Post by Erik Spectre on Dec 18, 2011 10:51:35 GMT -5
ÉRIK
"Beware the Siren's Song"
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Player Name: Leffie
Years Roleplaying: A little over a year in depth, but my first forum was years ago on a Sailor Moon site. After that I stopped RPing until last year.
Gender: I'm a chick. x3
Contact me: Skype: Lefantomeromance, MSN: ramengurl@yahoo.com, google docs: rewrittengirl@gmail.com, PM me
Anything else?: If you have any questions, feel free to contact me! Use this application as a guide to yours, if you so desire.
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Basic Information
Age: 51... ish.
Canon or OC?: The Phantom of the Opera, 1911[/size]
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Appearance
Body type: Like a skeleton, he walks with a certain grace that could rival any ghost in the manor.
Eye color: A rare gold that changes shades with his mood.
Wardrobe: Érik is usually rather fashionable in his dress. He is never without a waistcoat, and wears custom tailored clothes. However usually his clothes still hang off his form ever so slightly, as he is deathly skinny. His main color choice is usually black with a touch of red or purple. His shirts are always immaculately white or cream and pristine. His mask is a full face mask, and is a deep black that makes his eyes even more menacing.
General Appearance: Érik has the general countenance of a death's head. His deformity is unbearable to look at, so he neglects doing so in any mirror. He has little hair, only a few dark locks on his forehead and behind his ears. His eyes are very sunken in, due to both the deformity and sporadic sleeping problems, and almost appear just as sockets in a skull. His cheeks are hollow, and his lips are so thin there is little to speak of them. His skin is a yellowish color like aging parchment, stretched tight over his bones thinly, revealing tiny veins protruding when his temper flares. He is deathly skinny, almost like a skeleton, and if that wasn't enough, to complete his entire appearance is the absence of a nose! As he often says, "Woe to those who have a nose, a real nose." His greatest disappointment in himself is the lack of a nose, and thus is greatly jealous of those who have one.
He hides all this with a clever mask and a dark black wig. The wig is always slicked back, and his figure is imposing. He walks as if he owns all those around him, and by God he thinks he does. However when he feels insulted or betrayed, he'll either move with fury or slink like a depressed snake across the floor. He walks with a ghost like method, and could rival any of the spirits lurking in the manor with his art of invisibility. He is rather fit and agile for an old man, mostly due to his thin nature and his exercise among the rafters of the opera. His very very long legs and long arms permit him to jump over railings with ease and tower over everyone around him, and his long thin fingers provide him the ability to play instruments, especially the organ, piano, and violin very very well.
I should talk about his eyes, because I cannot stress to you how important his eyes is, though he rather thinks it ridiculous that I think so. His face, though deformed, is rather animate. Érik has a lot of moodswings, and his expressions mirror them perfectly. His eyebrows are the most important feature of his face. Long and thin, they curve with ease and furrow with frustration elegantly. His eyes dart and judge you no matter where they are, but at the same time they can be gentle and forgiving, so long as you don't anger them again. Inside them is hidden a child who just wants to be loved, so be gentle with those eyes. Don't accuse them of hatred and no compassion.
Ah yes, his voice. While not a part of his appearance, it might as well be, for his magnificent voice characterizes his every move. It is thought to have the soul of an angel trapped inside it, for no man on this earth who sings can compare to its beauty. It wraps around those who hear it like liquid honey, melting inside their eardrums and crushing their will to move. He has complete control over those who hear his voice, especially when he sings. While it is powerful and foreboding, due to his abilities of ventriloquism and his unreal range, he can alter his voice at whim. He can mimic anyone's voice, which should cause trouble for a lot of people. Érik's voice, however deep and guttural, can change to being soft and warm, like a lullaby (mostly when he's trying to get his way). He can sound weak and small, and yet at a moment's notice it can change to screaming and cursing and damning the day anyone was born. You really never know what you're going to get with a voice like his.
Played By: Muirin007's interpretation of Erik the Phantom from deviantart (images used with permission, however not used in the app because I picture Érik mostly as the picture above.
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Personality
Thanks to Christine, he became the Voice. The Voice is calm and reserved, and a strong, wise mentor to Christine and her vocal aspirations. He is strict with her, and yet he is gentle as well, always praising her and telling her she will be the greatest singer the world has ever known. The Voice is like Christine's guardian angel, the Angel of Music. He weeps at her voice's magnificent beauty, and is a friend and listener to her. Since Christine could never see the Voice when he tutored her, he never had to keep up appearances, and would often arrive at their tutoring sessions however he wanted, mask on or off, sometimes his person in disarray, but only because he worshiped the ground she walked on, and would follow her voice wherever it went, no matter what he was doing, what was happening that before the session, or how he looked, though he hated arriving without the proper clothes when the time called for it.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, when he's not being Christine's mentor, he is the Opera Ghost, or the Phantom of the Opera. Ever since he began living underneath the opera house he devised a way to amuse himself, and reap the benefits by haunting the managers and company of the Paris Opera House, even its patrons as well. He often spooks people around, and the legend grew that there was a ghost haunting the place, and he used that to his advantage. Even when something happened not at his hand, people still blamed him, which made him happy to no end. He became a mischievous prankster with a wicked sense of humor, forcing the managers of the Opera House to pay him 20,000 francs a month to fund his eccentric lifestyle. When he messes with the patrons, he does it sarcastically, and once fooled a couple sitting in HIS box (box five of course) that they were being unfaithful to one another, all the while frightening them in the process. As the Phantom, he is a child playing games on the people living in his house, just as he did when he was younger. In essence, the man never really grew up.
He is also an all around Renaissance man, in essence. An utter genius in almost everything, he is a brilliant composer, accomplished architect (who helped build the Palais Garnier), master illusionist, excellent swimmer and runner, a literary scholar (despite his dyslexic disability), an amazing ventriloquist, and is the utmost gentleman, for the most part. When he is this refined genius, he is not just calm, but feels incredibly superior over others. He is a master of all these things, and isn't afraid to say so. He is rather arrogant in this sense, and people become frustrated with him because of his lack of humility. He himself gets frustrated at people's inadequacy, and lashes out at them, usually in third person.
Unfortunately, because of his extremely vile countenance, he, on occasion, becomes a raging madman. Some would call him evil, but others just misguided. He has a temper to rival any other man's, and can be even called insane at times. He will plot extremely calculated revenge on someone if they've wronged him, or he will kill without a moment's hesitation (however he does regret what he does after a while). This particular side of him stems from his harsh upbringing by his cruel mother, and the difficult life he led before coming to the Opera House. He believes no one could possibly understand or accept him, apart from Christine, and any who think so will sorely be mistaken in the long run. He has built torture chambers for the Shah of Persia, and even keeps one in his own home for intruders. He is very guarded of himself and his feelings, and resents those who try to pry. His temper, as said before, is unruly. You can never know what he will do when he is angry. Sometimes he will be so furious that he becomes practically calm and collected, however he is really seething with rage behind his amber eyes.
Often he will retreat so far into himself that he hallucinates, and even has visions of a siren, a guardian of his lake, and before Christine he had once thought he had been married, even had a mistress, and bought clothes and took one of them to the Opera often times, however sometimes even in the middle of a conversation with one of them (ie: himself) he will remember himself and feel entirely foolish, destroying the fine clothes and brooding for long periods of time. He is so very lonely. Even after Christine he often sees things, people. He has visions of his mother, of people laughing and jeering at him. He will become violent and wild, or will become so depressed his heart physically hurts from the sights in his head.
Lastly, there is one persona that is at the heart of every one of them. This is Érik. Érik is the man, the person, the one who begs to be loved. For the longest time he wishes someone would love him as other people can be loved. He tries his best to be a gentleman, giving Christine her privacy and never peering into her dressing room whilst she was changing, showering her with affection, and treating her like a queen (unless she crosses him). He is courteous to those who are kind to him, but again, he guards his feelings. At his core he is essentially a human being, and that is what frustrates him most about his appearance and the people around him: the fact that they cannot see beyond his deformity to the genius and the person within. When significantly calm and in a better mood, he will sometimes open up to someone who deigns to dig deeper into the man behind the Phantom. His feelings, while muddled and misguided due to his past, are really genuine, and contrary to popular belief, Érik loves, has loved, and will always love Christine Daaé with every fiber of his being, and is not just obsessed with her voice. He genuinely believed she could love him in return, but the way events transpired left him somewhat jaded (okay, maybe REALLY jaded), feels that pursuing her feelings would end in an even more disaster than it did, for them both. But one thing is for sure, though he may have a temper, he would never, EVER intentionally hurt her. She is his whole world, and what makes him a man in his heart. If only she knew...
Dreams and Goals: To have a wife like any other man, to take out on Sundays. To love and be loved in return. For his music to become beloved.
Strengths: Brilliant composer of music, HIS VOICE, excellent magician, could fool anyone, quick witted, highly intelligent, resilient, pretty humorous when he wants to be, kind when he wants to be, a very large imagination, can be childlike in an adorable sense at times, ventriloquist, a complete gentleman (ie. he won't take advantage of a lady), good actor, agile and nimble to move through the rafters, excellent swimmer, can play many many instruments, architect, all around genius of sorts at least where the arts are concerned, accomplished dancer, etc.
Weaknesses: He's an obnoxious prick, in fact a complete asshole sometimes, hates people, pretty much mentally insane, sadistic sense of humor, shy, compulsively obsessive, compulsive liar, never keeps his word, pushy, egotistical, haughty, insensitive, hates children, very manipulative (and good at it too), physical outbursts, his face is a weakness, morbid beyond all belief, speaks in third person on occasion, a wino, extremely dyslexic, and a very VERY extreme cas of self-loathing... and he’s ticklish.
Fears: His face being seen, dying alone, loosing Christine, elevators, etc.
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The Past
His only friend, if he could be considered a friend, was Daroga, the chief of the Persian Police. He helped him escape Persia when he was being persecuted by the Shah, who wanted him killed because he knew too many of the courts secrets. Though Daroga still persued him, he did so with regret by the time they came to Paris, and even when they met multiple times, Daroga still could not bring himself to capture Erik, as he felt responsible for the mentally unstable man.
Of course, he considers himself a friend to Christine Daaé, whom he loved, adored, and worshiped the ground she walked on. But by no means is he a friend of hers. He was her former tutor (or rather her Angel of Music), and he tried to win her affections. He doesn't see kidnapping, holding her against her will, and forcing her to enjoy his company as a bad thing, just as a more aggressive way of pursuing her. Well... he's learning, alright? The man's a virgin for God's sake!
History: The following quote is taken from a novel I was working on, told in Érik's first person point of view. It may not reveal all that's happened during his life, but it includes the important bits. Érik describes what happened when he met Christine, as that is the most important part of his life. He rather doesn't like to talk about his real past, so I'll let him tell you what happened during the days that matter, but then again, we all know the story anyway. I'll briefly discuss his time before the Opera House, before I let him do the rest of the talking. Érik was born in a town just outside of Rouen, France. His mother hated him, and his father wouldn't even look at him. He grew lonely in his solitude, turning to music, magic and illusions, architecture (taking after his father in this respect), and ventriloquism, among other things, to keep himself occupied. He ran away when he was young, and ended up joining a traveling fair, and was put on display as a freak called "The Living Corpse." After that, he traveled around the world as he grew older, eventually coming to Persia where he met the Daroga and built a mirrored torture chamber for the Shah, among other things. He knew too much of the court's secrets, however, and was sentenced to death. However, Daroga helped him escape, and Érik traveled once again, finally ending up in Paris, where he sustained himself on odd construction jobs (the art of which he'd mastered as a boy, thanks to his father's old architecture materials). He was contracted to help build the Palais Garneir, a place where he would most surely worship the power of music, and built himself a home by the underground lake underneath the new Opera house that was impossible to get rid of, lest the foundations collapse. He has lived there ever since, finding great fun and monetary gain by torturing the managers and opera company into submission as the "Ghost," a title given to him after one too many things had gone wrong in the Opera house. I turn the rest of the story over to him, as he is clearly the expert on this era of his life:
The first I saw of those sunlit locks and those watery blue eyes was at the opening night of Bizet’s Carmen. I was sitting in my box on the grand tier, thinking this would be another trite attempt of a great work given by the incompetent directors that never heeded my thoughtful instructions, when I glanced down at the chorus. There she was, a frightened little peacock among experienced turkeys. The terror on her face was evident, and a small part of me pitied for the newcomer, but I was mostly shocked at her stunning beauty. She looked like a girl barely leaving childhood, though her womanly features were firmly established. Her hair gleamed in the blistering spotlight a pale gold, her pallid features standing out amongst the tanned and bronzed skin of the rest of the cast. Even from Box Five, elevated high above the stage, I could see her almost translucent eyes gleaming as she recalled each and every line she was to sing.
I was drunk with her splendor throughout the entire opera, and mourned the loss of her presence when she was offstage. It was quite unlike me to fancy one of the mere chorus girls (mostly because I could not hear their distinct voice among the notes, and a good, strong voice is the most amiable feature in a woman), and I mentally chided myself for taking a liking to her. I looked in my programme, which my kind box keeper Mme Giry left me every performance, searching through the names of the chorus for an unfamiliar one. I found it at last, at the very bottom of the column.
Christine Daaé.
I would inquire about this Christine girl soon after the performance, and found that she had been training for years to be in the opera, but the poor girl was placed in the lowly chorus. I didn’t know how well she sang, so I began to investigate. I finally found her, after days of searching the theatre, wandering the halls, chatting with sceneshifters and property managers, flitting amongst the corps de ballet and the divas alike. She was not as lively as her actions indicated, and there was a distant look on her face, as if she was a social butterfly just to forget about something.
I kept watch of her from afar, going about my regular duties, as usual, but taking a special interest in her wellbeing. I even persuaded the managers to promote her to a supporting role in their next production, so that I could hear her sing. Silly of me really, now that I think about it. Perhaps if I hadn’t pursued her so adamantly, our lives wouldn’t have been so complicated, but I was fascinated by the girl with the sad eyes and golden locks, so I wouldn’t give up. Perhaps she was like me, and harbored some strange and depressing thoughts about the world. Perhaps she had a pathetic childhood, as did I, and dreamed about a life outside the confining walls of the opera. I found out she was an orphan like I, from my confidant Giry. The absence of parents would explain her detachment and displaced demeanor. It of course did not explain, however, my enigmatic fascination with her.
Though her first night singing as Siébel in Faust illustrated it perfectly. Not only was the audience audibly overwhelmed by her voice, but I sat in shock too. That was no human voice strutting upon that stage. No, it was the voice of an Angel, of a Goddess sent from the heavens. The notes rang clear throughout the auditorium, as virgin and rapturous as the voice in my heart that sang out as I composed music. I shed more tears that night than I had in over thirty years, and would shed for another six months.
While my conscious mind sat entranced at her ethereal beauty and voice, the master musician deep within criticized her for every scoop, every shrill note, every break she took to catch a breath, and every time she slouched her shoulders. The girl was highly inexperienced, and I scolded myself for embarrassing her upon the stage in this most unsightly matter, for it was of course I who had convinced the managers to promote her. After the performance I immediately wrote the two men a note saying she was to be put back into the chorus until proper instruction. Which I would provide her. I knew I could do it; it was only a matter of how to go about introducing myself to her, as my disagreeable countenance would have surely frightened her to death.
Thankfully, her virginal voice was just as pure and untarnished as her heart. I was walking through my carefully placed tunnels that wrapped throughout the rooms of the opera house, when I heard that distinct voice ringing out in a lyrical prayer. I followed it to its source, as if it beckoned me to come closer. I found myself at the door to a secret chamber that had been built by perverted constructors, who wanted to give any like-minded scene-shifter access to a singer’s private dressing room.
The dressing room was not the girl’s, but rather one of the supporting divas that worked at the opera. She was a kind woman, and must have lent Christine the space in order for her to practice. The room had excellent acoustics. She sang and sang, as if for me, though of course it was not. The tune was a pleasant hymn that I had read once in a prayer book as a young boy, but she seemed to have altered the lyrics. I couldn’t hear the words clear enough, so I entered the little chamber, finding a two-way mirror blocking my access to the room. I slipped myself inside quietly, and watched her as she vocalized her prayers.
I found as I looked up into the room that she seemed to be singing directly to me. She was not, obviously, but she stared into the glass as if she knew there was someone there. Finally hearing the lyrics that she had mended, I began to realize she was truly praying to a higher power above. To be precise, an Angel of Music. I had never heard of such nonsense before, but being non-religious I must have been misinformed about her particular doctrine. When she finished her song, tears were staining her lovely rose colored cheeks, and she fell to the ground, hands clasped in worship.
“Dear Angel, why have I not heard you? Have I done something wrong? Papa said you would come to enlighten my soul, but I have begun to wonder if he was lying to me to appease my adolescent mind. I believed my honest father, and I don’t want to accuse him of treachery. Music was our life together, and now that he is gone, I fear I cannot keep up with the demanding requirements the Opera places upon me. I cannot feel music anymore. Please, come to me. Please guide me into the splendor I lost in music with Papa’s passing. I beseech you, Angel, can you not answer a woman’s plea?!”
She continued like that for a long while, until finally I had enough. I could not bear the unsightly stammer she gave off when in tears, and I could not bear to see such turmoil going on in someone so innocent and pure. I would not let her cry ever again, I would not hear such pitiful prayers. If I was to teach this girl, then she would not feel sorry for herself, when someone such as I had the entire weight of the world’s scorn on my shoulders. Someone like her was not to be ignored any longer.
“Christine!” I cried, barely thinking. She gasped soundlessly, stammering back and clutching her heart. I almost walked away at the sight of her blue eyes searching for something that wasn’t there, something that would never be there. But I could not. I would not.
“Christine!” I called again. “Christine, get off the floor.”
She complied with my request immediately, wiping her eyes and closing her dressing gown around her. This seemed to be simple so far, but I was still quite uncertain. What if she found out who I really was? Would she be so inviting then?
“Walk toward the mirror.” She did so, her face clearly displaying trust. I felt evil for betraying that trust, but this had to be done, or I’d never forgive myself. “Christine, once someone has heard me sing, they can never silence me. I did not want you to be bound to me when you were not prepared. Are you ready to receive me now?”
Her eyes brightened, her mouth stretching into a sweet smile. “Yes Angel! Of course!” She touched her palms to the glass of the mirror, and I stepped back a little. I had never been so near to a woman before, and my own hands began to sweat. I yearned to reach out and clasp her tiny fingers, just to feel a kind touch against my sickly skin.
“Are you certain?” I nearly stammered. It was hard to keep my usually impeccable composure. My heart beat erratically, but I could not go back now. I could not run away. Because what upset me and delighted me most was the fact that this was my first real conversation in at least twenty years.
“I am, Angel. I have been waiting for this moment since the day my father died!” She clasped her hands in thought. “Oh, how is he? Have you seen him? Does he miss me terribly?”
Her insistent questions, none of which I knew the answer to, began to grate my nerves. “Yes of course, of course. He misses you, my dear, but realizes you must move on. Can you do that for him, and be an obedient pupil to me, as he intended? He wants you to be a great soprano, Christine. Will you make him proud by studying under my wings?”
“Study? But… But Papa said once I heard your voice I would be gifted beyond all belief!”
I chuckled. “Christine, you can’t possibly think that you will become a sensation overnight! You require training, of which I will provide. Unless you don’t want to undergo rigorous coaching. If that is the case then I should seek elsewhere for a more serious musician in need of my help.” I changed my voice to make it sound far off, as if the Angel were receding to the heavens.
“No! No, no, of course I do!” She looked worried that I was about to leave her. What a strange and wonderful feeling. Knowing I was wanted.
I smirked. “Then are you ready to hear me sing?”
She nodded, placing her cheek against the cold glass of the mirror. “Yes, Angel… I’m ready.” She stretched her arms out, clutching the mirror as if she were embracing her Angel.
I pictured those arms around me. What I wouldn’t give to be entwined in a woman’s arms. Her sweet face and delicate nature astounded me, and I had never met someone so innocent and kind in my entire life. All I ever thought the human race was capable of was cruelty and contempt. Now here was this young woman with the heart of a child, ready to love me at a moment’s notice. I took a second to contemplate what that meant as I left her with anticipation. From what it sounded like, she was ready to die for me. I couldn’t fathom that fact, and went into a sort of blind stupor.
She waited patiently, and I supposed she must have thought I was preparing for the perfect moment to begin. In truth, I struggled through my disbelief to find an appropriate song to sing to her that would convince her I was her sacred Angel of Music. But what sort of piece befits a man such as me masquerading as a heavenly figure? What could I sing that displayed my growing affection for the girl while being masked by holy intentions? For there was no more denying it. Christine Daaé would be my release from my deep dark underworld. She was, to be frank, love personified. I felt nothing but love coming from her, and could only think of her beauty and how the Gods graced her with the voice of a seraph.
I chose an aria, rather than a hymn. Why should I sing of a God I did not believe in, when my true religion lie in the music of the opera? I prepared myself to sing Vincent’s aria from Gounod’s Mireille, sending a smile through the mirror, hoping it would touch her soul even when she couldn’t see. I began to sing, starting off softly to let her get accustomed to my voice.
They say that people cannot really hear what their voices sound like. That would definitely be the truth with the diva Carlotta. She sang like a crock, though she herself equated her voice to legendary stature. I have always thought my own voice a cut above the rest, but nothing like what I had heard from her.
Her reaction to my voice was the opposite of what I had in mind. As I sang, I pictured her swaying to the sweet, heartsick melodies of a man missing his beloved, as was Vincent’s character in the opera. I thought of nothing more than her maybe shedding a few tears at the fact she was finally being visited by her sacred Angel.
My vision was shattered when the girl fell to her knees. I really can’t describe how she looked. It was as if she was receiving Christ rather than a lowly Angel. Her whole body shook and trembled, and she clutched her heart as if it were about to stop beating. Her forehead was clearly covered in perspiration, as she leaned it against the glass. She was audibly sobbing, and covered her mouth to keep her muffled cries of joy closed inside. She planted her palms on either side of the mirror as if in worship and looked up to this sky, where she presumed I was.
I almost faltered as I watched her. I knew this would turn in to a mistake later on in our lives, but at that moment, that very surreal and hypnotic moment, we were one. I knelt down myself as I kept my tone steady. I pulled off my mask and laid it on the ground to let my newly flowing tears fall easily, and placed my hands where hers were on the other side of the mirror. I imagined my long, spindly fingers enclosing around her tiny ones. Holding a woman’s hand was something I’d dreamt about for a long time, and here I was, only a piece of looking glass standing in my way. I would never touch her, that much was certain. But my close proximity to her made my heart skip and jump, forcing more tears out of my hollow eyes.
I wanted to stop crying, before my voice faltered, and broke the spell of belief. I held the final note longer than necessary, picking myself off the ground gracefully. I held out my hands to steady myself and suspended the note, carrying my voice through the mirror and throwing it all around her shivering body.
The song ended, but I couldn’t speak. She was silent as well, until a soft melody escaped her throat. She rose up from the floor and threw her arms to the sky, as if to welcome my presence. Her song was not a prayer, but a sweet refrain. She must have conjured it up from love, for I had never heard such longing and adoration in a person’s voice in my life. Tears steadily rolled down her cheeks, but she never wavered. This was the most wonderful response to my serenade!
I sagged against the wall, clutching my pounding heart. It was a simple gesture of devotion from a religious girl, but it spoke to me. I had never been sung to before, only I the vocalist. Why must this trusting child, full of naiveté and piety, rip open my soul like the dead rising from the grave?! Who was she to me, now that I had become her teacher, her mentor, her guiding light? How could I take on such a task without even guessing the consequences, as clever as I am?
How could I know how much I would come to love those knowing blue eyes with all my being?
In time, I would answer all my questions, and quiet all my doubts. It was simply beyond my control. I did not enjoy losing power over my heart (and in turn, hers), and in those few months everything I had ever known was tested to its limits.
I quietly continued my dual charades; my “Opera Ghost” persona, which kept the ballet rats and helpless managers in frenzy, and my position as Christine’s tutor and sacred confidant both consumed my life and released me from the bowels of hell I had called my makeshift home. I lived in a place made for rats, as befit a monster such as me. This led me to constantly take refuge in the glittering lights of the opera house, where my dear student eagerly awaited my instructions.
The game of haunts soon began to spiral out of control. I played my tricks only too well, all for the amusement of my deprived humor. Props fell at the most unexpected moments, the divas lost their wigs, costume malfunctions abounded, and they were not always at my hand. However, the company never failed to place the blame on my mysteriously hidden shoulders.
It was all I could do to keep my sanity. Everything I had ever known about the human race; their cruelty their fear, their spite, it was all destroyed by her angelic face. Every session for six months was like a breath of fresh air, a reprieve from the overbearing stress of that sharp pendulum that swung over my neck that got closer with every day. I needed some stability in my life when every moment I was in her presence I was unsure of my own thoughts. So the Ghost became my violent outlet, as the storms in my head raged onward.
One day, after a particularly unpleasant week when note after note of mine had been ignored by the managers (whom regretted their actions once I had dealt their punishments), I felt she was ready to take the lead in the Opera company.
“Christine, my love, I find your voice more than adequate to sing, in the place of La Carlotta tonight at the gala,” I revealed from behind the mirror I had come to think of as a second home.
She gasped, sitting on the plush settee that adorned the dressing room that was now hers (as I had secretly arranged for her to be promoted to supporting role once more). “So soon, Angel? But Carlotta is fine! She was preparing her speech and warming her vocals the last time I saw her!” She coiffed her hair into a perfect setting that left my heart ablaze.
“She will be ill my dear, do not worry. She has no replacement as of now, but once you make your presence known to the choral director, singing as we have rehearsed, you will enter the spotlight. Make no mistake about that!”
She smiled fondly, brushing her free flowing blonde bangs from her eyes. “Am I really ready?”
I nodded, though she couldn’t see. “More than ready. You will move them to tears with our music!”
I had implemented my love of music and everything I stood for into her unsuspecting heart, hoping my song would blend with hers and reach the world I was shunned from. My entire life had been a cruel, unjust façade. I did not ask to be deformed! Why did society place the blame on me and cast me into the pits of the underworld? I wanted to be heard, instead of ignored, and now at this gala that would commemorate the previous managers in their retirement (most likely due to the stress I placed upon them!), my voice, and hers, would soar above the heads of the glamorous audience.
It went splendidly, of course, just as I’d planned. But that damned boy had to ruin everything and make his presence, and inevitably his love, known to Christine! If it hadn‘t been for him, she very well would have been mine! I shall loathe the man ‘til the day he dies for his thoughtless actions. A fine specimen he was to garner her attention, ha! I was a much better candidate! What could he provide her that she didn’t have with me? Of course I had known who he was, she had seen him before at the Opera. She had told me about their past, and I resented him especially when I saw how her eyes lit with love when she spoke of him. I never dreamed he, a staunch aristocrat, brother of that playboy Comte de Changy, would try to vie for an opera singer's affections. Certainly that was beneath him, but obviously not!
I tried to woo her to prove I was better than him for her, taking her through the mirror and to my home, which I had readied for her arrival. I had given her everything she could ever want; music, clothes, shelter, love! And yet she betrayed me, with that flick of her hand that uncovered my face beneath the mask. It was a simple request, yet she chose to disobey it! How impertinent! It was all for the Vicomte! I know it was all for him that she lied to me, the little traitor. She promised her Angel that she would come back after the ball. I even followed her there, to be sure, but there she was with that goddamned Vicomte!
Oh, she did come back to me, but it was all in vain. Every time I glanced at her, there was a distant look in her eyes, as if she was somewhere else in that little innocent mind of hers. She did not know what thoughts lurked in mine, and she would have ceased her pathetic musings if she had known! I could never stay angry with her. I showered her with compliments, continued her lessons, took her out driving at night for a bit of fresh air, but still she remained passive. When she finally gave me good reason to trust her again, I let her free to visit her friends and family in the world above, of course with specifications that she never saw Raoul outside of the opera, never let him on what was going on between us. But there she was, on that cold rooftop, smitten in his arms, betraying my trust! She recounted her tale to him, revealing all my secrets to his presumptuous mind! How could I ever trust her again!? How could I trust her, when she spoke of their engagement so casually, as if I didn't even exist?!
I couldn’t, of course. I knew all about their plan to elope and leave me to the authorities. There would be none of that, mind you! They would have no escape. I would not allow the only woman I had ever permit myself to love (and the only woman I found capable of loving me) to slip through my fingers!
I would have my revenge!
Damn that Daroga! Damn him to Hell!
It was his entire fault, I realize now. All of it! He and that pathetic royal that had captured Christine’s heart! She could have learned to love me as she loved him, she could have seen passed this face worthy of no mother’s kiss! Instead I had to make her cry. I didn’t want to make her cry, but she gave me no alternative! How fickle women are! She promised her love to me and only me, but she lied! She’d rather die than be my wife in the end! What a travesty!
I would have convinced her, had Daroga and that Raoul not fallen into my torture chamber. But oh, what fun it was to turn up the heat! Haha! I filled them with such dread it was delicious! Oh, oh but she begged me to stop it! She begged me to let them go! Those dear tears that I could not stand, flowing freely from her distressed eyes were like the stabs to my heart that had been harassing me for weeks.
I would not give up so easily! I would not let them be free until she agreed to be my bride! If not… Well then, they would all hop hop HOP! Good and jolly high! None of us would ever come back down!
Oh, but why? Why did she have to look so terribly woeful? Why couldn’t she just love me? All I ever wanted was her love, yet all she could give me were pity and tears! I didn’t want pity! I didn’t want tears! I just wanted her! Why did he merit her love, the spoiled, well-liked Vicomte that lived in the light, while I cowered in the dark like a spider afraid to be crushed?!
I knew she turned that scorpion for his sake! I knew she would rather have him over me! Who wouldn’t, when I had forced such a terrible ultimatum on her? She was such a saint… A martyr, even. She agreed to be my bride when she knew it would bring her nothing but unhappiness. My little living bride that would sing my music till she died. I wanted to give her the world!
She didn’t die. I was so afraid… So… So afraid that she would die if my lips graced her skin. She should have fainted, should have dropped to the ground in fright as my cold, disgusting flesh touched her forehead, but she did not! How was this possible? Did she... Did she really want to be my living, breathing wife? Was it not for the Vicomte, but that she wanted to make me happy? Yes, it must have been! Christine was a glorious actress, but even she had her limits when it came to me. I was so very elated at this revelation. I could... I could make her happy, I knew I could. We would have music together.
So very pathetically, when I kissed her dear sweet forehead, I fainted, like a woman no less. I drifted off into the deep, and when I woke up... Where was I? Where... Where was Christine?
I was drunk with her splendor throughout the entire opera, and mourned the loss of her presence when she was offstage. It was quite unlike me to fancy one of the mere chorus girls (mostly because I could not hear their distinct voice among the notes, and a good, strong voice is the most amiable feature in a woman), and I mentally chided myself for taking a liking to her. I looked in my programme, which my kind box keeper Mme Giry left me every performance, searching through the names of the chorus for an unfamiliar one. I found it at last, at the very bottom of the column.
Christine Daaé.
I would inquire about this Christine girl soon after the performance, and found that she had been training for years to be in the opera, but the poor girl was placed in the lowly chorus. I didn’t know how well she sang, so I began to investigate. I finally found her, after days of searching the theatre, wandering the halls, chatting with sceneshifters and property managers, flitting amongst the corps de ballet and the divas alike. She was not as lively as her actions indicated, and there was a distant look on her face, as if she was a social butterfly just to forget about something.
I kept watch of her from afar, going about my regular duties, as usual, but taking a special interest in her wellbeing. I even persuaded the managers to promote her to a supporting role in their next production, so that I could hear her sing. Silly of me really, now that I think about it. Perhaps if I hadn’t pursued her so adamantly, our lives wouldn’t have been so complicated, but I was fascinated by the girl with the sad eyes and golden locks, so I wouldn’t give up. Perhaps she was like me, and harbored some strange and depressing thoughts about the world. Perhaps she had a pathetic childhood, as did I, and dreamed about a life outside the confining walls of the opera. I found out she was an orphan like I, from my confidant Giry. The absence of parents would explain her detachment and displaced demeanor. It of course did not explain, however, my enigmatic fascination with her.
Though her first night singing as Siébel in Faust illustrated it perfectly. Not only was the audience audibly overwhelmed by her voice, but I sat in shock too. That was no human voice strutting upon that stage. No, it was the voice of an Angel, of a Goddess sent from the heavens. The notes rang clear throughout the auditorium, as virgin and rapturous as the voice in my heart that sang out as I composed music. I shed more tears that night than I had in over thirty years, and would shed for another six months.
While my conscious mind sat entranced at her ethereal beauty and voice, the master musician deep within criticized her for every scoop, every shrill note, every break she took to catch a breath, and every time she slouched her shoulders. The girl was highly inexperienced, and I scolded myself for embarrassing her upon the stage in this most unsightly matter, for it was of course I who had convinced the managers to promote her. After the performance I immediately wrote the two men a note saying she was to be put back into the chorus until proper instruction. Which I would provide her. I knew I could do it; it was only a matter of how to go about introducing myself to her, as my disagreeable countenance would have surely frightened her to death.
Thankfully, her virginal voice was just as pure and untarnished as her heart. I was walking through my carefully placed tunnels that wrapped throughout the rooms of the opera house, when I heard that distinct voice ringing out in a lyrical prayer. I followed it to its source, as if it beckoned me to come closer. I found myself at the door to a secret chamber that had been built by perverted constructors, who wanted to give any like-minded scene-shifter access to a singer’s private dressing room.
The dressing room was not the girl’s, but rather one of the supporting divas that worked at the opera. She was a kind woman, and must have lent Christine the space in order for her to practice. The room had excellent acoustics. She sang and sang, as if for me, though of course it was not. The tune was a pleasant hymn that I had read once in a prayer book as a young boy, but she seemed to have altered the lyrics. I couldn’t hear the words clear enough, so I entered the little chamber, finding a two-way mirror blocking my access to the room. I slipped myself inside quietly, and watched her as she vocalized her prayers.
I found as I looked up into the room that she seemed to be singing directly to me. She was not, obviously, but she stared into the glass as if she knew there was someone there. Finally hearing the lyrics that she had mended, I began to realize she was truly praying to a higher power above. To be precise, an Angel of Music. I had never heard of such nonsense before, but being non-religious I must have been misinformed about her particular doctrine. When she finished her song, tears were staining her lovely rose colored cheeks, and she fell to the ground, hands clasped in worship.
“Dear Angel, why have I not heard you? Have I done something wrong? Papa said you would come to enlighten my soul, but I have begun to wonder if he was lying to me to appease my adolescent mind. I believed my honest father, and I don’t want to accuse him of treachery. Music was our life together, and now that he is gone, I fear I cannot keep up with the demanding requirements the Opera places upon me. I cannot feel music anymore. Please, come to me. Please guide me into the splendor I lost in music with Papa’s passing. I beseech you, Angel, can you not answer a woman’s plea?!”
She continued like that for a long while, until finally I had enough. I could not bear the unsightly stammer she gave off when in tears, and I could not bear to see such turmoil going on in someone so innocent and pure. I would not let her cry ever again, I would not hear such pitiful prayers. If I was to teach this girl, then she would not feel sorry for herself, when someone such as I had the entire weight of the world’s scorn on my shoulders. Someone like her was not to be ignored any longer.
“Christine!” I cried, barely thinking. She gasped soundlessly, stammering back and clutching her heart. I almost walked away at the sight of her blue eyes searching for something that wasn’t there, something that would never be there. But I could not. I would not.
“Christine!” I called again. “Christine, get off the floor.”
She complied with my request immediately, wiping her eyes and closing her dressing gown around her. This seemed to be simple so far, but I was still quite uncertain. What if she found out who I really was? Would she be so inviting then?
“Walk toward the mirror.” She did so, her face clearly displaying trust. I felt evil for betraying that trust, but this had to be done, or I’d never forgive myself. “Christine, once someone has heard me sing, they can never silence me. I did not want you to be bound to me when you were not prepared. Are you ready to receive me now?”
Her eyes brightened, her mouth stretching into a sweet smile. “Yes Angel! Of course!” She touched her palms to the glass of the mirror, and I stepped back a little. I had never been so near to a woman before, and my own hands began to sweat. I yearned to reach out and clasp her tiny fingers, just to feel a kind touch against my sickly skin.
“Are you certain?” I nearly stammered. It was hard to keep my usually impeccable composure. My heart beat erratically, but I could not go back now. I could not run away. Because what upset me and delighted me most was the fact that this was my first real conversation in at least twenty years.
“I am, Angel. I have been waiting for this moment since the day my father died!” She clasped her hands in thought. “Oh, how is he? Have you seen him? Does he miss me terribly?”
Her insistent questions, none of which I knew the answer to, began to grate my nerves. “Yes of course, of course. He misses you, my dear, but realizes you must move on. Can you do that for him, and be an obedient pupil to me, as he intended? He wants you to be a great soprano, Christine. Will you make him proud by studying under my wings?”
“Study? But… But Papa said once I heard your voice I would be gifted beyond all belief!”
I chuckled. “Christine, you can’t possibly think that you will become a sensation overnight! You require training, of which I will provide. Unless you don’t want to undergo rigorous coaching. If that is the case then I should seek elsewhere for a more serious musician in need of my help.” I changed my voice to make it sound far off, as if the Angel were receding to the heavens.
“No! No, no, of course I do!” She looked worried that I was about to leave her. What a strange and wonderful feeling. Knowing I was wanted.
I smirked. “Then are you ready to hear me sing?”
She nodded, placing her cheek against the cold glass of the mirror. “Yes, Angel… I’m ready.” She stretched her arms out, clutching the mirror as if she were embracing her Angel.
I pictured those arms around me. What I wouldn’t give to be entwined in a woman’s arms. Her sweet face and delicate nature astounded me, and I had never met someone so innocent and kind in my entire life. All I ever thought the human race was capable of was cruelty and contempt. Now here was this young woman with the heart of a child, ready to love me at a moment’s notice. I took a second to contemplate what that meant as I left her with anticipation. From what it sounded like, she was ready to die for me. I couldn’t fathom that fact, and went into a sort of blind stupor.
She waited patiently, and I supposed she must have thought I was preparing for the perfect moment to begin. In truth, I struggled through my disbelief to find an appropriate song to sing to her that would convince her I was her sacred Angel of Music. But what sort of piece befits a man such as me masquerading as a heavenly figure? What could I sing that displayed my growing affection for the girl while being masked by holy intentions? For there was no more denying it. Christine Daaé would be my release from my deep dark underworld. She was, to be frank, love personified. I felt nothing but love coming from her, and could only think of her beauty and how the Gods graced her with the voice of a seraph.
I chose an aria, rather than a hymn. Why should I sing of a God I did not believe in, when my true religion lie in the music of the opera? I prepared myself to sing Vincent’s aria from Gounod’s Mireille, sending a smile through the mirror, hoping it would touch her soul even when she couldn’t see. I began to sing, starting off softly to let her get accustomed to my voice.
They say that people cannot really hear what their voices sound like. That would definitely be the truth with the diva Carlotta. She sang like a crock, though she herself equated her voice to legendary stature. I have always thought my own voice a cut above the rest, but nothing like what I had heard from her.
Her reaction to my voice was the opposite of what I had in mind. As I sang, I pictured her swaying to the sweet, heartsick melodies of a man missing his beloved, as was Vincent’s character in the opera. I thought of nothing more than her maybe shedding a few tears at the fact she was finally being visited by her sacred Angel.
My vision was shattered when the girl fell to her knees. I really can’t describe how she looked. It was as if she was receiving Christ rather than a lowly Angel. Her whole body shook and trembled, and she clutched her heart as if it were about to stop beating. Her forehead was clearly covered in perspiration, as she leaned it against the glass. She was audibly sobbing, and covered her mouth to keep her muffled cries of joy closed inside. She planted her palms on either side of the mirror as if in worship and looked up to this sky, where she presumed I was.
I almost faltered as I watched her. I knew this would turn in to a mistake later on in our lives, but at that moment, that very surreal and hypnotic moment, we were one. I knelt down myself as I kept my tone steady. I pulled off my mask and laid it on the ground to let my newly flowing tears fall easily, and placed my hands where hers were on the other side of the mirror. I imagined my long, spindly fingers enclosing around her tiny ones. Holding a woman’s hand was something I’d dreamt about for a long time, and here I was, only a piece of looking glass standing in my way. I would never touch her, that much was certain. But my close proximity to her made my heart skip and jump, forcing more tears out of my hollow eyes.
I wanted to stop crying, before my voice faltered, and broke the spell of belief. I held the final note longer than necessary, picking myself off the ground gracefully. I held out my hands to steady myself and suspended the note, carrying my voice through the mirror and throwing it all around her shivering body.
The song ended, but I couldn’t speak. She was silent as well, until a soft melody escaped her throat. She rose up from the floor and threw her arms to the sky, as if to welcome my presence. Her song was not a prayer, but a sweet refrain. She must have conjured it up from love, for I had never heard such longing and adoration in a person’s voice in my life. Tears steadily rolled down her cheeks, but she never wavered. This was the most wonderful response to my serenade!
I sagged against the wall, clutching my pounding heart. It was a simple gesture of devotion from a religious girl, but it spoke to me. I had never been sung to before, only I the vocalist. Why must this trusting child, full of naiveté and piety, rip open my soul like the dead rising from the grave?! Who was she to me, now that I had become her teacher, her mentor, her guiding light? How could I take on such a task without even guessing the consequences, as clever as I am?
How could I know how much I would come to love those knowing blue eyes with all my being?
In time, I would answer all my questions, and quiet all my doubts. It was simply beyond my control. I did not enjoy losing power over my heart (and in turn, hers), and in those few months everything I had ever known was tested to its limits.
I quietly continued my dual charades; my “Opera Ghost” persona, which kept the ballet rats and helpless managers in frenzy, and my position as Christine’s tutor and sacred confidant both consumed my life and released me from the bowels of hell I had called my makeshift home. I lived in a place made for rats, as befit a monster such as me. This led me to constantly take refuge in the glittering lights of the opera house, where my dear student eagerly awaited my instructions.
The game of haunts soon began to spiral out of control. I played my tricks only too well, all for the amusement of my deprived humor. Props fell at the most unexpected moments, the divas lost their wigs, costume malfunctions abounded, and they were not always at my hand. However, the company never failed to place the blame on my mysteriously hidden shoulders.
It was all I could do to keep my sanity. Everything I had ever known about the human race; their cruelty their fear, their spite, it was all destroyed by her angelic face. Every session for six months was like a breath of fresh air, a reprieve from the overbearing stress of that sharp pendulum that swung over my neck that got closer with every day. I needed some stability in my life when every moment I was in her presence I was unsure of my own thoughts. So the Ghost became my violent outlet, as the storms in my head raged onward.
One day, after a particularly unpleasant week when note after note of mine had been ignored by the managers (whom regretted their actions once I had dealt their punishments), I felt she was ready to take the lead in the Opera company.
“Christine, my love, I find your voice more than adequate to sing, in the place of La Carlotta tonight at the gala,” I revealed from behind the mirror I had come to think of as a second home.
She gasped, sitting on the plush settee that adorned the dressing room that was now hers (as I had secretly arranged for her to be promoted to supporting role once more). “So soon, Angel? But Carlotta is fine! She was preparing her speech and warming her vocals the last time I saw her!” She coiffed her hair into a perfect setting that left my heart ablaze.
“She will be ill my dear, do not worry. She has no replacement as of now, but once you make your presence known to the choral director, singing as we have rehearsed, you will enter the spotlight. Make no mistake about that!”
She smiled fondly, brushing her free flowing blonde bangs from her eyes. “Am I really ready?”
I nodded, though she couldn’t see. “More than ready. You will move them to tears with our music!”
I had implemented my love of music and everything I stood for into her unsuspecting heart, hoping my song would blend with hers and reach the world I was shunned from. My entire life had been a cruel, unjust façade. I did not ask to be deformed! Why did society place the blame on me and cast me into the pits of the underworld? I wanted to be heard, instead of ignored, and now at this gala that would commemorate the previous managers in their retirement (most likely due to the stress I placed upon them!), my voice, and hers, would soar above the heads of the glamorous audience.
It went splendidly, of course, just as I’d planned. But that damned boy had to ruin everything and make his presence, and inevitably his love, known to Christine! If it hadn‘t been for him, she very well would have been mine! I shall loathe the man ‘til the day he dies for his thoughtless actions. A fine specimen he was to garner her attention, ha! I was a much better candidate! What could he provide her that she didn’t have with me? Of course I had known who he was, she had seen him before at the Opera. She had told me about their past, and I resented him especially when I saw how her eyes lit with love when she spoke of him. I never dreamed he, a staunch aristocrat, brother of that playboy Comte de Changy, would try to vie for an opera singer's affections. Certainly that was beneath him, but obviously not!
I tried to woo her to prove I was better than him for her, taking her through the mirror and to my home, which I had readied for her arrival. I had given her everything she could ever want; music, clothes, shelter, love! And yet she betrayed me, with that flick of her hand that uncovered my face beneath the mask. It was a simple request, yet she chose to disobey it! How impertinent! It was all for the Vicomte! I know it was all for him that she lied to me, the little traitor. She promised her Angel that she would come back after the ball. I even followed her there, to be sure, but there she was with that goddamned Vicomte!
Oh, she did come back to me, but it was all in vain. Every time I glanced at her, there was a distant look in her eyes, as if she was somewhere else in that little innocent mind of hers. She did not know what thoughts lurked in mine, and she would have ceased her pathetic musings if she had known! I could never stay angry with her. I showered her with compliments, continued her lessons, took her out driving at night for a bit of fresh air, but still she remained passive. When she finally gave me good reason to trust her again, I let her free to visit her friends and family in the world above, of course with specifications that she never saw Raoul outside of the opera, never let him on what was going on between us. But there she was, on that cold rooftop, smitten in his arms, betraying my trust! She recounted her tale to him, revealing all my secrets to his presumptuous mind! How could I ever trust her again!? How could I trust her, when she spoke of their engagement so casually, as if I didn't even exist?!
I couldn’t, of course. I knew all about their plan to elope and leave me to the authorities. There would be none of that, mind you! They would have no escape. I would not allow the only woman I had ever permit myself to love (and the only woman I found capable of loving me) to slip through my fingers!
I would have my revenge!
Damn that Daroga! Damn him to Hell!
It was his entire fault, I realize now. All of it! He and that pathetic royal that had captured Christine’s heart! She could have learned to love me as she loved him, she could have seen passed this face worthy of no mother’s kiss! Instead I had to make her cry. I didn’t want to make her cry, but she gave me no alternative! How fickle women are! She promised her love to me and only me, but she lied! She’d rather die than be my wife in the end! What a travesty!
I would have convinced her, had Daroga and that Raoul not fallen into my torture chamber. But oh, what fun it was to turn up the heat! Haha! I filled them with such dread it was delicious! Oh, oh but she begged me to stop it! She begged me to let them go! Those dear tears that I could not stand, flowing freely from her distressed eyes were like the stabs to my heart that had been harassing me for weeks.
I would not give up so easily! I would not let them be free until she agreed to be my bride! If not… Well then, they would all hop hop HOP! Good and jolly high! None of us would ever come back down!
Oh, but why? Why did she have to look so terribly woeful? Why couldn’t she just love me? All I ever wanted was her love, yet all she could give me were pity and tears! I didn’t want pity! I didn’t want tears! I just wanted her! Why did he merit her love, the spoiled, well-liked Vicomte that lived in the light, while I cowered in the dark like a spider afraid to be crushed?!
I knew she turned that scorpion for his sake! I knew she would rather have him over me! Who wouldn’t, when I had forced such a terrible ultimatum on her? She was such a saint… A martyr, even. She agreed to be my bride when she knew it would bring her nothing but unhappiness. My little living bride that would sing my music till she died. I wanted to give her the world!
She didn’t die. I was so afraid… So… So afraid that she would die if my lips graced her skin. She should have fainted, should have dropped to the ground in fright as my cold, disgusting flesh touched her forehead, but she did not! How was this possible? Did she... Did she really want to be my living, breathing wife? Was it not for the Vicomte, but that she wanted to make me happy? Yes, it must have been! Christine was a glorious actress, but even she had her limits when it came to me. I was so very elated at this revelation. I could... I could make her happy, I knew I could. We would have music together.
So very pathetically, when I kissed her dear sweet forehead, I fainted, like a woman no less. I drifted off into the deep, and when I woke up... Where was I? Where... Where was Christine?
RP Sample
He was sure they heard pacing, and screaming, and singing, and slamming, and smashing, and sobbing on the third day. They were obviously far too frightened of him to say anything reprimanding, else they be beheaded by his fury.
Erik sat at the small desk and rearranged his belongings for the hundredth time. There was ink, black and red. There were fine quills and pens, nubs of charcoal and tubes of paint. These were currently arranged in the back of the desk, but they had been in the drawer, on the right side, the left side, the center, next to the piles of parchment and sheet music neatly stacked for his use. Then there was his violin, which had sat on the bed, the small dresser, leaned against the wall, against the desk, on the right side of the desk, the left side, so on and so forth. His money was stacked, counted, and re-stacked and recounted multiple times, and now sat in a small shelf to the side (but it was sure to be recounted again). Her picture had moved to accommodate the shadows and light streaming through the small, dirty window, so that the light always showed just precisely glorious upon her face.
This small, ornate frame had been the exact cause of Erik’s ministrations.
“Christine, Christine darling please stay in the light. Erik grows so weary of moving his things to suit your needs. Perhaps... Please convince the sun to shine its rays on you always? Please Christine?” the man muttered shyly and pitifully, rubbing his unmasked face of dry tears. His long and calculated hands fretted over the portrait, and he shuddered with sorrow in hushed whispers.
The hands pressed against the edge of the desk and gripped tightly. He stared at the picture staring back at him, but not really seeing him. That was always her way, to stare through the angel behind the man. His face crept up into a long and painted smile and shook his head sadly. He was trembling as the hands moved from the desk to his face and held up the head that was too heavy with sorrow to be held high.
Three days of misery. There was nothing he could do to keep the feelings from resurfacing, over and over again. Not without more pain. It wasn’t like he hadn’t ever thought about the consequences of his actions, but people don’t consider such things when they’re in love.
Erik was positive any onlooker might feel sorry for him had he had the countenance of a more attractive and sane man, completely normal. He himself thought he might collapse from exhaustion, but his insomnia was unrelenting. If he slept, he would dream, and if he would dream, he would dream of her, and he would much rather be offered her tangible likeness than an invisible apparition in his head that he clearly could not have.
“Christine, you are breaking my heart.”
A knock on the door, and the sobs stopped. The black mask slipped to his face. The scowl returned and the ghost wretched open the door.
“What!?”
The timid pregnant woman gave a start, and held out a small tray filled with a true English breakfast of scones and tea, among other things. Erik hadn’t even realized it was morning.
“You have not eaten for days, sir,” the woman said, actually having the audacity to look him in the eye. “I take it upon myself to look after all my tenants. Meals are included in your contract, after all.” She held out the food for him to take, fully expecting that he would accept it. Mrs. Barker shyly peeked around at the same time to peer into the room, and saw the complete disarray and mess Erik had made. He chuckled on the inside at her horror as her head slunk back into place, and she gulped in fear.
An eyebrow raised, Erik plucked the tray from her grasp and bowed graciously.
“Merci, madame,” he said, knowing how interested she seemed to be in his French origin.
She curtsied politely and muddled down the hallway, cautiously looking back at his waving hand. Such a hand could unnerve the very strongest and bravest of man, for its eerie way of slowly caressing your vision would obviously sound the alarms in your head. Not that the ghost was remorse. In fact he was quite amused at the way the woman scurried away from his welcoming palm.
Erik stared down at the breakfast in his hands when she was gone. He hated breakfast, his least favorite meal of the day. Not that he ate much anyway. One meal a day usually sufficed.
Still, a thought occurred to him. It was a humorous one, the first one he’d had in a long long while. His face crept into a genuinely mischievous grin, and the ghost reentered his room and shut the door. He prepared for nothing but a spectacular morning.
Erik sat at the small desk and rearranged his belongings for the hundredth time. There was ink, black and red. There were fine quills and pens, nubs of charcoal and tubes of paint. These were currently arranged in the back of the desk, but they had been in the drawer, on the right side, the left side, the center, next to the piles of parchment and sheet music neatly stacked for his use. Then there was his violin, which had sat on the bed, the small dresser, leaned against the wall, against the desk, on the right side of the desk, the left side, so on and so forth. His money was stacked, counted, and re-stacked and recounted multiple times, and now sat in a small shelf to the side (but it was sure to be recounted again). Her picture had moved to accommodate the shadows and light streaming through the small, dirty window, so that the light always showed just precisely glorious upon her face.
This small, ornate frame had been the exact cause of Erik’s ministrations.
“Christine, Christine darling please stay in the light. Erik grows so weary of moving his things to suit your needs. Perhaps... Please convince the sun to shine its rays on you always? Please Christine?” the man muttered shyly and pitifully, rubbing his unmasked face of dry tears. His long and calculated hands fretted over the portrait, and he shuddered with sorrow in hushed whispers.
The hands pressed against the edge of the desk and gripped tightly. He stared at the picture staring back at him, but not really seeing him. That was always her way, to stare through the angel behind the man. His face crept up into a long and painted smile and shook his head sadly. He was trembling as the hands moved from the desk to his face and held up the head that was too heavy with sorrow to be held high.
Three days of misery. There was nothing he could do to keep the feelings from resurfacing, over and over again. Not without more pain. It wasn’t like he hadn’t ever thought about the consequences of his actions, but people don’t consider such things when they’re in love.
Erik was positive any onlooker might feel sorry for him had he had the countenance of a more attractive and sane man, completely normal. He himself thought he might collapse from exhaustion, but his insomnia was unrelenting. If he slept, he would dream, and if he would dream, he would dream of her, and he would much rather be offered her tangible likeness than an invisible apparition in his head that he clearly could not have.
“Christine, you are breaking my heart.”
A knock on the door, and the sobs stopped. The black mask slipped to his face. The scowl returned and the ghost wretched open the door.
“What!?”
The timid pregnant woman gave a start, and held out a small tray filled with a true English breakfast of scones and tea, among other things. Erik hadn’t even realized it was morning.
“You have not eaten for days, sir,” the woman said, actually having the audacity to look him in the eye. “I take it upon myself to look after all my tenants. Meals are included in your contract, after all.” She held out the food for him to take, fully expecting that he would accept it. Mrs. Barker shyly peeked around at the same time to peer into the room, and saw the complete disarray and mess Erik had made. He chuckled on the inside at her horror as her head slunk back into place, and she gulped in fear.
An eyebrow raised, Erik plucked the tray from her grasp and bowed graciously.
“Merci, madame,” he said, knowing how interested she seemed to be in his French origin.
She curtsied politely and muddled down the hallway, cautiously looking back at his waving hand. Such a hand could unnerve the very strongest and bravest of man, for its eerie way of slowly caressing your vision would obviously sound the alarms in your head. Not that the ghost was remorse. In fact he was quite amused at the way the woman scurried away from his welcoming palm.
Erik stared down at the breakfast in his hands when she was gone. He hated breakfast, his least favorite meal of the day. Not that he ate much anyway. One meal a day usually sufficed.
Still, a thought occurred to him. It was a humorous one, the first one he’d had in a long long while. His face crept into a genuinely mischievous grin, and the ghost reentered his room and shut the door. He prepared for nothing but a spectacular morning.
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