Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine

by Theodora Bruns

  I wondered how long it had been since we returned from Perros, and I wondered if Raoul was successful in his attempts to convince her that I was a disturbed man and not her beautiful Angel of Music. The vision of her standing on her tiptoes and placing that sweet kiss on his waiting lips swam repeatedly through my thoughts. I rolled over on the damp ground, and my senses picked up the smell of the gunpowder surrounding me, again, only adding to the realization of what a demon I was.

  I managed to get to my feet, while the barrels of gunpowder and the rows and rows of wine bottles spun around me. I filled my arms with as many bottles as I could hold and headed back up the stairs. Surprisingly, I still had two of them in my hands when I reached the top, while the rest lay broken in the dirt where I’d been lying.

  I sat on the sofa and placed the nice, new, full bottles of my comfort on the table beside the empty ones that had numbed me for I didn’t know how long. Opening one, I started drinking again. Then I sat there, blinking and trying to focus on the tall clock in the corner. I failed, so my fingers started a clumsy search for my watch, but, once I found it and held it to my ear, it was silent.

  “I killed it,” I mumbled.

  All my timepieces had stopped, and I wondered how many more bottles it would take before time would stop for me. Time? What time was it? I needed to know what time it was, although I didn’t know why. I lay down on the divan, and, along with the room swirling around my head, I heard Christine calling for her angel. I needed to know what time it was. I needed to know what day it was.

  I staggered to my feet, grabbed my cloak, and headed for my boat, while my hopes that enough liquor would stop my thoughts vanished. I started pushing the pole and moving through the water while looking at the empty seat. Then I envisioned Christine’s beautiful form sitting there, as I’d planned. I could hear her angelic voice speak to me, but I was sober enough to know it was only a vision, a painful vision.

  The darkness of the lake closed in around me with a deafening quiet, much too quiet. I tried to put Christine’s voice back in my head to fill the void, but it was gone, just as she was. Silence. Only silence and solitude surrounded me. I raised my head and screamed as loud and as long as I could toward the cold stone columns and arches surrounding me. I stumbled and fell to the bottom of my boat, crying into my hands.

  I eventually made it back to my feet, disorientated, with the same looming columns and swirling gray mist everywhere I looked. I gazed around, not knowing which way to go. As I turned and turned, the lake began to spin around me, and I staggered again, falling into the water.

  The weight of my cloak pulled me down and down, and I lost track of which way was up. I had no strength, and my head started pounding. Then I saw the faint light coming from my boat’s lantern, but I couldn’t fight against the weight holding me captive. Why was I trying to save my life when I really wanted to die and let it all be over? Just take a deep breath and it will all be over, I remember thinking. Why was I fighting? Why?

  Somewhere in the middle of my physical and mental struggles, I had the presence of mind to release my cloak’s clasp. Once done, I was free from my anchor, but I still couldn’t make any progress to the top. My lungs were beginning to burn when I removed my shoes. Then I saw the lantern’s light slowly getting closer.

  I could see the bottom of the boat above me, and I pushed off my lungs’ desperate desire to expand. Why I didn’t give into them and let them have their way, I don’t know. Why did I struggle for my life? Why, when I wanted to die? I couldn’t answer those questions then, and, to this day, I still can’t. None of it made any sense.

  I reached for the light from my boat just as my lungs took over and I gasped for air only to receive water into them, lots of it. I came up out of the water and gasped and coughed over and over, trying to stay afloat. I sank again, and again I struggled to reach the light. Once more I came out of the water, and again coughed and choked. Finally, my fingers grasped the edge of my boat.

  With hardly any strength left in me, I used my boat to stay afloat until I could make it to the wharf. Somehow I made it, and, after I climbed up, I lay in a pile of wet clothes with my lungs burning. I must have lost consciousness, because I woke shivering uncontrollably. I staggered to my feet, trying to maintain my balance, but I wasn’t sober enough for that feat. So, as I reached for a pillar, I fell, one more time, into the lake.

  I grabbed the pillar and eventually made it to dry land, completely disorientated. I sat on the wharf until I had my bearing and again began my quest to find out what day it was. I somehow managed to make my way to the street through the back entrance and metal gate. It was a wonder I made it that far, considering I wasn’t sober enough to know I was without that one piece of clothing that I was never without—my mask.

  Once on the street, lit by street lamps, I leaned back against the side of the building, searching for the right direction to go where I could find a newspaper and the date. I started to cross the street, but I was nearly run over by a carriage, which sent me to the melted snow and slush in the gutter. As my left side slammed into the brick road, I felt the pain in my thigh and hip for the first time. I raised my head out of the freezing slush, trying to focus, when I caught sight of Christine being helped out of a carriage and into the side entrance of the opera house.

  “Christine,” I whispered. “Christine.”

  I got on my hands and knees and looked again at the entrance where she’d disappeared, but then, there she was once more, getting out of another carriage and again entering the opera house with yet another man at her arm. As my confusion continued to get in the way of my thoughts, I could feel my anger start to build.

  I stood up and leaned in the recess of a doorway, shivering and trying to breathe and gain mastery over my thinking. Then, in the distance, I heard a woman’s happy voice call my name, and I jumped. I tried to think, but my mind was being slowed down by the contents of many bottles.

  Who knows my name? Certainly no woman in Paris. Again, it called, Erik, and again I jumped. I peeked around the corner just in time to see a blonde woman standing under a street lamp with outstretched arms. Celeste, I wondered, as I wiped my blurry eyes. Celeste? I felt a frown form on my brow when a tall man filled her waiting arms and they embraced.

  He was clad in evening attire, with top hat included, and had just stepped out of the side door of the opera house. I wiped my eyes again and strained to see them as they stepped up into a waiting carriage. I slipped back into the darkness and watched as they passed by me, with their gay voices filling the night air around their carriage. It wasn’t Celeste. It was another woman, calling her lover who just happened to have my name. Her lover who had my name but not my face and, I’m sure, not my past and not my heart.

  I leaned my head back against the door and closed my eyes, thinking. Her lover had nothing more than me, except for a pretty face, a pretty face that wouldn’t stay pretty forever. Raoul had a pretty face, but it wouldn’t always be that way. Why? Of what use is a pretty face? It doesn’t serve any useful purpose except something to look at. Why? Why do women always have to go for the pretty faces? I was sure I had everything else just like him to make a woman happy. Christine, why do you want a pretty face? I have everything else.

  I watched as yet another happy couple walked by me. Why? I continued to question. I have all the same parts. Why? Another couple approached, and I stepped out in front of them.

  “Why?” I asked.

  As the woman shrieked and covered her open mouth with her gloved hand, the man spread his arms out from his sides and moved the lady behind him.

  “Why?” I asked, as I also spread my arms out from my sides. “Why not me? I have all the necessary parts to make you happy.” I looked beyond him and toward the lady. “I have hands and fingers to caress your flesh and make you tremble.”

  I stepped forward and the man spread his open hand against my chest, his voice saying something. I didn’t even acknowledge his presence and continued to pus
h forward.

  “I have arms to embrace you and make you feel warm and safe. I have legs to walk beside you and carry you over the threshold. I have a mind to compose for you great masterpieces and simple love songs. I have lips to speak sweet nothings in your ears and to kiss you tenderly.” I turned in a clumsy circle. “Look! I have all the rest of the necessary parts to make you blissful and to give you children.”

  With that last comment, I felt his fist land against my jaw and lips, sending me to the ground. My world was spinning as they walked away, and then the unmistakable taste of blood filled my mouth. I was shivering badly, and my painful cheek pressed against the cold walkway, while other couples passed by me as if I didn’t exist.

  I tried to lift myself up, needing several attempts to achieve an otherwise simple task. I managed to reach a lamppost, and then made my way back to the dark doorway. I looked in the direction that the couple had gone in and still questioned why. What is a pretty face? It serves no useful purpose.

  Completely forgetting the reason why I was on the street in the first place, I looked in the other direction toward the side entrance to the opera house. Then there she was again, Christine, in her beautiful blue gown and jewels. I took a deep breath, thinking, she must be performing tonight and I won’t be there. I must get there. She needs me. But then I felt I couldn’t be there and I didn’t know why. My confusion was tearing me up, and I buried my face in my hands.

  It was only then that I realized I was without my mask. I had a full beard, but no mask. I gasped at my own horror, and, with my hands covering my face, I turned into the corner of the door, crouching in its protection like a deranged patient in a mental ward.

  I felt miserable, cold, and frightened. I could smell myself, and I smelled repugnant. I hadn’t bathed in I didn’t know how long, perhaps a week or more, and I was drunk. I could then add to my list of accomplishments: a drunk, a sloppy, disgusting drunk.

  “Christine,” I whispered. “What have I done?”

  Her perfect face kept swimming around me. I raised my head to the stars in the ebony sky and begged, “Oh, dear God, if you’re there, just strike me down and be done with it. If there’s any mercy in you at all, you’ll end this nightmare right here and now.”

  I sank the rest of the way down to the step and lowered my head to my knees. I was soaking wet, cold, and shivering. The automatic reaction of years gone by was to reach for my cloak to pull it closer to me. But, since I’d forgotten that it then lay at the bottom of the lake, my attempt for any warmth was unsuccessful.

  I heard another happy couple walk past me, without even noticing the dejected man hunched in pain in the doorway. I tried to get to my feet, and then I hung onto the wall as I made my way back to my home through the gate. The gate and trees beyond it swayed and blurred together, and I was so cold.

  I stayed, leaning against the gate, with my own words circling around my head. “Why does it have to be pretty?” I spread my outstretched fingers over my face. “Why does it have to be pretty?” I stumbled down the walk, seeking refuge in my shrouded castle, until I finally landed in the bushes where I stayed. “Why does it have to be pretty?” My last thoughts were about the pain in my head and my entire left side.

  The morning sun and voices woke me, and I opened my eyes to find several people staring through the wrought iron gate toward me. When I rose up and looked at them, they backed away and gasped. I instinctively reached for the mask on my face, forgetting I was without it. I might as well have been naked.

  I heard someone say, “Should we get the police?”

  Those words gave me the incentive to get to my feet and limp toward the back entrance, falling several times in the process. I at last reached the wharf and lowered myself into my boat. Then, as quickly as I could under the circumstances, I headed back toward my prison alone. I felt dejected, in pain and sorrow, and in a much worse condition than I had been upon returning from Perros.

  I turned up the light and collapsed on the divan, still shivering, and I stayed there in my damp clothes for I don’t know how long. I still didn’t know what time or what day it was, but I did know something for sure; I was sick and it wasn’t just emotional.

  I felt that familiar burn in my chest, and I knew my lungs were sick. My first thought was to head for my medicine, but then the second thought was to let the illness take its course until I took my last breath. I vacillated between the two until I became angry at myself for my lack of fortitude. I couldn’t even make a simple decision between life and death. I rebuked myself, calling myself a coward. Either do something to end your miserable existence or change it, I told myself after throwing a few of my prized possessions across the room. Fortunately, when I slammed my fists against the ebony boxes on my mantel, they held fast, so, at least, I didn’t bring down the opera house that day.

  I headed for the bath and my medicine. After taking the proper dose, I stripped my wet and stinking clothes off. In so doing, I realized the odor I’d smelled wasn’t coming from my dirty and wet clothes; it was coming from the wound in my leg. I sat on the edge of the tub, staring at my leg in disbelief. I actually had to cover what would have been my nose in an effort to filter out the stench. It was horrible. It smelled like death.

  It was the same smell that emanated from a carcass lying in the woods. My leg was rotting off right before my eyes. The entire area where it had broken open in Perros was black and seeping reddish-yellow fluid. I might not have been thinking clearly as of late, but with that sight I knew I was in serious trouble.

  I went back to the parlor and managed to find a bottle that had a small amount of brandy still in it. Back in my bath, I poured it over the area, and then, surprisingly, it didn’t hurt. Obviously it wouldn’t hurt, I finally realized, because I’d killed it. I was managing to kill myself one bit at a time. I felt as if my back was against a wall and all I needed was a blindfold before being shot. Either from my own neglect and hands, or by my lungs or my leg, I was definitely facing death.

  Eighteen

  It took me looking death right in the face before I knew I didn’t want to die, not yet. There were still things I wanted to do with my life, and, as long as I could keep myself from degenerating into self-pity and its accompanying depression, I could still accomplish anything I wanted.

  Knowing what I needed to do, I shaved, sank into a warm bath, dressed my wound, got dressed, including a mask, and then I was back in my boat crossing the lake. I caught the first brougham I found and gave the driver the doctor’s address. I was finally in control of my senses, so at least I was stable emotionally, but, physically, I was probably at one of my worst times.

  I was feverish and nauseated, my head was throbbing, and I was in pain from both my lungs and my entire leg, as well as my right shoulder. I’d never been in so much pain, not when I’d been beaten, not with my worst lung infection in Persia, and not when I was stabbed. My leg literally felt as if it was in a fire and to move it even a little was excruciating. Even when it wasn’t bearing weight, the pain was incredible. I honestly didn’t know how I’d gotten to the brougham.

  On the ride there, I thought about what I’d put myself through, and I really wished there was some way I could stop myself from being so self-destructive. I didn’t know why I did it, and it made me quite angry, especially since I knew I was going to pay dearly for my last bout.

  By the time we stopped and the driver opened my door, I knew I had as much right to be on this earth as the next man. I’d relived the encounters with Raoul and Christine in Perros, and I had just as much right to fight for her as he did. I couldn’t change the past, but I’d been trying to live a relatively sane life, and, more importantly, I could have full control over my future, now that I wanted one.

  I rationalized that, since Raoul believed me to be a real man of flesh and blood, so would Christine in time. I had to find a way to win her over before Raoul ruined everything. I had to let her see that I was a man. I realized then, more than ever, that I coul
dn’t win her over the slow way or from behind the mirror. I didn’t have enough time with Raoul in the way.

  The temptation to get him out of my way permanently was a big one, but, if I wanted Christine to love me, I couldn’t expect her to love a murderer, especially the murderer of someone she cared about. In addition, I couldn’t live with myself if I became that person again. I had to find a way for her to see the person I was inside. Celeste thought me to be dashing; perhaps Christine would also if she could see me without fear.

  While contemplating how to win Christine over, I remembered my father’s words; Give them a chance to see who you are, and they will love you. Give them a chance.

  Somehow, I found myself sitting in the doctor’s office, waiting while he finished with another patient. I was kept waiting so long that under different circumstances I would have left. But there was no strength left in me, and, for one of the few times in my life, I was truly concerned for my life.

  When the doctor entered the waiting room with a young woman and her daughter, he looked at them with such compassion that it calmed my agitated spirit for his keeping me waiting so long. It was that quality in him that I eventually appreciated, the quality of caring, not about the strict rules of his over protective nurse and secretary, but for his patients. They came first to him, and, at that moment, that quality was what I was counting on.

  He looked at me first with a frown, and then one eyebrow went up when he spoke harshly to me. “You promised, Erik. Your one day has turned into ten. Is this how you keep all your promises?”

  I took his remark without commenting. At least it told me what day it was and how long I’d left Christine alone with Raoul. I tried to get to my feet, grimacing and faltering as I applied weight on my leg. His angry frown instantly turned into concern, and he quickly helped me support my weight, while barking orders at his nurse. He helped me into a room where I was told to lie down, and then he started his examination of what was left of me.