"The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. But in love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man's body. The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously an image of life's most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?"
― Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
The deafening sound of gunshots still rang through her eardrums, a terrifying reverberation that rattled through her entire body, her quivering, pale form all at once drenched crimson, disturbingly warm but hollow of life. A lingering smoke haunted the air, casting a dismal gray mist across the space, even after the auditorium had cleared of fleeing audience members. A fading of consciousness, the stickiness of blood across her heaving chest, the gut-wrenching visceral pull of someone being ripped from her embrace. Christine's flesh had become an altar of the macabre, a memento mori of a tragedy she'd grasped in her frantically shaking palms. Her heart and her breath were both caught in the recollection of a kiss turned violent, an offer made and accepted and then smashed to ashes in her arms.As they had gazed at one another, the stage had rung out with the shuddering sound of a shot being taken, the screaming of a pain not felt before, and the Glass Lotus shattered. Destroyed and withered in its fragility. The mark of the beast upon her hands.
Erik was gone now, and the only remnant of his presence was the gruesome wash of dark, drying blood coursing down the bodice of her gown, over her bare arms, and cleaving its ghastly, garnet waterfall in the cleft betwixt her aching breasts. So much blood, far too much of it. For the greater the amount of Erik's precious life fluid that soaked her body and the stage the greater the chance that she had lost him for good. To lose Erik now, especially when she had only discovered and come to terms with what he meant to her, brought Christine to the brink of unfathomable despair. She wrung her hands and screamed his name in shrill agony, desperately calling for him. Erik, her maestro, her angel, the man she hoped to one day have as her husband, was gone and could very well be dying. A nightmare image chilled her soul then, the torturous vision of her love clinging to his wounds in some hidden, dark space to struggle through his last breaths alone.
Christine never wished for him to be alone again, for she was prepared and committed to stand by his side for the rest of her days. She feared the grim but very real possibility that she would never get the blessed opportunity to share a life with him, might never walk at his side as his wife on a Sunday stroll through the Bois as he had once told her he wished to do. Would she ever embrace Erik again, or feel his heartbeat against her own as they made love? Would she see him become an adoring father to their children, smiling down at a small babe in his arms, singing a gentle lullaby in his perfect, golden voice? These were all things Christine wished for and deeply desired. Would these dreams now simply fade into a depth she could not breach, filtered through her fingers, a futile effort, like catching raindrops in her hands.
The Opera Ghost had found his home, his first and only refuge, in her forgiving touch, safe inside her ever gentle embrace. His lithe, wiry body pressed to hers, heart to heart beating together between the separation of mere flesh and what would soon be red-stained cloth. But the press of their bodies finally joined, the physical confirmation of the union of their souls, had been far too much for the rest of the world to abide. A bullet shattering in Erik's tightly wound muscle had served as the explosive protest to their newly discovered love.
Erik had collapsed in her hold, his fingers sliding to the insides of her elbows as he staggered, a ring falling from his palm and scattering across the stage floor, slipping through the cracks as it rolled to the Orchestra pit. But Christine could see little of that, for her only focus had been to keep hold of the man she loved. And she had failed to keep him safe, to protect him with her devotion or even with her body. Christine had watched as all the beautiful pieces of him, her love, had departed, fading away into non-existence, as she wrung her bloodied hands and screamed his name.
He had fled, stumbling and clutching at his wounded flesh to stop the precious fluid leaking from his body, a shadow leaving a crimson path across the proscenium before he vanished in a cloud of black smoke. He'd left his bloodied handprints in a trail across her arms. He had called her name as he ran. It had been the most torturous song he had ever sung to her. It burned. His voice wept diamond tears through her mind. As he had scrambled from her embrace and ran, her world had become a sad orchestra of malicious intent. A macabre symphony of utter loss.
For this was the most brutal of duets ever to grace the stage of the Opera Populaire.
Christine Daae stood alone then on the bare stage, the desolated, quickly vacated auditorium before her. She shone in her desolate glory, an injured sparrow, wings clipped and tattered, a saint, an effigy, a tragic figure made of sacrifice and bathed in blood. For the audience had fled at the first rattling sounds, the abrupt staccato cacophony of gunshot. The dream of happiness that she had found within her grasp only moments ago had vanished now. A woman drenched in the blood of her lover. Alone. She should never have tempted the promise of him. The landing of her tiny bird's wings finally finding a home, the settling of the glass lotus in a safe place where it would not be shattered. She had alighted to the sanctity of his love, had found her home in his unique adoration of her, and with her heart's honest promise to him. And the rebuilding of the Kintsugi of her heart, of Erik's. Her precious, broken man. Her treasure. Her art. The singular person who had helped her make more of herself than she had ever dreamt that she could possibly be. He was gone, and now may be dying. The cruel truth of her situation humbled her in that moment, for she stood in tattered garments, hands wringing and searching for the promise of a love she might never grasp again. Just a soprano on a stage. Her voice, crafted like a diamond pulled from the mine, uncovered, washed, made perfect and startlingly bright by Erik's meticulous teaching. He had held her face as he kissed her. One more time before the world had turned black and fallen into a darkness she had not yet known existed. The emptiness she felt at the loss of his voice and his embrace was palpable and gutted her to her very core.
But she was not completely alone now, for her gaze shifted upwards to Box 3. The scent of ammunition originated from there. The trail of the gunfire's smoke caused Christine to lift her blood- soaked face upwards to glare, to find if anyone still remained in that space. And when she did, there were four men with firearms in their hands, their palms still quivering
The Vicomte de Chagny stared at her blankly, the pistol dropping from his hand as he limply released it and let it fall to the floor of the box. His handsome features tightened into a cringe at the sound of the weapon hitting the ground by his feet, echoing the shame and guilt that had suddenly washed over him as he stared at Christine's shaking body down on the stage. A stage turned battlefield, a stunning opera distorted into a funeral mass. He had been the cause of this massacre, the cause of the brutal despair that shone on his sweet girl's lovely face.
Their eyes met then, and though she did not know if it were he that had taken the shot, Christine sought him out with clear intention, an accusation forming on the tortured expression of her face. She ran her crimson-soaked fingers through her hair, pulling the wet strands away from her eyes, so that all the men who remained could see the visual pain they had wrought upon her features. Her tears mingled with blood and their wetness crafted an ugly path down her cheeks.
"You," Christine breathed, as she caught Raoul's eyes and locked him into the hatred and sorrow of her gaze, "you have now taken everything from me!" As she snarled at him, Christine took her palms and ran them across her face, her arms, almost baring her chest in a primal instinct to reveal the abject misery of her truth. She had marked a path of Erik's blood across her body. For, if he was gone, all those that were responsible should know, should see the portrait of her pain. Her grief spread down her limbs in a garnet misery of thorough conclusion, a finality she would never allow herself to acknowledge. He would never be gone, could not be
Erik, her Erik would never abandon her, not even as he suffered a last, guttering breath.
And the realization in those miserable seconds struck her to her core. Love could not repair all things, could not piece back together a shattered work of art, nor could it heal the physical wounds of a damaged lover.
With one more glance at the Vicomte, Christine Daae ran her bloodied hands through her hair and spat at the ground, the life fluid of her lover dripping to the stage floor. "You are nothing to me now," she screamed, "I will find him."
And she would. She would search the ends of the Earth if need be, to find her Erik, to heal him. She would offer him her love in a way that would not bewilder or fluster him, or cause him to quiver as she bravely presented to him the resolution and honesty of her love.
To love him, if only for a few more moments.
The Entre' Acte:
They broke away from one another gently, the sweet knowledge of their communion, and the intimacy they had just shared, painted a smile across their faces. ErIk cupped Christine's winsome cheeks in his large, cool palms. His fingers shook, but not out of fear or uncertainty. He trembled for he knew he was truly loved, and the enormity of that realization was not lost on him. By God, he would cherish the tiny woman in his arms for all eternity, if given the opportunity. For Christine was the stunning voice, the gentle touch that saved him from the convoluted mess, the delirious cacophony he called his own life.
He laid his unmasked forehead to her own and inhaled deeply, the sound of her name on his lips far more sacred than a prayer, "Christine, Christine. . ." He repeated those two syllables as if they were a song, a blessing. His eyes searched her features, noting the glistening tears that fell to the smiling curve of her pink lips. "Oh, my sweet little dove." He pressed his mouth to hers once more before pulling back, savoring the exquisite taste of her flesh meeting his own. He felt the precious rhythm of her breath against his face as he searched in the pocket of his waistcoat, his spidery digits scrambling for one small item, minute in size but large in significance. The other object he sought rested nicely on his smallest finger. His father's onyx ring. Very slowly, he removed it from his hand and placed it in the opposite palm to join the Vicomte's token of affection, a symbol of a life-long commitment.
He would offer both rings to her with a choice. The tawdry piece of jewelry he had stolen, ripped from Christine's neck in a mood of jealous passion. The Vicomte's gaudy bauble now sat in his palm, weightless, an ornament of a love that never held truth. A gift, a last gift, and his Father's ring. A token that carried far too much emotion, the last and only present from a father to his only son. A relic of a love and a life never fully lived, never realized.
"Erik," she whispered, her voice seeking answers as he presented a closed fist to her, his long fingers curled to conceal the precious objects in his hand. "What is it?" Her hand quaked as she reached out for his own and covered his fist with her small, white palm, seeking the answers she knew he must be concealing in his tense grasp.
It was then, as he stared into Christine's stunning eyes, that the weight of what he was to present to her came crashing upon him, for what if she refused him? "Christine, I. . .I wanted to give you a choice. I've been so wrong."
He faltered then, a man always so self-assured and conscientious of his words and actions, now floundering and wishing to escape his current reality. Erik did not know what to say. He had planned this moment so carefully, intricately, as if he were mapping the configuration of the planets. His mismatched eyes traveled wildly across the faces of those in the massive space, and noted that every other human-for there were so many of them- stared at the two of them in silent wonder, as they stood in stark glory in the middle of the stage. He had expected fear, revulsion, disgust, but what Erik did not realize in that moment was that every single member of the audience, with the exception of the Vicomte and his gendarmes, had fallen under the intoxicating and beautiful spell of his opera. The two perfect voices that had risen from the startling cacophony of the chorus, to unite in some glorious, mellifluous melody of passion, had bewitched them all.
"Christine, I. . ." he stammered roughly, his eyes once more shooting intensely to her own in a desperate look of tenderness.
"Erik," she squeezed his knuckle within her palm, "a choice?" Her voice brought him back then. Another clenching of her fingers to his, this one imploring and firm. "What do you ask of me?"
Through the close contact and steady caressing pressure of her sweet touch, Erik could feel the intimacy she sought from him, the answers she needed and wished to hold. Christine's caresses beseeched his truth.
But what could he say of the truth that she begged of him? A father's ring warming in his cold hand? The memory of a mother that had slapped him open-faced across his marred cheek when he'd asked her for a kiss? No, he could not offer his Christine that honesty at this moment. Instead, he guided her tiny digits to his fist, his fingers atop her own, releasing hers one at a time with his nimble thumb, "The choice is yours, my nightingale. But which ring will you have? For I tore the Vicomte's ring from your neck and was prepared to force my own upon you."
His Father's ring, as well as the engagement ring from the Vicomte, now slowly became visible and open in his palm, as Christine gently pried his fingers apart. To answer the choice he now offered. To give them their conclusion. She could feel the finality then of the bird's wing in her soul fluttering madly, seeking a home, struggling to keep flight. The wings of her heart faltered, and her courage found a place to land. Her truth refused denial in that moment of choice.
To sing, to fly? To soar on music's wing with him. For that stood as the only option for her.
She felt Erik's voice reverberating through his gaze, and could feel his desperate ardor in his tenuous grasp upon her hands. His long fingers ached and trembled, and the two rings shook in his large, humbly outstretched palm. For, she must choose.
Erik wrung his hand, jumbling the two rings, and hating himself for the mad, crazed decision he now forced upon her. "What is your choice, little dove? I wish for you to be my wife, my partner, not just in music, but in this life, what there exists left of it. Christine, my muse. My love. Marry me?"
Christine Daae stared at the offerings he laid before her, and with a soft caress, pinched the onyx ring and took it from his hand, assured in her choice. Erik watched in sheer disbelief as she slipped his father's ring upon her tiny finger and smiled up at him.
"I will be your wife."
Thanks to my readers and lurkers. I hope you enjoy this piece. I promise we have a wild ride ahead of us!-Jess