forehead and leaned forward, her face in the bathroom rug, her knees digging into the hard tile.
"Please, please, please," she whispered into the floor, but she didn't know what she was praying for or who she was praying to. She felt completely and utterly alone in this, and she had no idea how to fix anything.
After she had cried herself out, she curled up on the rug again, staring blankly at the wall, blinking dully and clutching the towel tightly. Her stomach ached with hunger, and she wondered how long it had been since she had last eaten anything. She dozed on the cool tiled floor for a while and then made herself sit up, hating herself for being able to sleep while unknown horrors were happening behind the locked door. She couldn't bring herself to touch the locked door, no matter what she told herself. Her cowardice made her burn with shame.
She rubbed her sore cheeks, careful not to reopen the small cuts in her mouth. The memory of being grabbed by him like that unnerved her. She was an idiot for allowing herself to forget that he was not above violence. He had attacked her twice before, once in the alleyway when they had first met, and once when she had taken off his mask. If pushed too far, Erik snapped. She was stupid for having thought she could have changed him, that she could have some kind of influence on him for the better.
Christine pressed her fingers over her eyes and breathed deeply. She needed to know what had happened to Mr. Khan and Raoul. The rest of her mistakes she knew she would have to face eventually, but she had to know about the two men whose only wrongdoing had been to try to protect her.
The time dragged on, and she wished she knew how long she had been in there and if Erik had forgotten about her. If only she could be so lucky.
Just as she was wondering if she should return to the bedroom and curl up in the bed, there were a few short, loud knocks on the door. She jumped, clutching the towel around herself tightly, flinching away from the sound. His voice came from behind, neutral, even.
"Christine. Are you ill? Or are you simply hiding in there once again?"
She paused for a moment, debating. Then she whispered shakily, her voice rough, "I'm fine."
"Then it is time for you to come out."
And after that, there was silence. He had left. Christine pulled herself up with help from the counter, taking a moment to again splash her face with some water. Her pants were wrinkled and stiff, and one of her shoes was untied. She still did not want to put the bloody shirt back on, so she kept the towel wrapped around her shoulders and looked into the bedroom to make sure it was empty. After pulling on a clean shirt, she hesitated by the bedroom door. Then she took a deep breath, tried to swallow back her tears, and opened it. The front room looked normal, everything in its proper place, almost threatening in its banality.
"Christine."
She jumped and turned to see him standing there, beckoning her to the table. His mask was back in place, his wardrobe fresh and clean. Wordlessly, she obeyed him, sitting down. He brought out a small plate and set it in front of her. It was dry toast and an apple, the same thing he had given her the first time he had brought her down. The tears returned instantly.
He quickly tensed next to her at the sight.
"No," he said. "Stop this! I can get you whatever you like. You may cook anything for yourself that you wish. You like to cook, I know that. I thought...you seemed ill earlier...perhaps something light for your stomach. But if you don't want this, you may have whatever you want. Tell me what you want!"
No—she knew he would not listen to what she wanted. And she wanted so little; she wanted to leave. She wanted Mr. Khan to live. She wanted Raoul to be okay. She wanted her father. The thought of him brought on a fresh wave of tears, and she cried noisily into her hands as Erik stood next to her, repeatedly telling her to stop crying.
"Stop! You have nothing to cry about. I told you that you can eat whatever you want. Do you want to be locked in the room again like some whining child? Stop crying!"
What was going to happen to her? Everything was ruined. She had been toeing a line for weeks, careful, unwilling to be or provide a catalyst for any change. There had been a timid compromise between them. Now it was all over. Was he really going to pretend like nothing had happened? She wouldn't be able to stand that. She would go insane. Maybe she was already insane, though. Maybe it was too late for her.
His long fingers encased her upper arm, and she wrenched herself away, nearly falling off the chair to get away from him. Without pausing for breath, he picked up her plate and hurled it against the wall. The plate shattered instantly, falling to the floor in a hundred little pieces, and Christine screamed and slid off her chair, crouching underneath the table, wrapping her arms over her head. She cried pathetically, squeezing her eyes shut, wishing she could disappear.
He knocked the chair over to the side, and it clattered loudly as it fell, making her jump. His shoes were right next to her.
"Christine." His voice was soft and dangerous. "Come out from underneath the table. Now."
She shook her head, even though he couldn't see it, and curled in closer to herself.
"You do not want me to have to force you. I will give you one last chance. Come out. Now."
She could feel the prickle of perspiration on her skin, and her stomach rolled as she slowly scooted out from underneath the table and stood, not looking at him, tears still falling down her cheeks. She did her best to hold them back, knowing they were doing nothing but infuriating him. Then again, when had they ever done anything else?
"You are being hysterical. You will stop this at once."
Still unable to meet his eyes, she stared at the floor and took a deep, shuddering breath, doing her best to swallow back her tears and oncoming sobs. How could he be so cold and calm? He had shot a man, shot his friend. She had no idea where Raoul was—if he was even still…
Those thoughts fueled more tears, and she could feel her shoulders start to shake, no matter how much she tried to control herself. There wasn't any use in asking. He would just lie to her again. She had caused the deaths of three men.
She felt like she might throw up, but she didn't have anything in her stomach. As her knees buckled, she felt his thin hand grip her, and he dragged her away from the table and back to the bedroom. She offered no resistance, stumbling along after him.
"Erik," she sobbed. "Please, please." But she didn't even know what she was asking for, what she wanted from him.
He gave no indication that he heard her at all. Instead he wrenched the door open and pushed her in. With a pathetic cry, she tripped and fell, her knee smashing into the floor, and she curled up into a ball and shut her eyes so she wouldn't have to see him. It was obvious he did not care about hurting her right now.
"You will stay in here until you have stopped acting like a sniveling child!" he snarled. "I won't listen to yet another one of your pathetic tantrums!" A moment later, the door slammed shut, and she was left alone in the dark again. She curled up closer to herself and cried herself out.
Her head throbbed, and her eyes were unbelievably sore and heavy. She rubbed them with the heel of her hand, smearing her tears, sniffling. The bed was only a few feet from her, and climbing into it felt like a herculean task. She dragged the blankets over her head, her breath a shuddering sigh.
The next time she left the room, she would demand answers. She wouldn't just cry and let herself be shoved around. He would answer all her questions, or she would…
Realistically, what could she do? There was nothing to threaten him with. The only thing she could think of would be to use her voice as leverage. What if she refused to sing? But would that really be punishing him, or would she just be punishing herself? The opera opened next week. Christine's heart gave a painful thud. She had wanted to perform so badly. She had worked so hard. Erik had been meticulous in his lessons. She had wanted to do well…
He had let her go to rehearsals before. Maybe it was different now that she had seen him shoot somebody, because he knew that she would tell as soon as she could. She had to at least try. The police had to know what had happened.
And yet…
She didn't want Erik to go to jail. She knew he was the Phantom. She knew he had done awful things. But she still didn't want him harmed. And yet she had to get away from him, no matter what it took.
The pounding in her head was loud now, and she pressed her fingertips in her eyes and gave a pained little groan, at last too tired to cry anymore. If she hadn't been so curious to know about him, about his past...if she hadn't trusted Mr. Khan...if she had intervened in a different way, or not at all...maybe things would have been entirely different at that moment.
Or maybe it was all wishful thinking.
In the end, maybe she had never had any say at all in how everything would end.