"Raoul?" I called weakly, my voice echoing in the darkness.

I sat upright, feeling the hard fabric under me, and wondered what sofa I was lying on... in the dark... with musty air about me... and the distant sound of dripping...

I stumbled to my feet, nearly falling over. I reached my hands out in front of me to find walls, and from those, a door. My trembling hands met stone, and I began to walk around the rounded corners of the room, searching frantically for an exit. After bumping into a couple pieces of furniture, I found a doorway into a little room, which seemed to be a bathroom, but I quickly left this, distraught as I continued my search.

Oh, but there was nothing beneath my hands save solid stone! I was trapped!

I nearly gave a cry of despair, and my heart began to pound frantically in my chest. Oh, how had he taken me here? Where was he? And why had he taken me? I had agreed to do his opera, agreed to perform as he wished, and then, tormented by the thought of Raoul planning his murder, I had fled to my father's grave. I had thought perhaps I would find answers there, enlightenment of some sort. All I had found was more pain. And him. He had followed me there, filled my head with his voice and dragged me down here under its spell... And then he must have drugged me! That was why I was unsteady.

"Raoul," I sobbed, collapsing against the wall. "Why didn't we leave like you said?"

My tears had only just begun to flow when light pierced the abyss through a hidden door. Half-blinded, I pressed myself against the wall as a dark figure approached me.

My vision steadied, and I wished immediately to regain my full senses, or to simply be standing, for my captor towered over me, a veritable Angel of Death.

Was he going to kill me now?

He addressed me, calmly and gently, "Would you like a little light, Christine?"

I stared at him a moment before nodding blankly, and he lit a few candles about the room. My eyes wandered to the open doorway, and it filled me with sudden excitement and dread. Could I escape through there?

It was worth risking. I slid against the wall, inching across the cold floor. Bit by bit, I approached the exit as my captor continued bringing light to the room, which I now found was a gloomy, but prettily furnished little bedroom. The bed (strangely placed near the center) was covered in translucent white curtains, which were still, as there was no breeze. Beneath it was a large, rich Persian carpet. I seemed to have bumped into a good many things before: a closet, a dresser, a nightstand, a bookshelf, a desk, and a basket of knitting. Everything was painted white or composed of light colors, which was rather odd, considering how dark it was. The room was a cavern, albeit a small one, and rose a ways above my head. About the walls were candlesticks, which made the tomb flicker and our shadows sway on the stone surrounding us, which was solid, and occasionally marred by veins and niches.

Still taking this in, I continued shifting across the floor. As soon as I reached the doorway, the opening slammed shut, and I gasped.

"Were you going to swim across the lake?" he chuckled. Then he sighed, "You must stay in here until I can trust you not to wander off and drown."

I buried my head in my knees and began to cry, for there was nothing else to be done. He had me cornered on all sides and I felt entirely helpless.

His footsteps approached me, and he kneeled down before tilting up my chin with his hand.

"Who are those tears for, may I ask?" he asked, but I could not tell if he was mocking me or being honest.

"M-myself," I replied.

He removed his hand from my chin and pulled out a little handkerchief from his pocket. I stared at him with tears in my eyes, and he moved as if to wipe them away for me, but I accepted the white fabric from his hand before he could do so, and promptly drowned my sobs with it.

He rose and went away from me, and from the sound of it, he was rearranging a few things atop the dresser, which was white and decorated at the seams with silver paint.

"Are you finished now?" He asked softly as my crying died down.

I looked over at him and nodded, rising shakily to return the handkerchief to him. He reached out to take it from me, and placed both his hands upon mine, causing me to pull away as if burned.

The unmasked part of his face hardened.

"Am I so disgusting that I may not touch your hands?" He demanded.

I averted my eyes, but stood my ground, waiting for him to succumb to rage.

"Or is it because you have given your hands, your delicate little hands, to another, and would not have me defiling them?" He accused. "Well, why?... Why?!"

I trembled, but managed to reply weakly, "You have murdered with those hands."

"And you think I would murder you?" He asked, his tone dark as he approached me, making me back up against the wall and slip my fingertips into its seams. "You think I would hurt you?"

I turned my head away from him, wincing with fright. He reached out to stroke my cheek, but swiftly removed his hand, his irritation increasing.

"Just because you tore off my mask and saw what hideousness lay underneath you think I would hurt you?" He asked, pained.

I raised my eyes to his, "What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? Do I need to remind you of my face?"

I shook my head violently.

"And that is why you recoil," he said sorrowfully, then his voice hardened. "That is why you shall remain here now, with me."

"You don't..." I squeaked, struggling to keep my composure, "own-"

"You? I do own you, Christine, though I would not call it that. But you are mine... Is that such a terrible thing, though? Why do you resist having someone care for you, comfort you, love you? I have been your dearest friend, yet now I am your enemy, simply because I am no longer a beautiful angel. And yet I gave you your voice and you gave me your soul... And though I am not the Devil, though you may think it, I have your soul as my own. And I'm very fond of it and have no desire to give it back."

"You deceived me-"

"I comforted you," he retorted. "I gave you wings."

"And now you've locked me up," I trembled out. "What use are wings to me down here?"

"What use indeed?" he said coldly, as if he understood something I did not. Then he sighed irritably, "I tire of this conversation. Bathe and dress and I will bring you dinner. If you are in urgent need of anything, see that gold tassel by the bed? Pull gently on it, and I'll come to assist you."

He turned to leave, and I went over to him, falling to my knees in desperation, failing to restrain my tears. As soon as he noticed me on the floor, he stepped back as if I was venomous.

"Please don't keep me here," I begged, knowing it was worthless. "Please. Do you want me to berate myself? Then I was stupid and naive and... oh please let me go! I am begging you here, is that what you want? To have me hanging on a thread for you to toy with, on my knees at your feet? I am begging you! I don't want to be down here, in the dark, and I don't... I don't love you or want to be yours. I'm sorry for whatever I've done that may have hurt you, but you must let me go... You have to, if you love me, as you say. I'll die down here. I can't bear it down here!"

He broke eye contact, and his voice was strained as he replied, "Bathe and dress... But, if you must know, have no intention of keeping you here for long, and I do not want you to beg."

The opening shut behind him, locking me inside. I stared at it a moment in confusion, digesting his words.

What did he mean? Here long? Would he take me somewhere else? Or did he mean to kill me? But he couldn't mean to kill me... he couldn't... but he had killed others, why not me? Oh, I was going to die! He had taken me down here to play with me and then throw me away, that was all.

I continued crying, hardly able to breathe in my panic. When I regained myself, comforted by the thought that at least heaven would await me upon my death, and that it would likely not be prolonged, I hastened to obey him. Perhaps he would change his mind if I kept myself obedient and tried not to protest too much.

The question I could not cease asking was: did he really love me? And yet I didn't want him to love me! I had been in countless operas and I knew what came of men and their thwarted love, especially men like my captor who were given to violent fits of passion.

I found my way into the bathroom, my face still plastered with tears. The place had running water, with a real water closet, too. Frightened by the luxury, and his proximity, I bathed quickly, just enough for it to be evident that I had. I then proceeded to see what horrible things he had purchased for my use. The closet contained some pretty dresses, and I found an empty jewelry box on the dresser, a few pairs of little shoes in the drawers, and silk stockings, and everything was delicate and expensive and soft and-

My tears regained their full strength. Was I a doll now? Perhaps he did just want that, a little plaything to toy with and dress and belittle.

I reeled at my fears. Dread settled in my stomach, making me nauseated. Had he lied entirely when he told me he was the Angel of Music? Was it all an act, a lie, just to ensnare me, and not at all out of love or kindness? I had thought over that countless times before, but now... Now it simply hurt. How could he stomach knowing what he had done to me unless he either didn't realize it or didn't see me as an equal being?

As I dressed, thinking over it all, I suddenly realized that there was not a single mirror in the room. Concerned at how I would look presentable enough, for I needed to please him, I searched fruitlessly for something reflective with which to use. Upon finding nothing, I came to the conclusion that he must be tempted to look at himself, and so he had removed that temptation.

Was he afraid of his own face, too?

I thought to curl my hair into its typical ringlets, but he had provided a good many pretty little combs and pins for me to put it up with. So I did this instead, hoping I looked decent. He would take my effort into account.

For a while, I remained alone in that room, my curiosity burnt out. I had no desire to see what was in the mahogany desk in the corner, nor the unexplored corners of the dresser, and perhaps if I did not explore the place up and down he would not tease me for it.

As I was sitting on the edge of the bed, weeping at intervals, a knock on the side of the wall met my ears. I looked up from my tear-soaked hands to find him coming in through the door with a prettily laid-out dinner on a tray, and proceeded to set them on the desk. My heart begged me to dart out the open doorway, but my mind made me remain.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked as he set the tray on my desk.

"N-no..." I replied, then changed my mind. "Yes."

"How kind of you," he told me, and I could not tell if he was mocking me or not.

He gestured for me to sit and eat, but he went to the side of the room where a bookshelf was. It had a few novels in it, nice poems and stories for a young lady to be reading. I had eyed them earlier, but not taken one.

I had no appetite, no matter how prettily he had set out my dinner, and he took note of this quickly and returned to my side.

"You're not hungry, then?" he asked.

"No," I replied quietly.

"What would you like to do, then?"

"What is there to do, down here?"

"A surprising amount. I wouldn't let you be bored while you are here with me. You could read, knit, draw, or we could play music. But that would require my trust that you would not go off and drown yourself while we are playing."

The way he spoke was not condescending... exactly. It was like he was trying to be kind and gentle, but it just sounded as if he were speaking to a child.

"But what will you do?" I asked, fidgeting with my hands in my skirts. "If I knit or read?"

"Sit," he replied simply. "I rarely have company, you see."

"It must be very lonely down here," I said softly.

"Very lonely..." he repeated, pensive.

"I think... I think I'll knit for a while."

"The basket is over there," he told me, gesturing to a white basket overflowing with yarn and a couple pairs of needles.

I nodded meekly as I sat myself down with a ball of blue yarn and some silver knitting needles. The act of creating something calmed me, but as I glanced up for a moment, I realized that my captor was watching me, almost in curiosity. He had turned the desk chair around for himself and was simply staring. I stiffened and let the knitting fall into my lap.

"I don't understand," I told him, pained, choosing my words with care.

"Have you forgotten how to knit?" he replied, making light of my meaning.

"What do you want?"

He was still for a moment before replying, "I want you to forget my face, that is all."

"And if I can't... what then?"

"What indeed," he said darkly. "I'm not going to kill you, as you seem to think, and I'm not going to hurt you. Have I designed this room to be a prison, or a torture chamber? No. I have made it a bedroom, with everything you could ever need or want. Why, then, would I kill you, as I have spent so much time and effort securing your comfort down here? Yes, it is dark, but perhaps if you spend enough time in it, you will see that it is of equal value as the light... Return to your knitting, unless you want to rest now?"

I shook my head, "I'll knit."

I returned to it, my fingers clumsy from trembling. A sock began to form, but it was misshapen due to dropped stitches. I pulled it off the needle and unraveled it, keeping my eyes on my work and trying to forget the eyes boring into me from across the room. The eyes of a man, a stranger whom I had spoken to for months under the guise of a celestial being.

After another failed sock, my eyelids were growing heavy, and my captor was, as before, observant of me, and asked me whether I wished to go to bed. Crying must have exhausted me. I agreed, trying to control my fright, but it seemed he was being honest. He told me he would give me a tonic to help me sleep well down here.

I did not like the idea of that, but what choice did I have? He went off to prepare it. I dressed in a lace nightgown he had bought for me and perched myself at the edge of my bed, twirling my hair about my finger.

He reentered and handed me a cup that smelled of herbs, but with a stronger odor than tea. Then, after I drank it with reluctance, he bade me goodnight and left.

I slipped underneath the soft sheets of the bed, but I would have preferred a bed of needles to it. Then I shut my eyes and the tonic he had given me made me drift off to sleep without taking another glance into the darkness.