This is a sequel to the musical, my first Phantom work which is my own creative idea. In this book there are a few things I'm sure you'll be surprised about and I'm not sure you'll like.
Warning: In all my books, Erik always wins! Even if it is in a rather peculiar way in which it seems no one won!
Anyhow, since I have the aspirations of becoming a full-time author someday, I need all the practice and criticizing I can get. So don't be stingy on the criticizing of anything! I don't get easily offended and I like it when people are completely honest, even if it does hurt a little! So enjoy!
Christine stayed in bed the next day, too. She didn�t feel well enough to get up or do anything; and she was so exhausted... Most of the time she either tried to sleep or didn�t even bother trying and lay awake thinking, with the Phantom�s mask always in her hand or on her pillow. She took strange comfort in having it with her always, though Heaven only knows why, for it was a constant reminder of him. Not as if she even tried to forget anymore, like she used to. No, she knew it was pointless to even try to forget him, for it was quite impossible. Her mind constantly drifted from the present back into the past of the opera, of singing lessons, of sweet innocence! Yes, it was these thoughts she wished to dwell on, not her current troubles.
Sometimes, though not terribly often because it took more energy to actually think than to remember, Christine would look into the future. Often, she saw nothing but shadows and stormy, gray clouds hanging over a dreary street in a city. Empty shadows, as if there was nothing there to make them, just the shadows themselves. These shadows were black and depthless, having no boundaries but the very air she breathed. They frightened her, their darkness seemed to overwhelm her and cause a tightness in her chest, like something seizing at her heart. She tried to flee from them, but something, or someone, always held her back.
So she stayed trapped while those shadows surrounded her. She never let them get too close before she broke off the daydream; and then Christine would feel relieved that it wasn�t real, like waking up before a nightmare ends. After those dark thoughts, Christine would stop thinking of shadows and think instead of his gentleness towards her. Of course, there had been moments of sheer terror, too, but Christine tended to forget those. She thought of how gentle and loving he could be. He had played upon her emotions of hesitant affection, tinged with awe, fear, and submission all mixed into one, and turned it into something entirely different and new (and unrecognizable as well): love.
Christine grew especially teary-eyed at these moments when all she could think of was his gentleness. It made her long for him desperately, so that her heart burned within her breast and she felt an uncontrollable desire to see him again.
A few days later, a new emotion manifested itself: anger. Christine began to hate herself for ever having left him. She berated and questioned herself continually, and tortured herself by asking questions impossible for anyone to answer, such as "Why had she left", "Why could she have not understood?", or "Why had fate been cruel and teased her by drawing her away?". There were all these questions, but never any answers!
Christine had not realized her foolishness of abandoning him until a few non-descriptant months had passed of trying to forget, and already it was too late. But she found out too late that it was impossible to forget such a man as he: a passionate, gifted, many faceted man who, above all, desired her love. He�d cherished the small affections, any few displays of anything but fear. But it wasn�t enough; he wanted all of her, but she wasn�t ready to give him her entire heart yet. It was too soon. So she�d left him, thinking her love lay elsewhere.
Christine had often wondered what had happened after she left, but had not the courage or the heart to find out. Was he dead? Madame Giry didn�t seem to think so. Then where was he? He certainly wasn�t still at the Opera House. It would be too incredible to believe! But if he was not at the Opera House, and he was not dead, where on earth could, or would, he be?
Whatever had happened after she left could not have been good; and Christine was the one to blame. Christine, in her selfish and idiotic act had undoubtedly ruined not just her own life, but his as well.
Was life worth living anymore? Was everything all hopelessness? Or was there, in fact, still hope of a reason to live, as invisible as it was? Her life was nothing without him. She lived only because she had not yet died. But why didn�t she die, if not for a purposeless life?
This was something Christine puzzled over for a long time. She could only conclude that for some indiscernible reason, for good or for ill, fate had decided to keep her alive. So live she must.
******
Through all of her moods of depression, despair, and reminiscence, Christine ate hardly at all, barely enough to stay alive. Somehow, the depressed, morbid thoughts in her head didn�t agree with the food in her stomach, and she frequently felt a queasy sort of feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Over the course of just two weeks, Christine grew weak and lost weight at a rapid rate. Her now thin frame could not withstand even the slightest of drafts; she would convulse with uncontrollable chills and had to have heavy blankets piled on top of her trembling body.
The weight of all the pain and grief of the past five years was finally beginning to manifest itself in a dangerous way. Christine�s illness was very serious, if not already life-threatening. Madame Giry called in a capable physician to see her, but often examining her he announced that there really wasn�t anything to do but watch and wait; and pray.
Besides her being malnourished and weak from lack of food, and frequently having a fever, he could find nothing wrong with her. He could only conclude that there was some "internal problem", bleeding or such, but he couldn�t really be sure unless he cut her open.
Madame Giry had been silent until then and she told him that surgery would be unnecessary, for she knew now for sure what it was that ailed her. The doctor listened intently for her to reveal what it was, but she only said, "It is nothing modern medicine can cure."
Well, the physician had a lot of confidence in his prescriptions, and he was put out at her words. He left the house in an agitated mood of bewilderment and irritation.
******
The next day Mme. Giry went into Christine�s bedroom at noon as she usually did when she was home, and brought a small plate of food. Thinking Christine was asleep, she set it n the little table beside the bed and turned to go, when she heard a small voice say behind her, "No, please, I�d like to talk to you a moment."
Mme. Giry turned to see Christine weakly pushing herself up from where she lay on her back on the bed. Mme. Giry helped Christine prop herself up with pillows, and then she sat down on a chair next to the bed.
"Thank you," Christine said, a little breathless from her exertions. She waited a moment until she could breath normally, and then proceeded to talk.
"First of all, I�d like to know what the date is today."
"January 22nd."
"Christine sighed a little and licked her dry lips. All of a sudden she leaned toward Mme. Giry and exclaimed, "Mme. Giry, what is his name?"
Mme. Giry started at this question, and then said slowly, "The name that was given to him, although not by his parents, was �Erik�."
"Erik," Christine said, as if she were tasting it. "Erik," she repeated. "He does not have a last name?"
"None that I know of."
"I see." She was already lost in thought. After a moment, she shook it off and said, "Thank you for telling me."
Mme. Giry got up to leave, and at the door she paused to look back on Christine; her eyes were closed and her fingers around Erik's mask.
******
Four days after Christine found out what the Phantom�s name was, she took another turn for the worse. Her fever raged dangerously high and she became delirious at times, raving about stalking shadows. Without warning she became suddenly fearful and her face grew white. Meg would hold her as Christine clutched her tightly and began to talk wildly of shadows lurking around her bed, her breath coming in short gasps. Then, eventually, the mad look in Christine�s eyes would slowly fade away and her face would become flushed again as her temperature fell and she fell half asleep.
Christine�s hot or cold, mild or irrational moods used up what little health she had left in her. She was going mad. Part of the time she could talk and think rationally or she was able to sleep, but the other half was filled with living nightmares in her delusional mind.
Through all of this Christine still kept Erik's mask with her at all times, usually clutched in her small hand. This was one thing that never changed. It seemed as if Christine drw strength from it, like a delicate flower drawing its strength from the sun.
During the next few days Christine frequently asked the Giry�s what the date was. Often, she would forget in her present state and ask several times a day. She usually then fell silent and said no more the rest of the day.
Nor did she shed even one tear. After two months of crying, she�d finally run out of tears it seemed, rather like a well that had dried up, but which had previously been over abundant.
On one particularly stormy afternoon, when Madame Giry went into what had now become �Christine�s bedroom�, she found her huddled on the carpet in front of the glowing embers in the fireplace, tears streaming down her cheeks freely and unhindered. For weeks Madame Giry had not seen Christine cry or get out of bed by herself, but now here she was, her tearstained face in her hands, weeping like she never had before. Unlike before, when her tears were always of anger, misery, pain, and sorrow, they were now due to an overwhelming sense of helplessness.
When she heard Mme. Giry come in, Christine lifted her face and said in a choked voice, "Do you know what today is? I do; it is the day I have dreaded for months now: January 30th. Exactly five years! Five years of misery and torture and self-doubt. But no more! I�m going, leaving!
"Too long have I sat here," her voice trembled, "trying to forget; to go on, and be happy. It didn�t work, it doesn�t, and it won�t. So I must leave and try to preserve any little hope of happiness I have left."
Her shoulders slumped. "You were right," she said softly. "I cannot live like this. No, I would rather die. And I believe I will soon, if I don�t find a way."
Christine was silent for awhile and then asked, "Would you give me something to eat? I must eat now that I have determined to live awhile longer yet."
Madame Giry nodded, "I am glad you have finally reached your decision. You would not have lasted much longer on tears." She left and then returned bearing a plate of food.
Christine sat up against a nearby chair leg and devoured the food hungrily as Madame Giry stood watching her. When she had eaten her fill, Christine leaned back and sat there silently, unmoving. She gazed into nothing; an odd look crossed her face and she spoke softly to herself, although Madame Giry heard it clearly: "I don�t know why I love him... Who can tell? What man can delve into the mysteries of the soul and fully comprehend why he loves and hates? And if he were to know; would it not only result in scars?
"Yes, no one can know the soul and understand it completely! But what of the mind? Could I understand that? Do I dare try, as I long to?"
"I do not know what is in his past, nor do I know if I should! But yet... I need to know him. If I could only penetrate his impervious mind, then I might understand his heart."
Christine stopped. She looked up at Madame Giry standing there, then dropped her head again. "Perhaps then I could have a chance of finding him..."
Madame Giry sat down silently into a seat not far from Christine.
Christine looked up, her face full of determination, her eyes alive again. "And I will know!" she turned to look at Madame Giry. "I must know! I want you to tell me all you know of him, from beginning to end! Will you?"
Madame Giry sighed sadly, and looked weary as she spoke. "I was afraid that one day you would ask me that. Now it has come and I must with it as best as can be.
"I do not wish you to know all things; there are some things too terrible and frightening to speak of yet, and I do not like recalling certain things to my memory. But I shall tell you most of what I know, of which I found out by various ways and means."
And so Madame Giry sat back, closed her eyes, and though for awhile, collecting old memories and secretes guarded in the back of her mind. And thus she began the tragedy of the tale of Erik.
