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Save Me From My Solitude	By : Pasque Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 2589 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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CHRISTINE

Two weeks have passed. Two weeks during which I have neither seen nor heard from him. I feel that I should rip the lying tongue from my own wicked mouth. To say such things, such hideous things, oh how could I have done that? Why could I not just bring myself to admit the truth, why did I allow my childish pride to stand in the way?

I have spent the past fourteen days wandering around the village hoping to catch a glimpse of his tall, broad shouldered frame, just the glint of sunlight off his white mask, anything to reassure me that I had not driven him away with my cruelty. If he has left the village, if he has fled leaving me here alone never to hear from him again then I shall surely die.

I have cried myself to sleep every night. Raoul is accustomed to visiting me once weekly in my chambers to exercise his rights as a husband. Romantic isn’t it? Oh yes, I am perfectly slotted into his schedule, just like his business meetings and his fencing practise. This week I can truly say I dreaded it. I nearly choked on my own tears, the full crushing weight of a man upon my chest pinned me to the bed, I simply turned my head to the side and let the pillow absorb my tears. Of course I knew that Raoul was perfectly within his rights to want me and I knew that it was absolutely unacceptable of me to even think of refusing him. He was always gentle with me but I had begun to realise that the act had lessened in pleasure for him, probably since he now realised that our union would not result in an heir.

Sometimes I truly pity Raoul, he once thought me so perfect, and how much that misconception has cost us both. He married a child, he married Little Lotte: Little Lotte perished along with her Angel of Music in the cellars of the Opera House. I often wonder if my husband even likes me. The real me. Christine.

I lay alone, in the aftermath of our carnality. My body felt sticky to my fingers and my skin was stiflingly hot despite the midwinter season. As usual Raoul had left as soon as he was finished with me, with a polite kiss to my forehead and wishing sweet dreams upon me. It always struck me as hilarious how formally he acted towards me after such intimacy!

I flung back the covers from the bed and walked barefoot into my bathroom. I sponged my body, sighing in relief at the cool and soothing touch of water on skin. After I had cleansed myself I slipped on an equally clean chemise, I was about to return to bed when the view from the window caught my eye. I strolled over and looked across the quaint village. It was set in a sunken circle encompassed by four mansions on raised land. My own was one such building, the two either side of me were owned by equally wealthy, aristocratic families as my in laws, and the one opposite… Well the one opposite was owned by Erik.

After the first week of my vigil I realised that I was not the only friend Erik had here, although I don’t think I have any right to call myself that anymore. M de Jere knew Erik, the two had seemed well acquainted at the music shop and it had not been difficult to persuade him to disclose his address. So it is not as if I don’t know where he is. I know exactly where he is, but I don’t know what to do. I can hardly just walk up, knock on his door and apologise, I know it seems the logical step, but the things I accused him of were just too terrible for that. I could see his house, in all probability he was not even a mile away. I have considered many possible avenues: I could write him a letter, but I know that in his anger he is likely to throw it in the fire without glancing twice at it. I could send a servant to tell Erik that the Vicomtess de Chagny demanded his presence at her estate – but then the poor messenger would be lucky to return alive! Yet as I stood, watching rain softly begin to fall I knew what I had to do.

ERIK

Two weeks. Two weeks without that wretched girl before my eyes. Surely I should not miss the sight of her so much, after all I had survived without her for three years. I had survived very well in fact; I had returned to my birth place, Boscherville, I had reacquainted myself with the architectural industry and I had settled quite comfortably into my new life. But then suddenly there she was again, before my eyes and back inside my mind. I know that in many ways she never really left, but I had been able to dim her memory down into something bearable, something that did not torment me throughout my waking hours and on into my dreams. I have long since lost track of the time, nothing seems to hold my attention tonight: numerous books lay discarded on the table as do dozens of musical scores I have attempted to entertain myself with. Nothing works. I have been avoiding the village, avoiding her. In fact the only people I have seen in the past fortnight have been M. de Jere who kindly delivered the music I requested from him and my housekeeper Marie.

It was my housekeeper who entered the room now, “Erik,” she spoke my name softly. The few visitors I have had to my estate have often asked me why I allow my one and only servant to call me by my first name, the fact is that Marie Perrault had been a friend of my mother’s and perhaps the only woman who had ever been brave enough to look upon my face with only the slightest vestiges of fear clouding her expression. I had returned home to find her nearly destitute and automatically taken her into my home. Strangely I didn’t find her presence annoying, I had thought that after years of much desired solitude under the Opera house I would not be able to bear company and yet I found her more than bearable… pleasant even. She was as kind to be as she had always been, and I could not help but feel some amount of affection towards the woman who had fought so valiantly to draw my mother attentions to my better talents: my music, my drawings, anything rather than my face.

“Marie,” I reply wearily. “I do not need anything, thank you; you may retire for the night if you wish.” I can feel her looking at me and I feel vaguely ashamed, I am slouched in a chair in front of the fire with my shirt collar open and a half empty bottle of liquor besides me.

“Erik,” she said again and I could hear that certain firmness creeping into her voice. “You have been inside all week, you should go out, take in some fresh air.”

“Open the window,” I told her sarcastically.

“Erik,” she said sharply. I sighed into my hands as she moved to sit in the chair next to me. Her voice softened as she saw the tiredness and the sadness in my face, or rather half of my face. “What is it child?”

I so wish Christine could be here to hear me called that, to hear me called child. To see that I also had to be looked after, to be helped, to be cared for. That I had not always been this way, not always been a cold and murderous man but had been a scared and tortured child myself once.

“Marie,” I repeated sadly. “The girl… from the opera house. She is here.”

“I see,” she said slowly. “Why would an opera singer be out here in Boscherville? “

“She is married.”

“Oh,” I saw the dawning light of comprehension in her eyes and suddenly found myself babbling to her.

“I came all this way to leave her rid of me forever, so that she could have what she wanted, and now I turn around and she’s here in my town! I was here first damn her!”

“Well,” the woman said gently as she took the glass from my hand and placed it on the table. “Things are not always that simple, God has a reason.”

I laughed hollowly, Marie knew full well my feelings towards religion, “And what, pray, was God’s reason for allowing me to be born alive?”

Marie just gazed at me sadly, “You sell yourself short as always. Perhaps this girl sees something in you that you cannot allow yourself to see.”

“Perhaps, but then perhaps she saw something in me that caused her to run screaming into the arms of her Vicomte.” I heard the spite and bitterness in my voice but couldn’t stop it; I regretted it when I saw the pity and pain for me in her lined face. “Marie I am sorry,” I said softly as I stood and offered her my hand to help her as she stood herself; I saw the effort in her aged bones. “Go to bed, I shall be fine I promise you.”

She walked slowly out and I felt bad for worrying her. I remembered her small acts of kindness towards me as a child, such as my one and only birthday present and wondered perhaps if things would have turned out differently for me if she had been my mother. I was dwelling on these thoughts when I heard a noise from the next room. I jumped to my feet and grabbed the heavy glass bottle of brandy with a mind to smashing it gleefully over the head of any intruder. The sound came from my library and my temper flared up as I thought of all the instruments I kept in there, God help any one who had been stupid enough to touch my piano. I flung the door open and I actually felt my mouth fall open in shock. I composed myself quickly though and asked, “Christine, why are you straddling my window?”

Well that’s another chappie done, I’d really appreciate everyone letting me know what they think of the new POV’s, feedback is my drug! Love Pasque
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Save Me From My Solitude