Hopeful Soul: A Phantom Story

Chapter Twenty-Six.

CHRISTINE:

I had slept through an entire day - that alone being enough to worry a person - and still didn't understand my sadness. Erik had let me go and I should have been happy - Raoul was who I wanted... right? I was not sure any more. I wanted the safety Raoul had to offer, but I missed something greater than safety and that was music. A day without it was enough to know that it was my life. It was consuming me in the same way it consumed Erik - which somewhat frightened me. It was as if his music had introduced me to a world of which I had not yet seen and that was the most challenging aspect.

Raoul had given me a room upstairs that made me think of the mauve room at Erik's home and I would have cried, for it not be that I used all of my tears. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked across the room at the golden mirror which stood tall against the wall. I stared at the gold edging and his eyes came into my mind - it terrified me. I closed my eyes and the image went away, but I couldn't comprehend why I didn't stop thinking of him. What was wrong with mcheek"Christine?"

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts and I was thankful for any kind of distraction. I stood from the bed and opened the door - it was Raoul himself. He stepped into the room, adjusting his overcoat as if was getting ready for a date, "Yes, Raoul?"

He seemed somewhat sad looking at me like he was, stuffing a folded cravat in the pocket of his coat, "I am going out tonight with Phillipe. Julius is downstairs if you shall need anything. The wardrobe beside the mirror had plenty gowns and the bath is just across the hall," he placed his hand carefully on my shoulder, staring into my eyes, "You will be alright, won't you?"

I nodded, but I knew my thoughts would drive me mad. They have been for the past two days, "Alright," he said with a kiss to my cheek, "Well, how do I look?"

He presented himself with an air of confidence - something which Erik produced tenfold, "You are handsome."

He smiled and leaned in for a kiss, but I turned my head. I don't know why I did such a cruel thing and he seemed a little hurt by it, as well, "Fine, then," he said, putting his top hat on, "Good-night, Christine."

I had hurt him and in turn, I hurt myself. I wanted to apologize, but at the same time I didn't want to interrupt his get together with his brother. I stared at the open door for a moment, feeling cold and alone - perhaps that was how Raoul felt after what I did and God was just returning the feeling to me. Or even worse - this might have been how Erik felt every day.

I may have just left a man whose entire life depended on having someone to love him. And judging by the circumstance he was in, love was not offered to him. How could love be offered to a severely deformed man whose existence was under the Garnier Opera House acting as The Phantom of the Opera? I pitied Erik. More than anything, I pitied him.

Pulling me from my thoughts, a gust of wind came from behind me and I saw a balcony which must have been cleverly hidden behind the mauve curtains. Nothing was there except a flower - a yellow flower that I did not recognize. I picked it up and, tied cleverly to its stem, a piece of parchment read:

Upon getting into the bath for a cleaning, I couldn't help but wonder who this 'messenger' was. And who on Earth was our dear friend supposed to be? A knot of confusion rested on my head as I dried from the bath and put on my evening gown, facing the mirror above the sink. I wasn't the same Christine after Don Juan. My skin had lost all color and my lips were bright red. My hair, still damp from the bath and swept into an elegant updo, remained its usual light brown.

After I was clean, I set off towards the Rue Scribe in pursuit of this 'messenger'. I wanted to know more about the dear friend he spoke about and what things he needed to tell me. It was all very intriguing and led me to think of one person - Erik. But it could not be. Erik did not have any acquaintances except for Madame and she would have knocked on the front door. Unless it was... the Persian.

He seemed knowledgeable, but I wasn't sure he knew much about Erik. Erik didn't seem too fond of him for some reason and I could only imagine horrible things. However, when I arrived on the Rue Scribe, I saw a man in a Persian cap sitting alone on his doorstep - he was the messenger. But what could he possibly have known, "Mademoiselle!"

With caution, I approached the doorstep and he offered me a seat on the white porch swing to the left of door. What did the gentleman have to share, "I assume you are the messenger."

"Your assumption is correct, Mademoiselle. Now, would you care to know anything?"

"Yes. Erik introduced us before. Monsieur Khan, is it?" he gave a firm nod and I continued, "What are the things you spoke about in that letter? The great many things."

"Ah. I should refrain from the rosy days of Mazandaran. That is a tale no woman should behold. But I will explain in the best details I can what he told me of his poor childhood. You see, he told me, long ago, that even as a small child he wasn't allowed a simple kiss on the forehead from his mother. That she would throw him his mask and tell him to be a good, quiet little boy."

It was the most disgusting thing I had ever heard - a mother denying her child affection based on his facial deformation. That alone made me want to return to him and embrace him and allow his cold, gentle lips to graze my forehead, "He had told me, also, that his father never saw him. But with Erik, that could mean many different things."

"What exactly were the rosy days of Mazandaran?"

He paused every so slightly in his speech and looked to me worriedly, "I warn you. They were dark times. When Erik was possibly twenty years old, I met him in the Persian courts. At the time, I was a daroga - a chief of police - in the country. Erik was, and still is, an illusionist, ventriloquist, and a very dark magician. He could take the most simple of objects and turn it into something peculiar and dangerous. I witnessed this firsthand in the home if the shah. He put himself in trouble creating what the shah had ordered - a torture chamber. The reason behind was boredom because the shah was tired of the regular executions on the street and heard of Erik's many masterpieces through talk from the courts. Now, imagine the chamber Erik has in his underground home, but change the scale by five times. The shah found it hilarious when the victim would rush around Erik's water illusions hoping for a drink. It was possibly the most disturbing thing I could have witnessed. They would boil alive and yes, Erik did regret making the creating the chamber, but he uses it now for protection from people who trespass into his surroundings. Quite simply, he is excellent at what he does."

"Would you happen to know when music came into his life?'

His days at Mazandaran were... disturbing, to say the least, but I hoped to know why Erik was so consumed by his music. What had attracted him to it and why he spent ask waking hours on the organ, "Erik explained briefly once that music was the only thing keeping him sane - well, as sane as Erik may get, however. I know it is his first love, though, and the fact that you loved it as well made him even more drawn to you. The beauty you have wasn't even the first thing he noticed. He saw you with your father's violin one day and even explained to me that there was nothing more appealing to him than someone as passionate about melody as he is."

Erik's life, briefly detailed, made more sense to me now. I know this wasn't even half of what he went through - I could tell by remembering the sadness on his face - but it was much more comforting to have knowledge about him. Especially before his... passing, "He told me that someone would get me when it was his time," the tears returned and, with them, a flood of emotions I did not recognize, "Are you the one he is sending?"

"Well, it would only make sense. May I ask, though? Why do you cry? What does Erik mean to you?"

I hadn't the slightest idea what Erik meant to me anymore. He was once a teacher - my angel of music. Then he became a man and everything changed. He had recently became my friend, but I had no idea what to call him now. I suppose I would have to think about it for a while, "I am not sure, Monsieur. I will be waiting for your knock, though. Thank you."