Phantom of the Opera 1. Temperance

TEMPERANCE 

  
  


**_"She had all but forgotten the kiss they had exchanged when they said goodbye." ~ House of the Spirits_**

Do they all forget who I am or has my past been sculpted into a fable with no  
morals of any kind? There lies no prime reason why the history of our  
relationship has been misunderstood, and I still stand to understate the   
understatement in that line. The world is incapable of comprehending the rare  
and unusual born to this earth, and I am tired of feigning my need for  
sincerity. I am sick of playing the death who lives in night. 

My half-brother has never seen past the anterior layer of this mask,  
and presumably he never will. The squealing admirers and beauty-lovers will  
follow him down his path of useless existence while I remain cold and  
untouched in the darkest corners of my improper burial. 

But I preserve my peace along with a vivid memory of the moments I had  
experienced victory, and the greatest depths of love. I hold what is  
inextinguishable in my mind and do not release that flame for an eternity of  
heaven or hell. 

But I am warning you, I will write only what I am capable of reproducing. This is no Shakespeare drama, nor is it a fairy tale, for both of these genres end excessively happy or morose – we are leveled somewhere in between the two separate worlds where a thin line holds it place. In return, I suggest you light a candle, and blow out your thoughts. 
    
       *  *  *

Unstable as Christine Daaé may seem, she was a firm believer in her Angel of  
Music. After the loss of her father at twenty, most would agree she was   
recklessly vulnerable and in need of a father figure. Her lonesome self was  
literally crying out for guidance, and one cannot blame me for using that to   
my advantage. 

She was a chorus girl, the type that did nothing exceptional but dance  
in the corpse de ballet and remained unnoticed for her own sake. Her beauty  
and voice were also overlooked by the idiot managers who occupied the Opera  
Populaire. 

But a sparrow's voice could not be caged forever, and after the fateful  
night that I heard her sing, it became an absolute obsession to take her under  
my wing. Christine Daaé's voice was brilliant, but even brilliance could be  
improved upon. Her spirit lacked insurance, and I swore to myself I would move  
earth to provide it. 

The first time I sang to her she had just threw a fit with Carlotta Giudicelli,  
the leading lady of the Opera Populaire. I did not hire that woman; it was a  
mutual agreement between the managers I did not bother to destroy. Christine  
was a sensitive being, and after three or four sour insults, he poor girl ran  
off to her dressing room in humiliation. 

That was where I had found her, crying her precious eyes out due to her damaged pride. 

I stood quietly behind the large dressing room mirror which took up  
more than two-thirds of the dressing room wall. The two-way mirror between us  
was especially designed to capture a few moments of the crew men's gossip of  
the Opera, but the room had been emptied for Christine's inhabitancy. 

I was disappointed by the alteration at first, but later on it proved  
it's great convenience. 

I beckoned her forward with my voice, and not to my amusement, she did  
as I asked. There was one strength and pure beauty inside of me that defeated  
all purposes of mortal sin—my voice. I had discovered this gift at a young  
age and used it as an instrument of power. With this voice I had easily and  
effortlessly manipulated Christine Daaé into believing I was the Angel of  
Music. And she had wanted this to lean against, finally an adobe to support   
her frail figure. 

Her bedroom was made in a matter of days. I had a servant who'd done  
all the outside jobs for me since it was impossible to leave the house without  
stopping traffic in the streets. I had ordered gowns and dresses of the most  
expensive, rich kind, along with chemises, bodices, stockings, shoes,  
petticoats, anything a man would consider buying for his fiancée—I knew very  
well she was not my wife-to-be, but I often visited her bedroom before I had  
taken her in, just to breath in the violet scents of her perfume, mixed with  
the fragrance from the floral soaps and bath indulgences I had bought for  
her. She was always too modest to use it all, but she never forgot to thank me  
or gently brush her hand in gratitude against the cheek of my mask. 

Then, I had taken it for granted—it wasn't as though I did not think of  
it; I memorized the tinge of warmth the second the tips of her fingertips  
touched my face, and I slept (though I did not do this often) with the growing  
dream of a deeper touch. She'd given me hope I never found since the day I  
was brought into this world. With a firm grip on that hope, I lived on the  
brink of happiness for three days. 

Until she snatched it away. 

It was a night after our regular singing lesson, and I'd brought her  
down to the catacombs that evening as I did the other three nights. Her  
expression had the same angelic brightness, and I sensed nothing dangerous from  
her soft mesmorized smile. She'd even touched me again, which I found  
delightfully normal by then, but still forbidden. 

But Christine Daaé lost all purposeful defenses during her voice lessons, which  
is why I forced myself to be extremely cautious. I would hardly look into her  
eyes during the lessons in fear of losing my own self-restraint. When the  
music built up to the climax of the piece, I had allowed my own mind to be  
wrapped in the euphoria of glorious notes…and I did not notice her little hand  
as it reached out and lifted my mask from my face. 

How does one define desperation? It is when the blood in your body  
freezes and paralyzes your mind into one terrifying thought, when all you have  
hoped would come true was a building pyramid that is destroyed into ruins,  
when an outstretched hand suddenly withdraws and one is left with nothing to  
hold onto and he is trapped in an endless fall. 

I looked up at her for the very first time that night and she shrunk  
away from me instinctively, and she just stared at me in horror like she was  
staring at a complete stranger…the man who she'd seemingly trusted in these  
three days had been transformed into a monster, and he was scaring his little  
ingenue to death. A second later I had looked away, my body shaking and my  
face wrenching out frustrated tears and the buried fear of exposure. I was  
still crying when she shakily pushed my mask across the floor to me, repeating  
the first words she'd ever spoken to me since I saw her. 

"I'm so sorry…." 

We looked at each other for an unbearable span of time. At last, when  
I'd finally regained the dignity and human consciousness, I stood and left her  
alone by the pipe organ. It seemed strangely stupid to say anything to her  
after the bitter confrontation. I thought it right to blame her for allowing  
curiosity to take the upper hand. It was the one human trait that I despised  
with passion. 

But the next night when I had beckoned her through her mirror, she did  
not refuse. When I played my music and drove her to the farthest horizons of  
ecstasy, she did not resist. I watched her half-closed eyes cloud with  
pleasure and the tempting, small raise and fall of her breasts to my song, but  
my voice was silent. Deep inside, I did not know how to take her return, as  
an invitation, an act of pity, or one of confusion. There were many things I  
wanted to ask her, but I concluded by asking nothing at all. 
    
    *  *  * 

Everyday between the hours of sunrise and the birth of the moon, she  
lived above grounds and emerged herself in the luxurious rays of sunlight,  
happiness, and human contact. I did not value such things since I'd grown  
accustomed to survival without the essential needs of man. But she loved the  
blue sky and its peaceful soft clouds, and I made sure I would not deprive her  
of these simple joys of life by returning her to upper grounds before dawn. 

Beyond the lake we lived as equals and in a manner of husband and  
wife. I never pushed her to do things she did not wish to do, and after the  
earlier incident, she seemed to have understood my need for that mask. But we  
tip-toed our way around our feelings like an uncleansed foot testing the  
surface of a pool of water—neither of us would speak of emotion when it came to  
our extraordinary associations. 

I never pushed her to sing when she was exhausted after her dance  
rehearsals; on the contrary, I often suggested to her an early sleep. But  
she'd insist on continuing with the voice lesson, her blue eyes persuasive and  
pure, and I began to realize how much she needed my music. Without it she  
would be six feet above my home but completely miserable. Music quenched a  
thirst in her no man could ever satiate, of course, no man except for myself. 

We had this in common; we claimed one sanctuary. 

She would often beg me to tell her stories and produce poetry for her,  
and after I acceded to her request, she would fall asleep, kneeling besides me  
with her head leaning lightly against the side of my leg. That astonishing  
sensation! It was as if I would feel no greater pleasure from her voluntary  
touch, just to have the silky curls of her hair unbearably close to my skin,  
my eyes, my breath. I wanted this girl more than all the music in the world,  
and in the stolen moments of ecstasy, it would feel almost as though she were  
truly mine. 

Alas, only I knew she was not. 

I was not the only man who looked upon Christine Daaé with desire;  
there was the Vicomte de Chagny. He was a patron and son of a rich old man who  
showered his son with wealth and spoiled him to the bone. I never liked the  
boy since the first time I laid eyes upon him—he was indecently young, the  
same age as Christine, and unimaginably immature. There was nothing in common  
between the two except for their love for joyous things, and I did not see him  
as a hindering device when he first arrived at the Opera Populaire. But the  
boy and Christine had been childhood playmates, and soon after their first  
reunion, I took de Chagny's necessity under consideration. He was an   
aristocrat as well as an addition to the overflowing population of the other  
patricians, and his existence irritated me beyond creed. 

I could have easily gotten rid of him if not for the risk of loosing  
her trust. Christine would have unquestionably suspected me of murder; only  
she knew I was capable of such deeds. My past was a mist of miserable  
despair, unforgotten and as cold as the depths of the winter snow. Questions  
never arose unless she proposed them, and even then I released very little  
information; deceiving was a simple and guiltless task, you see, Christine   
would have believed me if I told her the sun revolved around the moon. Neither  
of us minded each other's presence, but I always sensed there was something  
overpowering and timid inside of her. She was still living with the constant  
reminder of what lay behind that mask—that was why I gave her Elisabeth. 

She completely porcelain, an Victorian doll and dressed in hand woven  
blue silk. Large blue eyes were forever awake and staring attentively at who  
holds it in her hands. She had only one oddity which was her lack of a  
mouth. She was far too beautiful to be left with her seller; thereupon I   
bought her, disregarding the odd looking mouth, or lack thereof. 

Christine loved her, nonetheless, and I agreed to make Elisabeth sing.  
It wasn't a difficult task since ventriloquiy lay at the tip of my tongue for  
I had once performed as a ventriloquist in Vienna. Christine was delighted  
when music came out of the doll's invisible mouth. She'd clap her hands  
gaily, her sea-blue eyes twinkling and the sensual, pout of her lips spreading  
into a indulgent smile. When I was consumed with fatigue and thought it best  
not to sing, she would make me tea, and serve me, as a nurse serves a patient  
who is on crutches for life. And I suppose, in a way, I was. 

There were times when I did not sleep, and we just spent a night awake,  
watching each other while the tension stirred and built to the point where  
she'd turn away, a rosy hue flushing her cheeks. Feelings—all these feelings  
she had to understand were too sudden and forceful, and I began to see that it  
was virginity, for both of us. 

Virginity not just in the literal sense, but mentally…emotionally…we  
did not know lust. We did not feel sexuality, or we did not recognize it. It  
was like exposing a part of us that both she and I were vainly reluctant to  
share. In a way, we were still children, pushed back by the barrier of  
innocence, and too alarmed to cross the perimeter. 
    
    *  *  *

Life would have carried on in such an insignificant but disturbing  
fashion if I had wanted it to, but at length I waved Carlotta Giudicelli off  
the Parisian stage with a few threat notes to the management and put Christine  
in her rightful place. The first production of Faust, finally, consisted of a  
fine cast, and the performance was stunning. Her voice and my efforts  
rewarded her with fame and a glorious victory—it was what I would have had  
without this face, but I was content to sing through her. 

She came to me freely that night, found her own way through the   
passages and endless corridors, and rowed across the lake to meet me at the  
other side. I was fairly surprised, perhaps touched or even delighted she did  
this willingly, but symbolism meant very little. I read her a fairy tale, the  
stories she loved so dearly, and she once more fell asleep with her head  
leaning against my side. It was bitter that evening, and I thought it best  
that I put her to bed right away. I picked her up in my arms, feeling the  
weight of her light supple body in my hands and her soft steady breathing  
against the skin of my neck; it felt like butterfly wings. I laid her  
carefully in her elaborate bed and blew out the long ivory candle at the  
bedstead. But I could not make myself leave the room. 

Instead, I sat in a chair next to the bed and stared down at her with  
irrepressible longing. In the stark coldness of the room I still saw her  
clearly, allowing my eyes to travel to all places of her, memorizing, savoring  
the one thing I could not have. 

She lay motionless, her hands lying limply at her sides and her legs  
covered by her long white gown. Her hair spread like a sea of silk around her  
pale face, peaceful, utterly angelic, and untouchable. A lock of her hair had  
fallen to the tip of the smooth mound of her breast, taunting and mocking me  
as I crumbled into heaps within. Why do you come back? I asked her in  
silence. Why do you remind me of what I will never conquer? If she knew I  
never accepted defeat, she was right not to answer. 

Her eyelashes trembled, her lips parted as if to speak, and for a moment I  
thought I heard her call out my name… My own mouth opened to answer, and I   
closed them again, tortured by irresolution and momentary hesitation. She was  
dreaming, I knew, but they were the most useless things of all—dreams do not  
come true. Only nightmares. Only night. If I had answered…. 

Again she parted her lips but no sound came out, and she turned  
comfortably to her side, wrapping her hands around her arms, trying to avoid  
the cold. I removed my cloak and gently covered her with the long cashmere,  
and as I did so, my fingers brushed the tantalizingly soft material of her  
gown, then her hip and arm, and lastly her slender neck. I froze in place and  
dared not move my hands, for they had suddenly ached to linger a bit longer.  
I could have slipped beside her and have her sleep in my embrace for one  
night, but I turned away, quietly closing her bedroom door behind me. 

I was disgusted with myself. 

Rape…a violation of heart, of body, of dignity and the right to belong  
to oneself. A kind priest had told me this a long time ago, and I never  
thought of the word until now. It occurred to me how close I was to raping  
Christine Daaé, and the idea drove me mad with loathing. I have killed in my  
lifetime, but this concept seemed much more frightening and incorrigible; it  
was like the act of stabbing one's mother…the blood of guilt would always come  
back. 

For hours I sat in my throne and delved in the bleak dungeon of my  
mind, recalling the unspeakable crimes I had committed towards humanity in my  
fading past. How I had killed for pleasure, under authority, stole beautiful  
things without a cry of conscience, and I had myself to remind me that I stole  
Christine too, a girl who not quite contrasted with a pretty piece of jewelry. 

I thought of how she murmured my name in her sleep, her voice sweet and  
caressing, full of the innocence that begged to be corrupted. If I had leaned  
forward and breathed in the scent of her hair, to explore her darkest secrets,  
would she have awakened and screamed at the sight of my glowing mask? A part  
of me answered a persistent no, but another part, was coldly reluctant to  
answer at all. 

I poured myself a cup of fine brandy and sipped lightly at the crimson  
tinted drink. Everything I saw reminded me of blood, it seemed, but it did  
not disturb me. Death was like a painting—it came in all different shades.  
And tonight, I was feeling particularly black. 

I set down the wine and crossed the room, considering momentarily of  
playing the pipe organ stretched against the wall. I dismissed the idea at  
the thought of waking her—the last person I wanted to see now was her, in all  
her innocence, asking me to play more. And I was playing—just not music, but  
a game of cat and mouse with my delightful princess. I was very frightened to  
loose her, you see; who knows when she will let down her hair to me one day,  
and the plotting little Vicomte would cut it off when I am only half way up  
the golden tower. . . . 

Resignedly, I slid into my bedroom and closed the door behind me. In  
the black ivory of my bed I dreamt of what was never truly meant to be. The  
name she called out was mine indeed, but in my dreams, I answered her without  
conscience, and she would come to me without fear. 
    
    *  *  *

We crossed the lake, and I took her back to her dressing room the  
following morning. Before we parted I told her she was not required to come to  
me for the next three weeks. It was best for me to keep my distance from her  
for a period of time since the only solution to her unbearable presence was to  
not have her be there at all. 

I told her this ambiguously, and the hurt in her eyes broke my heart. 

"Have I done something wrong?" She asked brokenly, "Are you angry with me?" 

"No, my dear Christine," I said with forced indifference. "Regrettably, there  
will be a visitor who I must care to meet alone…." 

She looked up at me with such intense accusation, I was sure she was about to  
cry. 

"You've found somebody else, haven't you?" She whispered sadly and  
resolutely. Her lower lip trembled instinctively, "You've found someone worthy  
enough…." 

For a moment I just stared at her in my dumbstruck surprise. I wanted  
to laugh at her absurd conclusion and muse at the incredible insolence of that  
assertion. Did she actually think there would be another like her whose voice  
would moved me to tears? Was she so insecure and naive, that she would  
believe there is someone left in the world who would not cower away from my  
face? Perhaps my little ingenue was more senseless than I'd thought. 

My left hand gently caressed the air of her delicate cheek as I lowered  
my mouth to the tip of her ear and felt the heat around her shiver under my  
breath. 

"You torment yourself, Christine," I whispered softly in a voice that  
made the hair on her spine stand on end. 

I left her there, in her confusion and uncertainty, and I smiled  
despite the thundering drums of my excited heart. 

By their own accord, the walls she'd built around herself had begun to  
fall apart.


	2. Marquis de Sade

**Disclaimers**: the passage about the "wishing to be dead" part is completely accredited to Lisa, author of "From Darkness Purged to Light" (Go read it! It's a GOOD story)…Thanx Lisa for the good IM convo…it was very constructive.

***   *   ***

MARQUIS DE SADE 

_"The Vicomte de Chagny mourns the death of his mother Countesses Valerie de Chagny, who passed this Sunday, Feburary 8th.  She had long been suffering from an unknown illness and will be finally laid to rest by friends and family on Saturday, the 12th.  The Countess was also known as Elisabeth Satié, wife to wealthy merchant Richard Satié before his untimely death in 1831.  The countess had wished to remain nearly anonymous in the bourgeoisie society, reluctant to reveal even her maiden name.  The reason, shall we say, remains a mystery."_

Elisabeth Satié… 

I read that name madly, fifty times forwards and backwards until my eyes bled with tears of incredulity.  Now I ask you, dear reader, who obviously has good reason to be interested enough in my affairs to have come this far in this trilogy, what kind of God exists to torture me?

For a moment I felt that the Infallible Being and I, had an understanding:  We, who both share a mutual need to explore our perverse obsession with cruelty, have come to our final match.  I feel the need to explain myself now because I must leave you to decide whether what has occurred is considerably the ultimate wrath of His irony.  

The article meant nothing to me.  People live and die everyday; it is a common casualty—but I would have overlooked every aspect of that dreary news if I had forgotten that Elisabeth Satié was my mother.

Yes she, the beautiful maiden who'd fed me and bathed me when I was a babe, was the currently deceased.  The woman, who'd pressed the white silk against my cheeks to muffle the sobs and ugliness of my sunken face, had remarried.  She, who had hoped I was stupid enough to think that she'd been kidnapped and had left me accidentally to grow up with gypsies, had a son.  Out of her desperation to forget a nightmare's prodigy, she conceived a newborn baby.

Raoul.

Vicomte de Chagny.

I laughed, quite unhappily really, but laughter freed me.  It was more distressing to know that she was my mother than that Death has beckoned her away from me.  She was never here in actuality, and I certainly have no qualms with forgetting family, let alone, only a half-breed.  Perhaps I felt insulted that my blood flowed through the Vicomte de Chagny's veins steadily but had not turned into toxin and killed him for his larceny.  

He obviously had a very pleasant childhood—I find him constantly smiling, and most definitely carefree.  To think that he was given the treatment and privilege of a human child that was denied me!  Well, my mother must have been very proud of her newest achievement!  He is, impeccable indeed!  But common…a commonplace in a very common world.  I would rather be deformed than ordinary…

But on the other hand, being his older brother might prove to be very beneficial.  With any luck, he'll find it suits him well to listen to me, not just as the Phantom anymore, but moreso as "family".

I tossed the article into the crimson fire and stood thinking for a long, long time.  Then I picked up Christine's doll and undiplomatically threw it into the flames; following that, I heard the echo of my chair smashing against the wall like firecrackers in my ear.  I must have thrown it without realizing.  What I did realize, was that I had the overwhelming wish to die.

Or perhaps, I wish to be dead.  The act of being is so much more tempting than the act of becoming.  It is a pity that one must die to be dead, so I am left with living; yet under such circumstances, I have no life.  Well, since I'm stuck in the vague perimeter of being neither, I might as well make the effort to make use of being alive…

Yes, I daresay that's what I shall do.

*   *   *

Three days later I became obsessed with this new person in my life.  My blood has forced me to look at him differently, as someone who I had no desire to love or to hate completely.  I became enthralled by the activities of the Vicomte the Chagny.  I saw the carriage leave his concierge in the morning as it brought him to his appointments to discuss the next location of his expeditions, and at night I watched as he returned quietly, often in good spirits until he would set out once again to find Christine.  I assumed he had enough funds under his brother's name to support himself for the next three or four years, but it relied completely on his capacity for journey whether or not he would survive alone.

            I watched him and as I could never let him go.

            His visits to Christine were, most of the time, cut short; she'd convinced him half-wittingly that his life was in jeopardy because her Angel of Music was "very strict".  

I found that part particularly amusing.

            Was I very strict?  I'd mentioned to her once that she must remain faithful to her voice lessons and always be prepared and on time for me.  I'd warned her that anything that came before her music would upset me greatly.  But I'd never raised my voice at her or exploited my temper when she was with me.  So why did she claim that I was "very strict"?

            Perhaps she didn't want to say, but I saw that she did not love the Vicomte de Chagny.  She had wanted him all for nothing from her nostalgia for an old, burgeoning flame.  A flame which had been slowly settling and flickering at a constant velocity…and she missed me.  I heard it in her voice every time she answered to my beckoning through that glass mirror like a potent insatiable longing.

            "Erik, where have you been?"

            She'd press her fingers to the glass and sink her cheek into her hands, begging me to pull her back in.  But she was already pulled back in.  The poor child, so unsure of what she truly wanted, had given me all the answers I needed, except for the physical one.  

            "How is the Vicomte de Chagny?"  I asked, without sarcasm for once and with a bit of genuine feeling.

            She blinked.  Once.  Sometimes she would cough uncomfortably into her fist as if she did not hear me, but she knew better than to lie like that.

            "Happy."  

            "Happy?"

            She nodded.

            "How happy?"

            She shrugged unenthusiastically.  "I answer that the same way one answers 'How do you do?'…I just assume Raoul's a happy man."

            "And I?"

            She shrugged again.

            "A mystery."

            I laughed.

            We would go on and on like this, our talks of legitimate nonsense that bemused and amused both of us.  And it gave me a glimpse of what it would be like if she and I had been married.  We would never tire of each other, frankly, because I could never find myself unaffected by her quirky individuality.

            She was my Christine.  And I sheltered her deeply under my wings, spoiled her, and loved her until she breathed of a constant craving.  

            And I watched as Raoul struggled to believe her love for him was everlasting—and I waited as he refused to fade from our lives.  He was quite dashing and noble, you see.  

That was my half-brother, the irreproachable hero.  

I suddenly realized how much I was beginning to like him…

**Just a quick note: The Marquis de Sade was a controversial French novelist and essayist: In his writings, Sade tried to show that criminal acts and sexual abnormalities are natural to human behavior. The word _sadism_ comes from his name. Sadism is the enjoyment of cruelty, especially—as in the case of Sade—for sexual arousal. The unconventional aspects of Sade's writings influenced writers of the surrealism movement of the early 1900's. His works are often used to illustrate certain theories of abnormal psychology."


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