Guardian Angel

Chapter 4: The Letter

An imbecile! A witless bastard! By God, for him to even think that a woman like her would take to a man—a monster like him! It was ludicrous! He was destined for solitude, darkness, a life of living in purgatory. Christine...a goddess! Light, the epitome of Heaven's most beautiful angels! And he had the audacity to imagine her on his arm during a stroll through the park, reading together by the fire, writhing beneath him! Normal men were privy to the pleasure of having a woman, Erik, on the other hand, would never be in deservance of such rapture.

Why had Christine thought him to be married? Wasn't she blatantly aware of the fact that he was clearly hiding something beneath his mask? What would make her think that any woman would allow him to court her or, God forbid, marry her?!

Perhaps she was mad...alternatively, she could be just like her—

No, he couldn't think of it. Gustave was the only person who would ever accept him. His daughter wouldn't possess the same nature.

Erik's hand quaked as he poured a third glass of brandy, attempting to obtain at least some semblance of control so he could finish his work. The faster he concluded his workday, the sooner he would be able to drown his thoughts in his music.

He took up his pen and glass, turning his attention to the nearly finished design for a new church that was to be built in Nice. It had been a struggle deciding on what shape the windows would be for the clerestory. Oval or–

His attention was drawn to the door, which was slowly being pushed open by none other than Christine Daae. Part of him was elated to see her, but his efforts to push her from his mind had been quashed in a matter of seconds.

Erik decided to stay silent and watched her as she wandered towards the far wall, which housed his collection of masks. They were of little use to him as he merely just kept them for aesthetic purposes, after all, he hated the way porcelain or clay felt on his skin, but each one held a different memory. Every single one of them was crafted for him by men and women he met during his travels across Europe.

Christine was focused on one that had been made in Florence just a few years prior. A black and white checkered mask that was one of his favorites. She lifted it from its mount and turned it in her hands before lifting it to her face. Erik bit back a smile and took a sip of his brandy. Then, she was turning towards him and he realized that she would catch him watching her, but he couldn't look away in time. Her eyes had found him.

There was a shriek followed by porcelain shattering on the floor. Shards of the mask scattered across the hardwood in large and small pieces. He stared at the remnants of his possession and while he would usually become irritated, he couldn't bring himself to even think of feeling that way towards Christine.

"Mon dieu, I am so sorry!" she exclaimed, dropping to her knees and scooping the pieces into a pile. She gasped and rapidly pulled one of her hands towards her chest, clutching it against herself.

Erik set his brandy and pen on a table and strode over to her. "Did you hurt yourself? Let me see."

Christine shook her head and held her hand tighter. "No, I–I'm fine." She averted her eyes and stared down at the broken porcelain. "It's hardly been a week and I'm already breaking your things."

He chuckled and knelt down next to her, grasping her arm and pulling it from her chest. "Don't worry yourself. I didn't like that one anyways," he said, turning her hand over. Bright blood was dripping down her wrist from a puncture wound on her palm. Thankfully it wasn't a deep slice that required medical attention. He despised doctors. "You cut yourself."

"I'll be fine," she said meekly. Her eyes met his and his heart stopped. Tears were wavering on her waterline and her bottom lip trembled. The sight nearly brought moisture to his own eyes. "I really am sorry. You frightened me and it just slipped."