It happened at night.

She was sleeping soundly, tired from rehearsals. Earlier that evening, Erik had given her a handful of fan mail she was allowed to read, and they had made her smile as she was snuggled up in bed. It wasn't lost on her that the only mail Erik gave her was from women, but that was not a battle she was willing to fight.

The blankets were thick and warm, keeping out the chill of the house, and she slept deeply.

She was woken abruptly by a flood of light. Her shoulders were seized, and she was shaken violently, roughly. A voice growled above her.

"Wake the fuck up."

Confused, frightened, still half-asleep, Christine opened her eyes, seeing Erik above her, his teeth bared, his eyes burning, and her heart seized up in her chest. She had only seen him this angry once or twice before, and it had never ended well for her. Like a small child, she tried to pull the blankets over her head, but he ripped them off the bed. She flinched as he then threw something at her, but it was soft, light, and she saw a flutter of papers fall down around her. The blood drained out of her face as Raoul's letters settled on the bed, each and every word illuminated, naked, bare for them both to see.

Her throat was dry. Her heart rammed against her ribcage. Her entire body was trembling. She swallowed and said shakily, "Erik, I swear—"

"Shut up," he hissed. "Do you think anything you could say would explain this? The perfect answer to all the riddles. Visiting your father. Going out with a friend. Lies. Lies. You have done nothing but lie to me since the moment we met." He grabbed her wrists, dragging her across the bed, closer to him, and she cried out in fear and pain. "You're a lying little bitch. A lying slut. Traipsing around the city, fucking whatever handsome face looks your way. All with a ring on your finger."

"No!" she said desperately, trying to pull her hands away from him. "No, Erik, I swear I didn't—"

"I said shut up!" he screamed, shaking her, and she could hardly breathe through her gasping sobs, tears running down her face, her wrists throbbing from the strength of his grip, her shoulders pulled awkwardly and painfully as she tried to keep away from him.

"You must have thought you were so clever," he snarled, his beautiful voice thick with poisonous hatred, horrible and terrifying. "Did you and your boy congratulate yourselves on your brilliant plans? Did you laugh at Erik every time you spread your legs?"

He yanked on her wrists, and she was forced out of the bed and onto her feet, right next to him. His breath washed over her, and she recoiled. It was thick with the smell of alcohol. The fact made her more terrified, and she squirmed against him, trying to free herself.

"But you play the Madonna so well, Christine," he said, as if completely unaware of her struggling. "Pure, innocent, childlike, virginal Christine. And I believed it all, fucking my hand night after night to spare you, oblivious to the fact that you've been a little whore from the start. Why, you could've saved me quite a bit of discomfort!"

To her horror, he dragged one of her hands down, pressing it between his legs, and she nearly fainted as she felt a hard length beneath her palm. He rubbed himself with her hand, ignoring her pleading, and she wanted to die from shame.

"You will let any man in the world have you except your husband," he said, and she didn't miss the way his eyes closed briefly as he pressed her hand harder against himself. And then, mercifully, he pulled her hand away.

"Erik," she gasped. "Please, I promise we never—Raoul didn't—"

Her words did nothing but enrage him. "Shut up!" he screamed again. "Do you think I want to hear that name? I will kill him! I will kill you!"

He released her wrists, but her relief was short-lived. She choked on her scream as his long fingers went to her neck, and she frantically pulled at his hands as he applied pressure, cutting off her air supply. He really was going to kill her. It was going to be so easy for him. She didn't have a fighting chance. She would die, alone, underneath the earth, and no one would ever know what happened to her. She would be forgotten, another nothing, another no one.

Before she could think of a way to fight back, he roughly pushed her away, and she fell painfully, hitting her shoulder blade against the side of the bed, crushing her left hand awkwardly beneath her bodyweight.

Coughing, tears blurring her vision, she looked up and saw, with some shock, that he was leaving the room. She sat there, dazed for a split-second before scrambling up, stumbling after him.

"No!" she cried. "No, please! Erik, don't!"

When she reached out to grasp his arm, he whirled around and shoved her, hard. She tripped and fell down to the floor yet again, yelping as her elbow took the brunt of her weight.

"Don't touch me," he hissed dangerously.

But she would have to. She would have to try any way to physically stop him from leaving. If he left the house…if he got to Raoul…because of her…

However, Erik walked past the front door. She watched from across the room, her vision blurry with tears, chest heaving, as he went to the piano instead.

At first, it sounded like he was simply banging his fingers on the keys in rage. After a few moments, though, she realized he was actually playing something. The something was ugly. The something was angry. And the something was becoming increasingly painful.

She had never heard anything like it, and she closed her eyes, as if doing so would block out the sounds. When it didn't, she pressed her hands over her ears. But that didn't stop it, either. It was only growing in intensity, in its anger and ugliness, and she felt this was worse than anything he could have ever screamed at her.

"Please stop," she managed to squeak out, cowering. "Please! Erik! Stop!"

But it was obvious that he was lost, unseeing and unhearing to everything around him except the invasive, horrific sounds he was producing. Christine lasted only a few moments longer before she stumbled back to the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. She crawled into the bed and pressed the pillow over her head, trying to keep out the noise. It suffocated her, touched her in private places, crept into the corners of her mind, places that even she was terrified to go into.

You knew he would find out. You wanted him to find out.

No—no, all she had wanted was some happiness and peace, a small piece of normalcy for herself.

You let Raoul touch you because you're too afraid to admit you want someone else to…

It was everywhere, on her, in her, in places no one had ever been. The spot between her legs flooded with now-familiar heat, and it sickened her. She screamed into the pillow, begging him to stop, to have mercy. Maybe she didn't deserve it. But she still asked.

It seemed to last hours, days, years. She didn't know how long she lay there, a pillow pressed over her face, smothering her.

And then it was quiet. At last. It was a blessed release, and she gasped in cool, untainted air, listening to the beautiful silence.

She did not have the option to stay there, however. She had to make sure that he did not leave the house. Because if he left, he would go to Raoul. And if he got to Raoul, she wouldn't be able to live.

The doorknob felt threatening, poisonous, and she didn't want to touch it. But she forced herself to twist the cool brass and open the door, just in time to see the front door open and Erik step through.

"No!" Her scream sounded muffled, small in the house, and she forced her trembling legs to carry her through the room and towards the front door, a hand reaching out in an attempt to keep it from closing. Erik was too quick, however, and the door slammed shut, the lock clicking into place, before she was able to touch it.

"Erik!" She pounded on the door, tears blinding her vision. "Please! Please! Don't do this! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Her throat quickly became raw from screaming, and it soon became obvious that she was screaming at nothing, no one. He had left the underground house, had gone up to…

Bursting into anguished sobs, Christine slid down to the floor, huddling into a pathetic ball, crying until she was choking on her hysterical breathing, until her cheeks burned with the salt from her tears and her eyes throbbed with pressure and pain.

It was a disaster. Everything had fallen down around her, a fragile, badly-built house of cards that she had naively thought she could keep up with sheer want. What exactly had she thought would happen? How had she thought it would end?

Besides the guilt that had gnawed at her constantly, she had felt happy for the first time in months. Things had been good. Peace had at last settled over the house underneath the Opera House, a peace that had not been there since her first stay all those months ago. Now it was over, and she knew it was her fault yet again.

Christine looked up at the closed door. Still no sound. He was out there, in the world, undoubtedly doing something horrible. Drinking, drugs. Murder. How could she have let herself forget that he was the Phantom? He had killed people. He had killed many, many people. And she had naively believed that it would be different for her, that he wouldn't actually do anything like that. She felt like the most stupid, miserable, pathetic person to ever exist.

For what felt like hours, she huddled by the door. Eventually, she made her way to the couch, gasping on little shuddering sobs, pulling her feet up to lie down and watch, wait. Her stomach growled with hunger, but she ignored it. It was probably time for breakfast. If it had been a normal day, she would have enjoyed a relaxed morning and listened to Erik tinker on the piano as she drank her tea.

She had to offer herself up as the sacrifice. She would do it the moment he reappeared. Take her, punish her, hurt her instead. But she could practically hear his reply.

Ah, but hurting him punishes you more effectively than I ever could, my dear…

She tried to pray, but she had begged God for so much over the past several months that she wondered if anyone was listening at all. No one had answered any of her most desperate pleas. Her father had died. Erik had forced her into a white dress and church. She had not been able to keep this secret. So she lay there, cold, empty, staring at the bookshelves, the silence oppressive. Her eyes, sore and swollen, drifted closed. She told herself to sit up. Instead she brought a hand underneath her cheek, sighed, and slowly fell asleep.

When she woke, she rubbed her face, yawning. The couch had always been surprisingly-comfortable to sleep on. She opened her eyes sleepily and then jolted awake. Erik was sitting in his chair, looking at her. His mask was off. Her heart seized in her chest, and she sat up hurriedly, wrapping her arms around herself. For a split-second, she was going to scream, the sight of his bare face horrible, but she knew instinctively that she had to keep quiet, so she choked it down with a whimper, forcing herself to stare, feeling the blood leave her face and her stomach churn. Several long seconds passed between them.

He looked…awful. He was slumped down, his long legs bent awkwardly, like an insect. His jacket was gone, and his shirt was untucked and unbuttoned down to his pale, bony sternum. There was a large yellowish stain on the sleeve. He was not wearing shoes. His hair was unkempt, hanging over his ears and forehead. She could see that his eyes were slightly bloodshot, and he watched her, his head resting in his large hand, as if she was some mildly-interesting display at a museum. The sickly, musky scent of stale alcohol wafted from him.

They stared at each other for several long moments. Then he spoke. His voice was hoarse.

"My mother was a whore, you know."

She blinked. "What?" she whispered, her own voice hoarse as well.

"Yes. My mother. A whore. A real one. A bonafide whore. I said once I had no mother, but there was an unfortunate woman who gave birth to me. She was a pathetic, desperate, sex-trafficked prostitute."

Whatever she had expected him to say, this was not it, and so she sat, bewildered, wondering if he was lying. Or maybe it didn't even matter. The lies they told each other never seemed to make things any worse than telling the truth.

"She was beaten to death by some coked-up nobody. I was still a child, but I was finally free. Even then I thought to myself that there was nothing else in the world except that. Ugliness. Drugs. Violence. Backstabbing. And for so long, there wasn't. And then…"

She resisted the urge to squirm, understanding what he meant. She burned with shame. She had proven him right.

"I wanted you to be happy. I swear it. I am not a good man, but I did want your happiness. And for just a while, you were happy…I thought perhaps you…God, I'm a fucking idiot. The great irony of this all. I escaped from one whore only to be ensnared by another."

The tears returned to her eyes. She didn't understand how she could still cry. Where was all the water coming from?

"Erik, I'm so sorry," she whispered shakily.

He held up a pale, spidery hand. "I don't want to hear that. You say things so beautifully that I begin to believe them. But there really is nothing behind your words. Save your acting for the stage."

To her utter horror, she saw tears in his own eyes, and he pressed his bare face into his wide palm to hide them. His shoulders didn't shake, his breathing didn't change, but she had seen the tears. He had always been unbreakable, rigid. She had never imagined she would see something like this. At that moment, she hated herself more than she ever had before.

Slowly, she slid from the sofa and approached, not sure what to do but feeling that just sitting there and staring was too heartless.

"Don't come near me," he said hollowly.

She hesitated and then took another few steps. When her fingertips brushed the long, bony hand that was resting on the armrest, he quickly slapped her hand away.

Perhaps she should have left him alone. Perhaps she should have gone back and barricaded herself in the bedroom. He was volatile and angry. He was a dangerous man. He may have committed a murder mere hours ago. But instead, she slowly lowered herself to the floor and sat next to his legs, leaning against the chair, careful not to touch him.

They sat there for a long time, silent. She wanted to explode, say everything that was racing around her head, beg him to tell her what happened to Raoul, plead for his forgiveness, swear that she would never do something like that ever again. That would all make everything worse, as much as it would make herself feel better. So she sat there, her bottom growing cold on the floor, her back starting to ache slightly from the uncomfortable stiffness.

After a while, she felt a soft pressure against the top of her head. He was resting his hand on her curls. She remained very still, not wanting to discourage him. While she wasn't allowed to touch him, the fact that he was touching her made her tight, anxious stomach loosen the tiniest bit.

He spoke again at last. "I should toss you back out onto the streets where you came from. You belong out there with the rest of them. But you wouldn't last. You're too pathetic."

The words were sharp, painful, and she closed her eyes, scrunching up her face to keep the hurt inside. He was right.

"I suppose I'm rather pathetic as well," he then said. "Falling for an act any other man would have seen immediately. Deluding myself. Letting myself be swayed by you." Suddenly, without warning, he clenched his fist, grabbing a handful of her curls tightly, and she whimpered in pain, fear shooting through her. "Even now I am a fool. If I kill him, you would hate me forever. And I shouldn't care. But I am still too weak. Because of you."

He then released his grip on her hair and stood, heading to the room next to the piano without sparing a glance her way.

"Go back to the bedroom. Stay there until I fetch you. If you come out before then, you will be very, very sorry."

The door shut behind him. Christine shakily climbed to her feet, gave a tearful glance at the door, and obeyed.

By the time he came to the bedroom door, she was shaking with hunger. She had cleaned herself up several hours ago, showered and changed into fresh clothes, wanting to look presentable. Although her stomach started cramping long before he let her out, she didn't dare leave the bedroom, instead sitting on the edge of the bed hour after hour, watching the door. The letters were scattered over the room, but she was afraid to touch them. They felt poisonous.

His words had made it sound like he hadn't hurt Raoul. They were her lifeline, the thing keeping her sane in the insanity around her. He was right; if he killed Raoul, she would hate him forever. She would never forgive, never be able to look at him or touch him with any sort of kindness. But she had been stupid to take that gamble in the first place, and she still felt ashamed that she had been so selfish that she was willing to risk Raoul's life for a few hours of warmth.

When Erik finally fetched her, it was without much fanfare. He simply knocked on the bedroom door twice. "Come out." His voice was flat.

She did so, relieved to be out of the musky, airless prison bedroom. To her further relief, Erik had also cleaned himself up, his mask back on, appearing nearly normal again, though she could see that his eyes were still a little red.

"Can I please have something to eat?" she begged, her voice a rough whisper.

He gave a careless gesture with his hand, and she went to the kitchen, ravenously eating whatever was available and ready. When she was finished, feeling a little sheepish for running to the kitchen first thing, she returned to the front room. Erik pointed at the sofa.

"Sit," he commanded.

She obeyed, keeping her eyes on the floor. After a few moments, she dared to glance up at him.

"Erik," she began. "My rehearsals…"

"You are unwell. Quite sick. Excused for several days."

"Oh." She looked back to the floor quickly, staring at his long, clean shoes as he stood in front of her.

"I believe you know what will happen now," he then said. "Why don't you tell me what happens?"

She swallowed, wishing she hadn't eaten so much bread, as it felt like a lump in her stomach. Shivering a bit, she tugged on a few curls.

"I…" Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I'm not leaving here? Ever?"

"I did consider that," he said coolly. "You deserve it. I thought about crushing that perfect windpipe of yours and ridding us both of your cursed gift. But I'm very generous. Merciful, even. Try again with that in mind."

He was toying with her. She hated it when he did that. She felt so stupid and small when he did that.

"I'm going to sing in the next opera…but that's it? Then I'll stay here?"

She looked up to see him rolling his eyes.

"You think I would spend hundreds of hours training you just to have you wither away into obscurity? You really think so little of Erik's talents and time?"

"I don't know," she said, half-pleading. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"It's damnably simple," he snapped. "You will rehearse. You will sing with the company. You will star in the great shows of the world. But that is it. You will have no friends, you will go nowhere else. No trips to visit your father, no drives around the city. Your whole life will be spent either here or onstage. That is it. I will be watching. If I catch you speaking with anyone, if you attempt to go anywhere, I will make you regret it. I swear to whatever god you believe in, you will regret it."

Christine let out a shuddering breath, nodding, taking in her new reality.

When she thought about it, it was honestly better than she had hoped. She had sincerely believed she would never be leaving the house again. Truly…it wasn't so bad. She loved performing. And her time with Erik had not really been so terrible. Her heart felt a little bit lighter. Maybe after some time, after he learned to trust her again, the restrictions would loosen.

Then—

"There is one more thing."

She looked up at him, immediately noticing a change in his voice. He sounded almost hesitant, which made her nervous.

"I will…" He paused, balling his hands into fists momentarily. Then he took a breath and spoke again. "Our marriage will be normal. Consummated."

Her mouth went dry. She looked at him, but he would not meet her gaze, instead staring at a spot just past her. He continued, almost rushing his words:

"If you are so willing to let others have you, I don't see the issue in Erik having you as well. I stayed away out of respect for you, but now that I know the truth, I see no issue."

Several silent moments passed between them. It was as if she could not comprehend his words. Then she croaked, "T-today?"

"No," he said quickly. "No. When I am—sometime soon. I will decide."

Not knowing what else to do, she nodded blankly, her gaze falling back to the floor. He stood there for a long moment before leaving, going back to his room and shutting the door, no opportunity for any further discussion. She sat there, unable to move.

It was over, then. She had ruined everything. Christine glanced up towards the piano, the black and white keys gleaming, her stomach rolling, her head spinning.