Hello, everyone. This is just a short note before you read the story, so you know what to expect. This is a modern day story, written from Christine's point of view – literally. This is Christine's diary. It will be random, with random offshoots springing out of nowhere. She will be frequently diverted by thoughts towards other places, not quite relevant to what's happening. In short, this will be exactly like any diary anyone writes.

I was inspired by the story Her Twisted Providence by Maat (read it! 'Good' is not a good enough word to describe it) to write this. There seem to be few stories written for Christine, and not for Erik and that was one of them. I hope to make this similar in its direction. I can't and won't promise any romance here. The main focus will be the interaction of the two main characters. These two will drive the story, not a pre-ordained plot. Don't fear, though! The ending will not be unhappy, since I don't particularly care for writing tearjerkers.

And now, please give a round of applause to my wonderful beta, gravity01, who has been helping me not to get too side-tracked in later chapters, which I tend to do far too often. Now, on to the story. Please read it, and hopefully, you will enjoy it. Thank you! :)

1. Truncated Beginnings

I brought this upon myself. I know it. How can I ignore it when it stares me in the face every single moment that stretches on endlessly in this place? This is entirely my fault. He forbids me to think like that. I don't know how he knows what I think. I certainly never told him. When I first came—no, when he first brought me here, I used to wonder how he knew the thoughts that danced around in my mind. I have long since ceased to question this.

Can you see it? How it all leads back to me? It's so clear in my mind when I look back on all that has happened. If I had not been so eager to show off my so-called talent back when I was still outside, he would never have noticed me. If I had ignored the music that he played to me at night, he would have been discouraged and let me be. And perhaps, if I had fought just a bit harder when he sent those men for me, I might have had a life right now.

All that remains in my life is music and him, both of whom I have learned to detest.

That's my only secret; it's the one thing he will never learn about me. I know that he does not think it possible. He thinks that since music is my only connection to my parents, to my childhood, I treasure it above all. But I don't. If it weren't for music, he would never have found me, and I would still be living a normal life out there in the world, finding simple joys in simple things. I hate him for this. He took everything away from me. Everything.

I know now that the only release for me is death. It sounds morbid and you might call me cowardly, but no other escape has ever worked. I tried it–it wouldn't take a genius to know what I'm talking about–a long time ago; I was too much of a coward. I don't think he knows about that, although he certainly does suspect it. One day, perhaps, I will find the strength to go through with it. Perhaps not. I don't know. I don't think I'll ever be able to do it. It comes down to that inherent horror I have of taking any life, whether it is mine or someone else's. It's not … right.

I do know that I should be disturbed by my lack of emotions. It's hard to explain what it's like, but I'll try. It's somewhat like when you're out in the snow for too long, your fingers get blue and frozen, but you can't feel anything whatsoever because all your nerves have been numbed. I feel things on the outside, but on the inside, where it counts, it's all empty. I feel nothing. Just … disconnected from everything, if that makes sense.

I … I don't even know why I'm recording my thoughts here. I mean, I've written so much since—well, since then, but I've never once contemplated writing what I felt. It's always been doodles, or silly poetry, or frivolous stories where bad things happen to masked men, or whatever. I've never wanted to write anything personal because I'm paranoid that he will read it. I don't want to give him more of an insight into me than necessary.

(This reminds me. I'd better find a good hiding place for this. Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be any convenient floorboard to lift up and stash this under. Most heroes who have to hide something in rooms like this have it lucky. Why not me...? Perhaps I'm not enough of a hero. Ergh.)

Something happened yesterday, though, that disturbed me as nothing else could have. I can't remember them anymore. I tried remembering her face yesterday, but all I could get in my mind were flashes of blurred images that slipped out of my grasp and disintegrated the moment I tried to look closer.

Oh dear God! What is happening to me? I can't even remember my own mother's face! Ma! I miss you so much! I'm so sorry for everything….

When I didn't remember, I wanted to cry, but the tears got stuck in my throat. He noticed, like he always does, and tried to put his arm around me. I pushed him away and he got angry and locked me in here. The tears finally fell for a while, but then I couldn't cry anymore. I locked up my feelings inside. Don't judge me, notebook. What else can you expect me to do? It's easier not to feel, not to care.

But I'm scared now. What if I forget everything? What if one day, I no longer remember what it was like to be outside, to be with people, to be … free? If he ever lets me go, I don't think I'll be able to survive on my own. I don't want to forget. And I won't. I won't ever let him take my memories from me. He can't do that to me.

Or can he…?

Well. I won't let him.

I know what I will do. I am going to put down everything about my life–BE and AE (Before and After Erik; it's a little thing I thought up a few weeks ago and it quite caught my fancy. I know, I know. Don't look at me like that. I found it as pathetic as you do when I came up with it. You try being locked up with only two insane minds for company for months on end and then judge me. But I digress) because I don't want to forget all that he has done to me either–and whenever I think my memory is getting weak, I'll come here and read it all again.

This is my last fight, Erik. And I'm going to win it. You can lock me up physically but not menta

Note: The last word was intentional. I don't mean to ruin the effect, but I thought I should mention it, just in case.