One Love, One Lifetime [a Phantom of the Opera Phanfiction]

2: A Prima Donna's Acts of Infidelity

Whenever Raoul would leave the Opera Populaire to return home at night, Erik would beckon me into the mirror with a simple knock so as not to wake anyone and alert them of his presence. I had been, and still am today, staying in the Prima Donna's extravagant room which formerly belonged to Carlotta Giudicelli. She'd quit in rage thick with grief the day after the big Don Juan scandal and the death of her lover Ubaldo Piangi, screaming in her abhorrent and overused voice that she would be returning to her home country of Italy and continuing her career in an environment where she would "be more encouraged to thrive" without fearing for her life. No one complained.
    On the eve of my wedding to Raoul, I sat at my heavy, polished vanity, meaninglessly arranging and rearranging my long white veil to the center of my head, sighing often in dismay. Tomorrow at this time I would be married. But not to the one my heart truly belonged with. Why had I even agreed to this marriage, anyway? Was there any way out? Both Raoul and I deserved someone who loved us as much as we loved them. This wasn't fair to either of us.
    "Oh, Erik," I whispered to nothing but the flickering candlelight and heaps of congratulatory flowers, "Why couldn't I have chosen you?"
    Perhaps he had heard my question of pain, because the Opera Ghost himself appeared in my mirror just then. "Christine, my dear, there is still time. Come to me, my angel, let me take your worries away." His voice was smooth as silk, a deep, expressive tenor, reminding me yet again why I was so entranced by him.
    The large, ornate golden mirror opened at that point, and Erik stuck out a long, bony hand. I rose from my velvet stool, dropping the veil carelessly to the floor.
    "Erik," I stretched the letters out, relishing in their harmonious sound as I took his extended hand. His cold, yet comforting and safe hand. He would never harm me, and I was sure of it.
    I stepped into the mouth of the mirror-mouthed tunnel and stared into his eyes. One surrounded by a thick white shield and the other by thick, flawless skin, but both unmistakably holding guilt and sorrow behind his blue sea of iris.
    He pulled me into his slim yet muscular arms, inhaling the scent of roses that had imprinted itself on my skin after so long of being swarmed with them after performances of glory. "My darling, I've missed you," he purred as he stroked my hair. He whisked me away down to his lair, which I was quickly becoming accustomed to despite only having visited a couple of times.
    As soon as we arrived at his underground home, as if we were magnets, our lips crashed together like a pair of cymbals, although with much more force and intent than the music box monkey he had on his fireplace mantle. Our hands traveled up and down each other's backs, grabbing at and removing clothing with such force that we practically tore it off.
    This included his mask, and I asked permission with my eyes and a hushed "May I?" before I did so, remembering (even in the heat of the moment) me removing it the last times and the utter chaos that erupted from it. But with this being only the second time I'd truly seen him without it, I stroked his mangled cheek with caution so as to not upset him. His skin was uneven, sagging in some places, and pulled too tightly across others. Some places even exposed a bit of brain tissue, and I always wondered how that never caused an infection to him. Erik's nostril was stretched slightly too wide, the left side of his lip looked like it had been bitten by a dog, and blistery red bumps decorated the side of his face he'd been taught to hate since birth. But to me, despite the terror his disformity instilled in others and the horror that paralyzed my body the first time I'd seen it, his face now sent a shock of pity through my already electrified body. He was so hated and shunned by society, just because he looked different. I had learned over the growing months of our affair that he was just as gentle as I, only appearing impenetrable and ruthless while shielded by his mask of protection.
    "Christine," a soft moan escaped Erik's lips, bringing me abruptly back into reality while simultaneously sending my hormones into a frenzy. His palms caressed my breasts, fingers twirled my hair. His touch was so delicate yet firm with intention, and somehow, although I knew quite well he had never made love with a woman before, he knew just what to do.

~

After we finished, we lay sprawled across the bed he had designated as mine. Our chests heaved up and down, desperate for air in the absence of innocence.
Erik rolled over to face me, and I positioned myself the same.
    "Christine," he grabbed my hands. "Please. Be mine." He stared at me with such intensity, such desperation, that I nearly said yes. The plead caught me off guard, and I felt a hitch in my breath. How could I possibly respond to this? Just an hour before, this was all I had wanted. And although it still was, I knew I couldn't leave Raoul at that time.
    "Erik, I love you, you know this- I think I just made it pretty damn clear. But I can't call off the wedding, Raoul will know it's because of you. He saw the way I used to talk about you, and he was fairly convinced I fell out of love with him the first night I kissed you. I've been lying to him since. But I can't leave him. He'll kill you, I'm sure of it. I want to continue seeing you, I want to with all my heart, but we must do it in private at least for now, to ensure your safety." His face fell, heartbreak spreading across his face. "Erik, you know this is the last thing I want to do." I reached out and brushed his mottled cheek with the back of my hand. "But I would rather do this- and I'm very sure you'll agree with me- than never see you again at all."
    He tucked an unruly lock of my hair behind my ear. "Christine, I would rather him kill me than have to even picture you with him." The tone in his voice quite nearly broke my heart.
"Erik, don't say that," my voice broke as I exclaimed the words. Stray tears dripped down my cheeks, painting them with glitter.
"You're right, you're absolutely right. I'm terribly sorry, my dear, I don't know what's gotten into me." He got up from the bed then, slipped on his clothes, and left the room, the atmosphere chilled from his sudden mood change.
    I snuck out not an hour later, my escape masked by the anguishing sound of a once again rejected Erik playing the organ.

~

We've so far continued our affair in the basement of the Opera Populaire for a year, sneaking in and out of mirrors and bedsheets, all the while with a pit of guilt growing steadily in my stomach in fear of us being caught. Never since the event have we spoken of that fateful night where we made love under the building that my fiance and now husband owns, or the borderline argument that followed.
    But for a while, it was there, just like Erik lurking in the shadows of the Opera House, until the bad memory melted away like snow into spring. Our kisses regained passion and purpose, and soon enough we reached our first anniversary.
    In my head, now in present time and done reminiscing on flashbacks of the withered past, I sit on a red velvet loveseat, watching Erik in his element doing what he loves most besides me- writing music. He's fallen into a pattern- he'll play a few keys on the organ, pause, and write the notes down if he decides they're satisfactory. The peace that's settled between us comforts and warms me in the absence of his arms.
    Erik abruptly stops playing. "Christine, we must return." He rises from his bench and takes my hand.
    "I wish I could stay here forever with you," I tell him as he kisses my hand. The truth is, I don't. Although I love Erik, I hate the underground world he's limited himself to. I wish we could travel the world, hand in hand, instead of hiding away in a basement just because he's insecure. I want to show him that there's such a big world out there, so many different people all weird and varying in appearance. That all these people, they're not as bad as they seem, not really. But I can't. Because I know it's not true.
    When I was a girl, I had a rather large red birthmark across the right side of my face. It was the kind that faded with time, so I no longer have it, but going to school with children with normal, smooth faces immediately made me an outcast, subject to their careless jokes. It continued for years until the mark faded and I got to leave the school eventually when my father and I migrated to Gothenburg. I'd come home with red eyes and my father would always try to comfort me, saying that although I may have seen myself as ugly I should always remember that I was automatically better than any of those children because I was not one to judge for looks.
     That especially applies to my current circumstances, it seems.

~

When I return upstairs and am rushing to rehearsal, I nearly run smack into Raoul.
    "Christine, dearest, where have you been? We've all been worried sick looking for you." Sacré bleu. He grabs my arms presumably in an attempt to make me feel safe, but just distresses me.
    "Oh, I was..." I look around the hallway for an idea. My eye spots a cross. "I was staying at an inn close to the cemetery overnight after visiting my father's grave. His death's anniversary is coming up soon, you know."
    Raoul kisses my hand. "Of course, darling. And now, we must rehearse. The managers have been waiting anxiously for their Prima Donna star to appear." What is it with Raoul and dismissing talk of my father? He leads me down the hallway, dread brewing in my stomach.