Well, hello again readers and lurkers! We have another chapter. Let's see what our Erik and the kind Doctor are up to, hmm? Al always, comments are always appreciated. Kind regards, Jess

Chapter 15: The Truth of the Ghost's Love Story

Wise is the one who flavors the future with some salt from the past. Becoming dust is no threat to the phoenix born from the ash.

Curtis Tyrone Jones

Erik finished dressing, straightening the crisp white linen of the borrowed shirt. It was far too short in the sleeves for his long arms, but he had suspected that to be the case, as the doctor had mentioned. Still, he was extremely grateful to be fully clad in a respectable manner for the first time since he'd been salvaged from the belly of the sewers. He placed the wig and mask last- even after putting on his freshly-shined boots- and adjusted them in the clouded and cracked glass of the washroom mirror. He hated to admit it, but the two items, his constant companions, still brought him a sense of control and protection, an armor that he sought in effort to hide not just his deformity, but also his vulnerability and pain.

Satisfied with his appearance, as it was, Erik took the last swigs of his rapidly cooling mug of tea, set it down, and made his way into the hallway, allowing the aroma of the promised breakfast to guide him into the correct chamber.

His senses, as usual, did not fail him. He found the kitchen quite easily, his ears attuned to the hum of his benefactor. A slight cough and the intake of the smoke of a pipe. Erik's nose may have been half-made, but he could still smell quite well. At least as well as the average man could take in a familiar scent. Smoke, eggs, baked bread. The crisp sounds of someone flipping a newspaper and setting a mug down. The scraping of a fork across a metal plate.

His host was waiting for him. The good doctor Stitch. Erik, once again checked his appearance before entering the room. The wig, the mask, the too short but thankfully received black trousers and white button-down shirt set well on his frame. He appeared as best as he could manage at the current time. His footfalls were soft and cat-like, and unknown to his guest.

Erik caught his first image of Stitch, otherwise known as Doctor Abernathy, holding the newest edition of "Le Matin" in his hand.

Erik did not register the typeface at first sight. Upon entering the room, he caught sight of the front page of the Gazette splayed out on the dining room table atop a generous stack of journals. His vision was still slightly blurry as he tried to make sense of the images before him as they came closer into view. There were drawings of the abduction at the Opera house, of the fire. Erik's skin tingled and his spine shook. His identity lay unraveled before this stranger. A stranger that had rescued him from the gutters, had seen the terror of his face, and had not even flinched at the sight.

Welcomed him. Healed him.

Did this man, this doctor of the sewers, of those who did not matter to anyone else, know who he was?

Eyeing the paper in his rescuer's hands, and stealing a glance at the stacks of recent gazettes littered across the table, Erik reached the necessary conclusion, the puzzle pieces joining in his mind. "Doctor Stitch, I find that you may have pieced it all together. You know who I am. . . ." His voice trailed off as he came to his senses. The guilt and utter loss of his identity weighed heavy upon him in a profound realization of vulnerability.

The doctor released his paper, setting it down on the table, placing the most recent edition atop the others. He stared up at his patient. "Yes, the Opera Ghost. As you were, once. But you are Erik. No surname. A Ghost. A shadow. A musical genius, perhaps? And simply, a man. A very dangerous and gifted man. Sit down with me and eat your breakfast. I care little for past lives. My patients have lived many stories. I am anxious to hear your own." The doctor inhaled another bite and stared pointedly at his patient.

Erik clenched his fists, and unclenched them in an attempt to gather himself. He nodded to his caretaker and settled into a seat next to him at the breakfast table. Words were not coming easily to him this morning. They always had, in his mind. His conversations with himself. But, he'd never excelled at explaining his actions, his feelings, or the intricate workings of his very singular mind. Erik stuttered in a rather uncharacteristic manner, attempting to gather his thoughts and words in an eloquent progress before speaking, a rare vulnerability and awkwardness revealing itself. The Opera Ghost had never been accustomed to intimate conversations with others. Except Christine. Christine and that Persian friend from his past.

"Doctor Stitch," Erik paused, his fingertips alighting to another edition in the stack of newspapers littering the table, his hands and gaze glancing over the reporter's illustrations and headlines of the Don Juan debacle. "You've solved the mystery, and I must applaud your capabilities of deductions. I am what you say of me." Erik bent his head and stared down at the eggs, hot and welcoming on the plate before him.

The doctor hummed a little tune and took a bite of his own meal, chuckling. The man had the audacity to find amusement in Erik's tragic plight! .'You and your stolen soprano are the top of the news these days. From what I hear, she's a pretty young thing, a glorious voice! I guess you had some part in that, am I right? Christine Daae?"

Erik shot out of his chair, his fingers gnarled and flexing in a tightly-suppressed tension. He made a move to his 'Doctor's' throat, reaching towards the source of that wretched voice, that horrible honesty threatening a consequence. But his hands fell loose at his sides. He held no anger towards this man. His resentment was reserved for himself and his own actions.

"Sorry for that one." Doctor Stitch picked up his fork, unfazed, and relished a bite of his eggs. "Calm down now, my friend."

Erik ceased his fit of anger and sat down, hands still clenching and unclenching as he tried to contain the fire of emotions boiling within him. The mention of Christine's name sent a thrill of agony and joy through his veins that was difficult to contain. "You will not speak of her. . .not unless I mention her." He settled his long fingers on his thighs, calming himself. "She is unblemished."

" Oh, stop pouting and skulking about. Your breakfast will get cold if you do not eat it now. And, I dare say, you need the nourishment, lanky and thin as you are. . ." The doctor's voice trailed off, and he sipped a mouthful of his coffee. "You've got nothing to fear, my boy. Secrets safe with me."

Erik thumbed one of the earlier Gazettes, glancing at the artist's rendition of his Christine, mid-song, glorious and delicate with each stroke of the ink that had crafted her image. "I have little faith in others, sir. Of keeping secrets, and the like. One would not blame me, given my sordid history."

"B'ah," the doctor balked, cutting into his eggs again. "I care little for the pasts and sins of others. I care far more for colorful stories and interesting folk." He lifted his fork to his mouth, shoving a good bite into his maw and chewing loudly. As he swallowed, he turned again to his guest and set his silverware down on the plate. Looking pointedly at Erik, he spoke with succinct deliberation, "What has brought you to this place, my friend? A masked man, wounded and shot, rescued in the gutter, declaring his love with a new opera? A bullet wound, an angered suitor. . .and you, the disfigured genius. It really is. . .quite operatic when you consider it."

Stitch let out a small giggle, as Erik stared at him slack-jawed, unaccustomed to the nonchalant manner in which his host addressed the dramas of his life.

"Yes, quite operatic, isn't it?" Erik mumbled, a strain in his voice.

Stitch gently pushed a full plate of steaming food in front of his guest, a silent command to eat. Erik picked up the fork to his right, contemplating whether or not he should partake of the hot meal of eggs and ham laid out before him. He'd never felt comfortable eating in the company of others. The mask made it difficult, and he usually removed it to dine in the privacy of his home. He could not imagine taking it off to eat with others. For, he had always believed that shedding his concealment, offering his deformed visage to his dinner partners, would quickly lead them to lose their appetites. Attempting to be a gracious guest, Erik moved some of the eggs around with the utensil, unsure of how to proceed.

The doctor had seen him at his worst, and he was starving. However, something inside of him caused Erik to balk before taking a bite.

"Eat up, man! Otherwise, it will grow cold. If you're worried about the mask, take it off. I've seen faces far worse than your own. You must be absolutely ravenous." Stitch inhaled another large bite, in an attempt to encourage his reticent patient to do the same.

"I am not accustomed to dining with others, sir. The mask. . ." Erik ran an open palm in the air, inches from his face.

"Erik, your face is the least of my concerns. Certainly it is interesting at first sight, but honestly, I find what I have yet to learn about you far more intriguing than your facial features. I'd rather not have wasted my time saving your life to have you starve yourself in my home. Eat, and tell me of how you came to be blooded, shot, and covered in filth in that godforsaken sewer.``I know only what the papers have said, and I doubt it's more than slightly accurate."

Erik slowly lifted his fork with one hand, and removed the mask with the other, setting it down gently beside his plate. He was a man with little left to lose, his secrets revealed, not only to his ribald benefactor, but also detailed in the papers circling all areas of the grand city. Of course, the reports would be fodder for the masses, with journalists filling in the unknowns in glorious fashion. Embellishments of the events of his villainy. Yes, nothing left. Literally, the story of Don Juan Triumphant, and the events which transpired on that evening, were laid out across the table.

Erik took a bite of his eggs, chewing them thoroughly before swallowing. He set the fork down, and spoke. "The events of the performance did not go according to plan. That is a paltry statement, I know. Christine accepted my proposal on that stage. Willingly, joyfully. It seems surreal to think about it now."

Stitch looked at him, compassion showing in his wild eyes. "The Opera Ghost and his lady love?"

"I was her voice teacher. Her Angel of Music, the angel her deceased father had promised to send to her after his passing. I heard the girl crying and singing for him in the Garnier's chapel. And, as ashamed as I am to admit it, I took advantage of the opportunity. Her cries for her Papa resounded with me, my loneliness. I only wished to comfort her. To teach her to sing. I created a lie that we both could live in, so we could thrive in the music together."

Stitch took a sip of his coffee, fully engrossed in his patient's narrative. He had no words to utter, for they would undoubtedly be inadequate. He simply listened.

Another bite of eggs and ham made its way to Erik's mouth before he continued. "She only knew me as an unseen mentor for many months, as I carried my voice through her dressing room walls, her mirror." Erik shook his head, feeling an intense moment of foolish remorse.. "I took advantage of her innocence, her hopes. . .. So many skills at my disposal to hopefully woo her. I would regret my fallacies and deceptions now had they not led to her loving me. The first person who has ever loved me for myself."

Erik set his fork down on the plate once more, pausing in his thoughts. Where was his darling girl now? Was she alive? Apprehended by the Gendarmes? With that insufferable Vicomte, seeking solace in his arms? So many questions, and no answers.

No, he would not imagine the outcomes, could not. She had accepted his ring and discarded the boy's. Did she still wear it now? His father's dark onyx ring? Did Christine say her Christian prayers for his safety and his return to her? Did she long for her Erik? To find him again? He hoped as much, but would not allow himself to breathe faith into the promise of a reunion.

"Doctor, when she accepted my proposal on that stage, as I stood unmasked before the elite of the city, I found myself struck by an immense joy and a sense of utter disbelief. For, how could this beautiful young woman pledge herself to a shadow such as myself? I was undone, and perhaps I have said far too much already." Erik paused, shoving all the papers away. Standing up again, he adjusted his mask and rounded his shoulders. . .a wild animal on the hunt and still caged.

"There is nothing more you need know of my story, doctor. The papers have their way about things." Erik ran his fingers through the collar of his borrowed shirt and straightened the seams. "I have consumed far too much of your time and effort, sir. I greatly appreciate your assistance, and will be on my way shortly. That soprano. I must find her. I left her quite bereft."

"And why did you leave her?" The doctor stood up, meeting Erik and his imposing stature, blocking the doorway and Erik's departure. . ."If you loved her so very much, if you still love her, why? What self-hatred made you such a fucking fool?" The doctor breathed in utter frustration and stepped aside for a moment, his hands busying themselves with stacking the headlines and putting them aside, out of view. "To the rest of the world, you are dead, gone. To her, and for her, you must exist."

"Why I left her, you ask me? I am sure the gazette gave you some idea of the events which transpired. . ." Erik paused, his eyes darting to all escape routes in the foreign place. Not wanting to speak further, but needing to give explanations, he continued. "I am mad. I am disfigured. Shunned by the world. You have seen my face. You have read and heard of my crimes. What man would ever condemn his most precious love to the life of a fugitive?"

Doctor Stitch resigned himself to the blockade of the door. He sat back down again and took a sip of his still warm coffee. He chose his words very carefully then. Setting his cup down, he whispered, "What man could leave his beloved in anguish, with no certainty of his life or death, Erik? Surely, you know she is aching for your return."

Erik's mismatched eyes shot through the broken boards of the makeshift kitchen, the dilapidated hospital in which he had been healed, redeemed-both in body and spirit. A place in which he had made a friend. He saw rays of sunlight, and glancing at them caused him to squint. The warmth of the sun felt fresh and renewing, even through the slits of those boards. How long had it been since he had stared at the sun, felt its heat? How long had it been since he had experienced anything but obsessive love and extreme hatred?

But now, he felt something very real. Friendship, love, and an absolute yearning.

"I will find her, Doctor. I promise."