Page 4 of Angel's Kiss
“Who’s that? What are you doing here!” A male voice demanded from the hall before Erik could even enter the kitchen proper. Erik sighed and turned to the fireman that had spoken. Of all the Opera employees, it was always these steadfast fools sent to patrol the grand Palais that gave him the most trouble. It was not that he begrudged them their important task of keeping the building from burning down like the old opera on theRue Le Peltier(and a hundred other operas and theaters before it), but he did wish they wouldn’t get in his way so often.
“Walk away, young man, I don’t wish to do harm tonight,” Erik said, raising himself to his full height and staring down the quaking youth. He was ashen with fear, having recognized that he had accosted none other than the Phantom. Would he run or would he be foolish enough to try bravery?
“Get back,” the man – a boy, in truth – stammered as he fumbled at his collar to pull out a silver crucifix. Erik rolled his eyes as the idiot began to mutter a prayer. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.”
“No one is with you,” Erik sighed and sprang on his prey, grabbing the boy by the lapels. In a heartbeat, the poor wretch found himself flung across the hall, crashing into a marble column. The boy gave a groan and shriek, not even bothering to look back as he scrambled up and fled. How unsatisfying.
Erik took his time, waiting to be sure no one else was close before finally stealing into the kitchen to collect his supplies. He was equally careful in his return journey, his pace slowing the closer he came to the lake. How could he face her again? How could he bare himself before her eyes when he had just proven what a despicable creature he was? He could stop it all now, but the thought of letting her go was even worse.
He poled the boat over the glassy waters of the lake, heart heavy and tight with guilt and dread. It was so much easier to love her when he could hide and forget himself. Was there nothing he could conceal himself with now?
He lingered outside his hidden door, leaning against the wall that now separated him from Christine and tried to find some strength or composure. He had begged for this; to simply be close to her, to have the chance to be known. He could not squander it.
He had not expected Christine to be in the parlor when he entered. The strangeness of another person waiting for him in his home was immediately replaced with concern when she spun from where she stood by the organ and looked at him with horror in her face.
“Where were you?” she demanded before Erik had even closed the door.
“As I wrote—”
“‘Errands’ means nothing,” Christine snapped. “You were gone for an hour. I was alone here foran hour.”
“I’m sorry,” he replied as he doffed his hat and cloak. “I thought you’d want supper.” He indicated the pack of food he held.
“I’m not hungry.” Christine’s face was as cold as her words. “Never leave me here alone again.”
Erik turned away from her wrath, skin crawling. “It will not happen again,” he muttered. Even without looking, he could still feel her staring. “If you are not hungry, I will not trouble you,” he said and made to retreat to his room.
“Do you not want me here?”
He spun at the question and the tone of offense in Christine’s voice. “What?”
“You won’t talk to me or answer my questions. You claim you want me to know you but how am I to do that if you won’t evenlookat me or tell me of your life?”
“My life,” Erik scoffed. “That is a story far too ugly for your pretty ears.”
“Don’t condescend to me. I’ll decide what I need to know to trust you.” Her tone smarted but the fire in her reminded Erik exactly why he loved this woman. “Please, tell mesomething.”
“I...” Erik could not even find the words to explain, and Christine heaved a furious sigh. She cast her gaze about the room until it landed on the great organ. To Erik’s horror, she picked up a sheaf of music that she had obviously taken from his shelves.
“This music. It’s handwritten and I don’t recognize it. It’s yours, isn’t it? You’re a composer. I knew you had to be—” Before she could speak another word, Erik snatched the parchment from her hand, his heart pounding in horror.
“Don’t touch that!” he growled and turned his attention to the rest of his work. If she had found hisDon Juan, she would not still be here. He had been an idiot to leave her alone in his home! Terror rose in him until he saw that the great, red, leather-bound score of his most terrible work remained safely on the highest shelf. He turned back to Christine only to have his relief replaced by guilt as he saw the fresh fear on her face.
“I want to go home. I was a fool to come here,” she declared and stalked towards the door.
“No, please stay!” Erik’s first impulse was to seize her, but he knew touching her would shatter any hope of winning her back. So instead, he turned to the organ. His hands fell on the ivory keys and a swell of music filled his home, booming through the shadows. He played a fragment of a composition from years ago, when he had first assembled the instrument. It cried out with pain, burning and searing for a terrible moment before he stopped. He listened to Christine’s ragged breath as the notes faded, the very walls trembling with memory.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
Erik could not turn. He could not bear to be seen by her. He never wanted to be seen, or known. But if she wished to, out of some madness, he would try to let her. Or at least let himself be heard.
“Allowing you to know me the best way I know how.”
He did not hear her move, only the soft sound of her breath as she waited. Praying she would truly hear, he sat at the organ and began to play in earnest. Without words or vision, he gave her what he could of his story.
The notes blossomed from beneath his fingers and the great pedals beneath his feet, dark as a storm. The harmonies were harsh, discordant and unresolved, the rhythm irregular. It was the sort of music that would never be allowed in the Opera above. It was too modern, too wild and uncomfortable. But it was him, or part of him. It was the dark and the pain that he had been born from, the loneliness and the loss. There were flashes of peace, of promise, but they were deceptive and only led to more suffering. Yet still, there was beauty, hidden beneath and between the roiling darkness. There was hope.
It was small, this hope, this fraction of a melody that fought through the thundering sounds of his life and travails. But it was there, a wisp of beauty that demanded to be followed, even if it led him to new pain. He chased the motif, trying to fit it into the discord and in turn bringing a new harmony to the sound. The melody grew, like a call, begging him to resist the shadows. It was the music and hope that had sustained him amidst all the blood and grief and loneliness. But it still wasn’t enough, in the minor key in which the motif settled and it faded away. Just as he had, it died softly, until it was but a ghost.
