Gah, this chapter ripped it out of me. I think I'm delaying the ending of this because it feels so tragic to me. As a matter of fact, I'm toying with the idea of writing an alternate ending after the original ending just to give myself a little peace. You'll have to tell me what you think.
At any rate, this is our last chapter! Prologue is next.
-M
The pudgy flesh beneath his fingers gave as he squeezed tighter, and the disgusting face turned a putrid shade of red, ghastly white, and finally blue. Though he expected to feel release at taking Orlo's life, Erik only felt the same resounding emptiness. It had been a month since Emina had left his grotto, and for weeks his entire effort had been spent upon finding her. When he had not, his anger and turmoil had forced him along the familiar path of blood. He had watched Orlo for days, observing his indulgent acts and abuse to those around him. A younger girl than Emina was trapped within his grasp, and Erik had turned away on more than one occasion in disgust as the drunken oaf had forced himself upon her. The pitiful girl-child would just weep while she was violated, and then lay in a shuddering mess once he had left her. Finally, when Erik could bear no more, he had descended upon Orlo just as he approached the pitiful creature. She had shrieked and cowered into the corner, and now Orlo lay lifeless at his hands. In his mind's eye every bruise that had marred Emina's face, every scratch upon her precious skin came rushing back and though he sought justice by depriving Orlo of life, he found none. Only an enormous, empty chasm where her love had been.
Orlo was a fat man, and as he breathed his last Erik released him. He slumped the length of the wall and fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Erik lifted the abused girl from her place in the shadows and cloaked her with his own cloak. He exited as quietly as he came, carrying her with him. Once they had fallen into the streets below, he promptly deposited her on the steps of a church and left without a word. He heard her voice, strained and battered from all of her screaming and weeping, call out to him but he ignored it. The darkness of night swallowed him, and his quest continued.
The weather was beginning to warm. It had been two months since that fateful day. Two months since he had spurned her for another. Two months since she had come to stay in the tiny rectory just outside Paris. Emina stood outside now, basking in the warmth of the sunshine as she worked the laundry. The water sloshed onto her feet, but she didn't mind. She had spent her first weeks in this place in bed, refusing to eat or drink. She wept until she became sick, and when her stomach had purged all of it's contents she simply heaved miserably over the can, the stench of her own vomit making her sick all over again.
And then it had happened. Within her body she felt a quickening, a slight flutter of butterflies wings within her belly. It had persisted over several days, and when the doctor visited next he confirmed her suspicions. She was pregnant. A love child, conceived in the few weeks she had spent within Erik's arms. Though part of her thrilled with the knowledge that she would always have a part of him with her, the rest of her mourned for her loss. Not just hers now, though, but their child as well. It would never know what a brilliant father sired it, or how much passion he possessed. This new knowledge had forced her from her bed. The responsibility of carrying a child convinced her to eat again, and drink as well – until she was as healthy as she had ever been. All of her wounds from her time with Orlo had healed well, and now she found herself biding time. Waiting, waiting, waiting.. for her child to be born.
Four months and three days. Seven hours more. Christine reclined upon the chaise, pretending to be interested in the half-finished lace-work within her hands. It was a beautiful day in midsummer. The sun was brilliant and the whole world rejoiced in it's warmth. The sweet call of birdsong echoed just outside the opened window, and a gentle draft caused the sheer draperies to dance upon the wind.
Though the entire earth seemed jubilant, Christine could not stir the same joys within her, no matter how hard she tried. It had been four months and three days since she had left Erik, promising to return. Still she had not found the courage to return to him and do what she must. She could not bring herself to descend into his world of darkness again, intent upon inflicting the same pain upon him as she had before. But she must...
These thoughts were interrupted as the parlor door burst open. Raoul swept in, his face alight. It seemed the joyous sunshine was a contagion and it had infected her husband thoroughly. He grasped her hands and pulled her up from her perch, the unfinished lace dropped and forgotten in his haste.
"Raoul! What are you-"
Her words were cut off as his lips sought hers, sweet and warm. His kisses were always the most gentle, the most adoring. She returned it numbly, and he laughed against her.
"Isn't it a marvelous morning, my love? The birds are singing, the sun is shining! We should go for a walk.." he said quickly, in a boyish exhuberance. Christine opened her mouth to reply, but before the words could issue forth his expression changed to one of concern and his hands fell to her stomach. It was beginning to protrude now, noticeable even beneath the layers of clothing she wore. Raoul's hands stroked it possessively.
"Or a carriage ride then. Perhaps a walk would be too strenuous.."
"I am fine, Raoul!" Christine interrupted him suddenly, her tone a bit too harsh. She realized her mistake and released a heavy sigh, moving to disentangle herself from the circle of his arms (which had found themselves again around her waist).
Dejection and hurt flashed in his beautiful eyes for a moment, and Christine felt regret. The same regret that she felt each and every day. Somehow she managed to reject her husband, to wound his ego or pride or sensitivities each day without intent. It seemed they would never find that easy rhythm that had once been the keynote of their relationship. In an effort to ease the tension, she forced herself to step closer and lifted a small hand to his cheek.
"Forgive me, husband. I am only fatigued. Perhaps another time?"
Raoul struggled not to scowl as the facade his wife attempted to create crumbled around her. It had taken weeks after her return before the truth had surfaced. He had been furious to learn that the Phantom had been the one to rescue his wife from the torment he inflicted upon her. More than anger though, he had felt shamed. In their first encounter Raoul had made it his aim to rescue Christine from the dark schemes of his foe, and without intending to he had turned the tables on himself – providing Erik the opportunity to be the hero. It wasn't this fact that was so difficult to get over, however. It was the fact that Christine was never the same. She was quiet, brooding, and melancholy. He could draw her out of her sorrow long enough to laugh and talk with him freely only rarely, and even then she seemed a bit false.
Stop! His mind screamed at her, even as her hand lazily stroked his jawline. This must end, Christine! You must let him go! He is killing us!
None of these words were spoken, of course. Raoul was terrified that his grievous error had already caused some undue stress or injury to their unborn child. He had received the news with great joy, but from the first moment could sense the lack of joy in his wife. In every tense moment since, including this one, he deferred to his better judgement and held his tongue. It would not do to upset her and cause any further stress. With a pained sigh, Raoul nodded mildly and pressed chaste kisses to the tips of her fingers.
"I understand, my love. Return to your sewing. It was obvious you were enjoying it so very much."
With the barb of his words hanging in the air, Raoul stepped around her and left her standing alone in the middle of the parlor. Christine sighed sorrowfully, and wrapped her arms about her middle. Raoul deserved a better wife. He deserved a wife who could love him and devote all of her energies to creating their child, to responding to his needs. To be anything and everything that Christine was not to him. As much as Christine wanted to be that for him, she knew she could not. At least not until she buried the past for good.
Six months. Six bloody, painful months to the day that she had left him. Erik had cursed himself without end for his careless words. He could write poems and sonnets, create amazing music and architecture, but his cursed tongue had formed an ill-thought out sentence that had cursed him to remain in this self-inflicted hell.
Emina was gone. He could not imagine where to, and after six months of doing just that it was easier not to. Every painful and unfortunate thing that could have befallen her ran through his mind again and again, cutting him to the core. When he thought he could stand no more, he began to think of all of the good things that could have happened. Then he would imagine her with another man, happy and free in the sunlight that only scorned him. Those thoughts were just as painful and so he could not win.
He began to wallow in self-misery, drinking until all of the bottles were dry and he could not escape the stupor for days. He would cleanse and dress himself only enough to retrieve more of the balm of alcohol, and then repeat the tortuous process. Eventually this was not enough, and he turned to the familiar kiss of morphine.
It was in such a drug induced state that Christine found him. He was laying disheveled upon the floor just before the cold fireplace. Her face entered his vision and was a bit blurred at first, but as it began to clear he could only laugh. The sound was not amusing or joyous though, just terribly sad.
She touched him, and spoke to him. That voice which could transcend all others. The voice he had lived so many years for, and would have easily died for. That precious, cursed voice. The words were lost upon him. He could only see her glowing, healthy face. Tears were in her eyes, and those ruby lips he had yearned so long for were moving. Why could he not hear her? Was he going deaf? Erik's laughter turned to sobs, and eventually the woman who had once been his angel left him as well. Somehow Erik knew, even through the haze, that this was at last goodbye. He would never see Christine again.
And though he expected that he should feel sorrow at the stunning self-revelation, Erik could only think one thing over and over again.
If only she were Emina. If only he could have seen Emina just one last time..