Work Text
-1886-
Sitting at the oaken table adjacent to the fireplace in her room, she withdrew her perfect-bound leather diary. Her fingertips took the pen in hand and as she opened the book to a new page, she dipped the pen into the black inkwell. The fresh scent entered her nostrils, and for once, she hesitated to write. How could she find the urge to put the very thoughts on paper that had stayed with her for five years? She wondered how Raoul would take to her words if he were ever to find her diary. Surely the words would be grounds for a divorce, but with their child keeping them together, surely sated and happy under a familial light, she'd take no chances. She listened to the wood in the fireplace pop and the flames crackle, and she suddenly found herself almost lulled into a trance. But her eyes snapped open fully at the sound of the grandfather clock's chiming. It was eight-thirty at night, and Raoul would return from his previous engagements soon. Their son was already abed, sleeping deeply.But Christine returned her sights to her diary. She quietly took the pen to the page, and the faint scratches of the silver nib upon the paper were somewhat melodious to her ears. They were not the same as her father's music from his violin, but she remembered. She remembered everything she wished to write, about what she wished she could have done that night, and what she should have said to him the night the fateful conclusion happened.
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"Dear Diary, "It has been at least three years since I've made an entry. With my son now steadfastly approaching his fourth birthday, I am afraid hardly anything has changed. But Raoul retains his position as Vicomte, and I, his vicomtesse, have found no joy. In the years we've remained in France, I've found no joy in hearing the music of new composers and their pieces. What once was a substantial vivacious life has dissipated greatly since he died. Oh, Erik. He who was the Angel, the one who watched over me, guided me. I often wonder at bedtime what became of his body. Staring at the canopy, I can often remember the carriage and the thunderous clomping of the horses' hooves. I remember how his voice echoed to me in the dark streets as we raced through them, and Diary, while I had been so frightened, I must admit I have never been more enthralled, more alive than in that moment of sheer horror. It was as if my heartbeat had pounded through my veins completely."I should have been appalled at his antics. But to have been taken into his arms and thrown into the carriage, knowing he was trying to escape with me in his power forever, I could not help but feel as though he truly revered me. Once in a while, I still feel the cobblestone beneath my body; the memory of jumping from the carriage remains with me as does the pain. I had never felt so jolted before in my life, and yet as I heard the mob behind us approach, something in me grew worried. I still feel worry, not for his physical body of course, but for the remnants of his soul. Where is he? What has become of my Angel? Has he been denied to both Heaven and Hell? Am I wrong, Diary, to think of him still? Am I a sullen, distasteful wife for wondering about what happened to his poor body, to that sad and horrifyingly disfigured face and the essence of his dark burning eyes?"I imagine he sank to the bottom of the Seine somewhere. I imagine he's still down under the water, caught between unseen debris and left to rot. My God, the tears that fill my eyes are close to falling onto the paper. I shouldn't cry, lest I won't be able to read my writing. But I want to weep for him. I should weep for him, despite all his wrongdoings. What that man went through in life was tribulation after tribulation, and I pity him. I miss him, Diary, and I should feel guilty for writing it down, but I don't. But if I had truly been a woman of my word, I would have stayed. If it would have saved poor Philippe and kept Raoul safe and at bay from Erik's rage, I should have stayed. I feel as though I am a bad, inconstant woman for leaving. Most would say I had no obligation to stay, that the only right thing to do was to leave, but a part of me misses my Angel. That part of me always will, and I suffice to say that now, even five years later, something in me regrets everything. Perhaps it is survivor's guilt. Perhaps it is my foolishness."But I had turned the scorpion, didn't I? I had turned it after making a vow to him to become his wife. Oh, why didn't I follow through with my word? Would it have given poor Erik the closure and love he so longed for? Would he still be here composing brilliant and haunting scores? All I can hear, Diary, is the soft sound of the organ from the room where he played. As I slept in that massive bed, hidden by lace curtains of virginal white and silk, I grew so curious. When I awoke and found the mirror with my name inscribed on its back, followed by the note that had so eagerly instilled the urgency not to remove his mask, I felt conflicted.
"In my dreams, he still plays for me. I hear him behind my walls, in my ears, and deep in my heart. I often imagine the essence of his soul is caught in the cellars of the opera house still. Perhaps he never truly left. Perhaps his ghost waits for me to return. But I can't bring myself to go back to the opera, knowing how much horror had been wreaked in my name. I recall how the managers and the rest of the company stared at me. They had all blamed me for their doom and the downfall of the opera. Perhaps in the end they were right. After all, he had taken the lives of Buquet and Phillppe. He had taken human life and still, a part of me knows it was foolish to pity a madman capable of such monstrosities. But Erik suffered five cellars down in that crushing darkness. He was alone all his life, Diary, and I denied him his one chance at knowing real love, at having a real interaction with another human being. How I wish I could've taken him out of the cellars and helped him so. May my Angel forgive me and watch over me from wherever he may be."
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As the ink finished drying, the pages lay untouched for a few minutes. As the fire crackled in the hearth, Christine reclined in the chair at her desk and began to drift into a somnolent trance. There was a faint wind outside, brushing against her bedroom window. It sounded like awful scratching as the wind picked up, but then something else entered the atmosphere. It was a slow tune she had not heard in years. It was the hum of a violin's strings. Ever so did it remind her of her father's playing. As her eyes grew heavier by the moment, her body relaxed. She had fallen asleep for a few moments, but the sound of another hum woke her with an excited fright. The strings reverberated and became a part of her, especially as gooseflesh riddled her body. The cushioning of the chair reminded her of the bed she once lay on, of how its velvet covers allowed her to sink without worries of discomfort. She imagined then that Erik was putting her to bed once more. She recalled the placid white of his mask, the thin film that lay over his mouth, hiding his sharp and uneven teeth."Christine..."Her dark eyes went wide and a gasp left her lips. The melodious voice was clear. It sounded as if it were trying to speak to her. She rose from the chair and moved towards the window. She could hear the violin music growing louder, if not closer. Her hand reached out and grasped the handle. With a careful pull, she unlocked it and opened the pane, sweeping it outward. The wind was brisk and cool, and fallen leaves scattered across the cobblestone. The lamps along the street flickered. The violin had a melancholic tone, and she could feel her heart swelling inside her chest.Very faintly, as if to avoid acknowledgment from those who were perhaps nearby, her gentle voice seemed broken. She called out ever so softly as the wind continued to blend with the music."Angel?"Fresh tears trickled down her cold cheeks, and what blood filled them suddenly drained away. She felt anemic and lonely. As she swallowed hard, her voice cracked again as she quietly cried."Angel? Have you come back to me?"But down below, there was a figure coming down the street. He was clad in black clothes, new in the year's fashion, but for some foolish reason, she was hopeful. She felt her breath catch in her throat as she waited for the stranger to come closer. Suddenly the man's footsteps echoed as he grew closer.Christine looked intently down below. Once the man came closer, she was disappointed. It was not Erik, though a part of her had been so desperate to believe it was. The man was playing the violin down the street for change. How he reminded her of her dear papa. But as the wind blew harder, the lamps were doused. She grasped the handle of the window again and began to close it. But something caught her eye before she closed the pane shut.Down below, on the front steps of her home, something rectangular, followed by something lithe and long lay there under the lamp that still burned. Like a curious child, Christine couldn't help it. She closed the window and grabbing her shawl, she quietly opened her bedroom door and crept past her son's room. The boy was such a deep sleeper like his father and she had no worries that she would wake him.As she hurried down the flight of steps, she reached the front door and opened it quietly. Out on the stone step, there lay something she had not seen for a long time. A crème envelope and a rose lay together, the rose wrapped with a black ribbon beneath the bud itself. Her eyes filled with shocked tears. She knelt to collect the gift and the envelope.She walked back inside and closed the door, planting her back firmly against it. On the front of the envelope, it was addressed to her: Vicomtesse de Chagny.Surely it was a jest. Who would play such a joke? Her eyes panned around the open streets and saw nothing. The fog rolled in and grew thick in its congestion. She moved back up the stairs and returned to her room. With the ink now dry on the pages, she closed her diary. She used a letter opener to cut the flap open on the envelope, and she withdrew the contents. She placed the rose down beside her diary and began to read the note. Her heart quickened as she recognized the writing."My dear Christine,"If by whatever time you read this, I will be long dead. I have paid the street player in advance to leave you these things on this, the anniversary of my death. I will have left this world not knowing anyone's grace, save yours. In this one final note, I wanted to reiterate the fact that I am still very much your master and angel. If you have married de Chagny, I know he will in no doubt take care of you. But perhaps now you wonder why Erik decided to write this."The answer is clear, Christine: I still love you and shall even from beyond the grave. Sing no sad songs for me; your voice is beautiful but laments do not suit your tone. Accompanied by this letter is a rose, one I wish I could've given you with the ring I returned to you as my parting gift. But the boy you've married had best be taking care of you. Erik is not so far gone as to haunt your groom if he does not care for your well-being."But think of the Angel in earnest. Do not fear what I once was, but remember me as the teacher who loved you so. The lasso that claimed Buquet would never follow you, and even in death, I shall find peace knowing you go on. Remember that I was still a man, though hideous, who could still feel, think, love, and mourn."Yours in eternity, Erik..."-The letter fell from her hand and onto the floor without a sound. It felt so light falling from her fingertips that she hardly felt leave her grasp. Her eyes filled with tears.How could he have thought ahead so thoroughly? How did he know where she would live with Raoul? Perhaps he had obtained the help of another— the street player had to of been his little helping hand. As she sat down again, she was almost out of breath from shock. She never thought that she would see that handwriting again. As tears fell down her cheeks, she planted her face in her right palm.But what of the letter? What of the contents of her diary? What if both written proclamations should fall into the wrong hands and be seen by suspecting eyes? She could never let Raoul see her words. She loved him and had fought for his freedom and for that of Ledoux's release from the chamber, and yet she knew that inadvertently, Raoul would find her mad perhaps for writing about a man who had plagued them so.Christine snapped to her senses and retrieved Erik's letter from the floor. With the ink in her diary dried, she secured it between the pages. She took the red rose into her hand and pressed it firmly between the leaves of paper.She locked the diary on the side with its little lock, one in the shape of a heart. The brass gleamed under the candlelight and shone softly. It was then that she heard footsteps coming. She opened the drawer in her oaken desk and quickly shoved it all inside. She closed it fast and locked it. She would not let any other pair of eyes see what her secret thoughts were. Her key to the desk slid between her brassiere and as the bedroom door opened, a little figure stood in the open. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, slightly groaning as if he were trying to fend off a nightmare."Mother?"His tiny voice filled her ears. With her maternal instincts kicking in, Christine stood up from her desk and approached him, leaning down to pick him up. Once in her arms, she secured him and began to carry him back to his room. As she entered the nursery, she carefully put him down on the bed. He curled into his animals and nuzzled the pillow. She tucked a lock of his brown curls behind his ear and kissed his cheek, then his nose, and finally his forehead. How she wished she could have given Erik one kiss on the crown of his head, if only to affirm that he was not alone. A fresh tear clung to the corner of her duct. She swept it away before Philippe could say anything. The boy was already drifting back to sleep, coming in and out of consciousness.Christine dimmed the lamp inside his room to a low setting. As she turned to leave, her son stopped her."Mother, we have... Angel?"Her eyes went wide as he remained closed, groggy. "What was that, my love?"
His first few words! How strange that he should speak of someone he never knew or met.
She stepped inside the doorway only slightly to hear him reaffirm his words."What was that, Philippe?""Where Angel?"Before she could ask him anything else, he drifted back to sleep. She blamed the de Chagny side for such deep trances and sullen slumbers. She swallowed hard and touched her collarbone, then rubbed her throat.
How would he know? He wasn't born yet when Erik still lived. How could he know of the man himself? How?
She merely tried to think that she had misinterpreted what Philippe said. A three-year-old should be blissfully unaware of the strangeness of the world. True, he was very intelligent for his age, and it made her nervous. After she returned to her room, she hurriedly made herself ready for bed. Raoul would be home at any given moment, and she wanted to be asleep by the time he came upstairs. She pulled back the covers after throwing on her nightgown. She crawled under the blankets and folded her hands together in prayer.She whispered a prayer for the health of Raoul and their son, for the souls of those whose lives had been affected that night. With her eyes closed in concentration, her lips moved and a soft sound escaped her."Heavenly Father, pray for us sinners and guide the forlorn souls home where they belong. And if you can hear me, Lord, I ask this one thing— watch over the spirit of Erik. He deserves Your compassion and pity more than that of the living."