I flew from the manager's office in tears, running straight to the relative safety of my dressing room. They didn't understand, none of them did. Especially Raoul. Poor dear Raoul, my knight on a white horse, who believed he could banish the demons from my life with one swing of his sword. He had always been like that; overly optimistic, so sure he could chase away all the sorrows of the world with his golden, boyish smile. How it must frustrate him, to encounter the one problem that he could not solve...
I locked the door of my room and dropped to my knees by my dressing table, resting my head on the chair. Grim and foreboding, the mirror rose before me, a stern reminder. I closed my eyes to avoid it. I was always doing that, I mused dimly, avoiding what needed to be seen and understood. My father's passing, for example. Even after the funeral I had simply refused to accept his death, clinging stubbornly to the delightful fairy-tale world he had created for me. It was as if I, by my feeble denial, could reverse death itself, and bring him back. Hence the reason for my belief in my Angel.
The Angel of Music. Even now that phrase had the power to curve my lips into a wistful smile, which was amazing considering all the different meanings that were now attached to it. Little Lotte with her clear blue eyes; a story where I was the only princess. I had thought it quite lovely, back then; really, how many little girls had their own personal fairy tale? I often wondered, however, where Raoul came in. Papa had never spoken of a handsome prince. Only the Angel.
I suppose it would have been far easier for me if it had not been for his voice.
That voice. The painfully exquisite sound of Erik's voice. Waking or sleeping it insinuated itself into my thoughts, clawing at my mind with shining silvery talons. I was not being overly dramatic-or mad-when I had said he would always be there; as long as I remembered the music of his night, my captivity would be complete and eternal. And there was nothing Raoul, or anyone else, could do about that.
A sudden knock on the door surprised me and I stood hastily, brushing at my tears. "Who is it?"
"Christine? May I come in?"
I sighed and unfastened the lock, opening the door to reveal Raoul's young worried face. "If you've come to give me all the reasons why I should do this, please don't," I said, "I really am too tired to think of anything right now." And I was, I realized with a start. Obviously perpetual confusion was very exhausting. Or perhaps it was the burden of making my own decisions that left me so unutterably weary...
Raoul edged his way into my dressing room and took my hands, sitting me down on the chair as if I lacked the will to do it on my own. "Please listen, darling," he began, "it's the only way, you know..."
"I know of no such thing," I glanced down at his hands, those soft, aristocratic hands, and unwittingly recalled Erik's long elegant fingers, winding around mine so carefully. "I've already told you, Raoul, I can't do this."
"Why ever not?"
"Because..." I struggled for a reason that he would understand; more importantly, that he would not misunderstand. "It wouldn't...be right," I said lamely. My heart sank when his eyes narrowed at me.
"Right? What isn't right about it? That man...that monster has murdered, blackmailed, and kidnapped innocent people, Christine! He must be brought to justice!" His eyes went suddenly tender, and he caressed my cheek. "I'll never let him hurt you again, Little Lotte, never. But you must be strong and help me first."
"But he didn't..."
He put his finger over my mouth, silencing me. "Just sing in his opera," he said softly, "and I'll take care of everything else. All right?"
I gently pulled my hands out of Raoul's grasp and stood, walking to the mirror. Could I? Could I really do this to the man who had been my guide and companion for the past three months? To the man who...loved me?
Of course you can, a cold, imminently practical side of me stated. You've already betrayed him with Raoul, so why not finish the job? I closed my eyes, feeling new tears stinging in them. I wished I could just hate him, like everyone else; look at him with the same amount of condemning objectivity. But I couldn't. And therein lay my difficulty. He may have been a corpse in this magnificent tomb of a theater, but he still had a heart -- a heart that he had offered to me. The nobility of that offering was far too sad for hate.
"Christine?" Raoul stood behind me, his hands on my shoulders as he waited for my answer. "Please. Help me now, and then I can take you away from all this. Please," he repeated when I hesitated, my eyes on the floor.
"Thank you my love," he said, squeezing my shoulders enthusiastically. "It will all be fine, I promise." Setting my abandoned copy of the libretto on the desk, he flashed me a confident smile and left me alone again.
I sank to the floor in front of that cursed mirror and laid my cheek against the cool glass. I had done it now, commited myself to a course of action that could only lead to one thing; death. I was sure of that. Someone would die on opening night, it only remained to see who...
Not Erik, my rebellious heart pleaded. Please, not Erik.
I couldn't understand myself at all. One moment he terrifed me, the next I was wishing he was here, sweeping me up in that beautiful black cloak and reassuring me that it needn't be this way at all, if I could only see behind the face...if only I would love him.
Did I love him? Oh, not in the traditional sense of the word, surely; nothing was traditional with Erik. But somehow... There was a bond between us, a bond I realized that Raoul and I could never share. The delicious terror of the unknown, the odd compassion raised by that distorted face, even the guilty thrill I had felt on the rare times when his hands caressed me, with all the timidity of a child holding glass...perhaps all these were a part of love. Erik was in the darkness behind my eyelids, the silence of midnight, the slid of silk upon my skin. And no, I thought, shaking my head sadly, I would never escape that. Simply because I did not desire to be truly free.
With a sigh I reached for the red leather binder that held his manuscript, flipping through and tracing the blood-red notes with my finger. Don Juan Triumphant. It had a tragically erotic theme; tragic because it was all illusion. Erik was capable of imagining scenes and ideas I scarcely dared to dream about, but in the end, that's all it was; imagination. I turned to the principle duet for Don Juan and Aminta, whispering the words to myself. How ironic they were. And how true.
Past the point of no return.....