Page 80 of Angel's Mask
Christine set her chin grimly and shook her head. “No, my angel, forgive me.” Without another thought, she tore the mask from his face.
Christine did not understand what she saw at first, as the mask fell with a dull thud on the floor. It wasn’t a face. It couldn’t be. It was a tangle of horror, inhuman and unthinkable. The nose was like a skull’s: a snubbed, ghastly hole. His eyes were sunken too, deep in a face covered in what might have been skin had it not been so pale and sickly, save for the white and red of terrible scars. She was looking at a corpse with living eyes. The face of death itself. She had been wrong, she thought, as she began to shake, sickened by the hideous sight. This was not a man: this was a monster.
The thing in front of her blinked, watching her in terror as she stared. Then slowly that terrible face distorted as fire kindled in his eyes. Christine spun away. She had to run.
“No!” Instantly, he pounced on her, grabbing her wrists again, but this time his grip was like iron. He turned her back to him and she shut her eyes. “Look at me!”
“No, please!” she yelped as he pulled her closer.
“Look at me!” The command was as cold as death, and she obeyed out of pure fear. “You wanted to see, didn’t you? Well look! Feast your eyes on my curse!” the monster roared and pushed his distorted visage inches from her. “Glut your goddamned soul!”
Christine heaved a dry sob as she struggled uselessly to get away. “Stop!”
“Do you like it? Or do you think it’s another mask you can tear away? Let’s try!” He grabbed her hands and forced her nails into the terrible, cold flesh, leaving livid gashes behind that made the sights all the worse.
“No!” she sobbed. “Please! Stop!”
“Why don’t you scream, my love?” he snarled and shook her roughly. “People pay good money to see monsters so they can shriek: it’sourpayment you see. It’s my recompense for the crime of this face. Shall I tell you how they locked me in a cage so they could scream? Or how they drove me into the dark? Shall I tell you how I took my revenge? Oh they screamed then!”
“You’re hurting me!” she wailed as he tightened his deadly grip on her wrists.
“Then scream, Christine! Show me you’re like them! Prove it! I can see it in your face. I canseeyour horror! Please, don’t try to be polite and hide it. Scream!” he roared, viciously shaking her. “Scream just like all of them! If you don’t, I will have to keep you forever, here in our tomb! Would you like that? No? Thenscream!”
The scream that tore out of her throat burned and cut, filling the room with the desiccated sound of her terror and complete despair. It went on and on, stealing the last breath from her lungs and blotting out the world. She screamed for him and for all the pain and rage and loss. She screamed and he let go of her at last, stumbling away out of her vision. In the silence, she fell to the floor like a corpse.
Christine lay still on the floor and waited.
She waited for his blows or threats to materialize. She waited for her tears to come, for a sob to move her. Shouldn’t she cry now, if she was doomed? She hurt; heart and body and soul. And she’d cried since she realized the truth. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t waste time crying when what she had to do for the next few minutes was survive. Right now, she chose to survive.
She looked up, her eyes clear at last.
The man called Erik was curled in the corner, weeping bitterly, and hiding his face beneath his arms. Christine felt a swell of terror as she looked at him, even without seeing his abhorrent face, but it abated as she watched him rock back and forth. Maybe it was because he seemed so small and scared there in the corner. Or perhaps it was the sound of his weeping that eased her horror...because it wasn’t just weeping. It was a song. An old folk tune with words in English.
“There were three ravens sitting on a tree...with a down, a down, hey down, hey down,” he sang to himself in a thin, childish voice. But it was still beautiful. So very beautiful and incredibly sad. “They were as black as black could be...” he sang in the voice that still sounded like heaven, deep in this hell.
This broken man was all that was left of her angel, of the world she had known until her eyes had opened that morning. And she had destroyed him, perhaps more surely and thoroughly than he had destroyed her. Or maybe he had been broken for a long time and she had simply shattered him again. How could he not be, to live with a face like that? To hide deep in the earth, alone? The pitiful thing she looked at now had to be the saddest sight she had ever seen.
Christine crawled toward him carefully, fighting back waves of fear as she retrieved his mask from where it had fallen on the floor. He flinched as he sensed her movements, the way a child braced for a new beating, cowering more fully into himself.
“Then one said unto his mate, where shall we our breakfast take...” he sang louder, as if it were a spell to protect him. Maybe it was because his voice reminded her of what he had been. And looking at this strange, monstrous creature hiding away in the dark, Christine’s rage and fear were gone, replaced by pity so deep it broke her heart.
“Here,” she said softly, holding up his mask, only for him to flinch again. “I’m sorry I took it.”
She did not know if he heard her, he only sang, reminding her with each pitiful note that once, she had loved that voice. “Down in yonder great green field, with a down, a down, hey down, hey down; there lies a knight slain neath his shield, with a down, hey down...”
“Erik,” she said the name softly and he stopped singing, his breath ragged. From the shelter of his arms, he looked at her at last, hiding his face behind his arms and long hair as much as he could, but not entirely. Christine braced herself for revulsion, but it didn’t come. The anger in his gold eyes had faded to pure misery. These were the eyes she had seen in the dark months ago and now she knew why there had been such sadness in the Opera Ghost’s gaze.
Her hands shaking, she took a deep breath and held the mask out to him. He watched her without moving and slowly she saw a change in his expression, if any expression could be discerned from the horrific tangle of his dead features. She could hardly bear to look at his face, but his eyes were different. In the ocean of despair and loneliness, there was a flicker of hope.
He reached for the mask, hand trembling, and took it from her. The moment he grasped it, he replaced it with incredible defensive speed. His body relaxed, just a bit, and his breath slowed.
“I’m sorry,” Christine breathed after a moment.
“As am I,” he replied softly. He sagged back against the wall, watching her. “Now you know...why.” He gestured towards his face as if it caused him great pain.
She nodded. It was harder not to be afraid when he was silent, but his eyes helped. She looked around the strange room rather than at him even so, feeling lost. Was there even a door?
“Can I go home?” she asked and knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say. His head tilted and his eyes filled with fresh despair.
