* — means I've revised/rewritten/polished a chapter

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I thought I could save him.

I thought that if gave him small affections, kind words, anything that wouldn't make me shy away in disgust, that he would change. That he would be all better and the world would be just as perfect as it had seemed when I was a little girl, with just Papa, me, and his violin.

But that's not how it happened. Oh, not at all! Nothing could have been further from the truth. Instead, over my fifteen days of captivity, my genuine kindness and gentleness for him turned into one enormous lie for my freedom. I pretended that I loved him! As a friend, as a student, that I loved him and enjoyed his company, even when we weren't playing music.

He had only become more deranged from this, more desperate, due to my 'love.' And my love most of the time was that of a cold mother! He would cling to my skirts, at my feet, while I read my books, trying desperately to escape through their black dotted paper. And he would glance up at me, begging with his horrible eyes, like two great abysses, for a simple touch, nothing more than a gentle, momentary clasping of his hand... And when I could bring myself to do that and not cringe from the sensation of touching death, just the touch of my hand would bring him to tears!

It frightened me how suddenly he could dissolve into a wreck, pulling on my skirts so hard I feared he would tear them. He declared his love passionately, but was never untoward, thankfully. I was the sun to him, in a way, as his entire world now revolved around me. Did I seem happy? Was I tired? Was I hungry? I was an angel to him, and at other times simply an amusing child that he spoiled with sweets and pretty things.

But I despised it. I despised and feared all of it, but most of all I feared his swift and sudden changes. For a reason that was no reason at all, after I asked him something simple like the time or even how he was doing, he would sometimes fly off on a tangent, into tears or laughter or vehement anger. This last one was never truly directed at me, but he shouted until I fled with tears in my eyes and waited for him to come apologize, weeping.

He was always weeping, always pleading, always begging on his knees, just for my love! And sometimes just my tolerance... tolerance that no one had ever given him.

Poor Erik...

But at last I was being freed from this world of pain and horror. He was letting me go that very morning!

I put on one of the dresses he had bought for me, his favorite, which was lilac and embroidered with the outline of the very same flowers as the color. This was to please him in case he had a change of heart, which was more than likely. I had also bathed and pinned up my hair with the silver combs and pins he had purchased. Everything I did that morning was to prepare myself, and I knew I was willing to do a good many things to be free of that tomb he called a house. I felt like I would die if I spent but another minute there!

As I exited my room, my heart began to race, as I was fearful he would not release me after all. How many times before had he changed his mind on a whim? When else had he let me out, save for the boat ride and the brougham through the Bois?

"Christine," he said happily as I came into the drawing room. "You look so lovely, so beautiful, my dear."

"Thank you," I replied, giving a pathetic attempt at a smile.

"I made a nice breakfast for us for before you leave, as a little farewell, although you will visit often, but still... Come sit, come sit! I've already set it all out..."

I went into the dining room with him, wishing he would stop acting like he had prepared meals "for us" when he never ate with me. He simply watched, which had caused me to lose some weight during my captivity. It was difficult to enjoy food when a corpse was staring me down from across the table.

I tried not to eat too quickly, but there was no trouble with that. My stomach was too nervous to take in anything but a few morsels. To excuse this, I told Erik I was just excited and couldn't eat much, so took away my plate, frowning.

Oh, why had I said that? That I was excited to get be free of this place? What if now he changed his mind?!

"Will you miss me?" He asked as he came back through the hidden door that led to the kitchen.

"Miss you?" I replied, pretending like the idea of not missing him was ludicrous, "Of course I will! That is why I will come see you every week."

He fidgeted with his bony fingers for a moment, nervous about something. He then paced a moment around the table before stumbling out, "Do you love me, Christine?"

"Erik, I..." How could I tell such a disgusting lie? It was too cruel, I couldn't, I wouldn't! "I am very fond of you. So very fond of you. I love you, but not the same as you love me. But yes, of course I love you. But it's not the same, you understand?"

He was crying. Oh, not again!

"Erik, don't-"

But it was too late. He fell to my feet, kissing the hem of my dress and sobbing.

"Oh Christine, no one has ever l-loved Erik!" He said pitifully, his voice filled with tears. "Not even as a friend! His own m-mother- but never has someone looked upon him w-without fear! How kind and wonderful you a-are, like an angel, yes, a-an angel, and you sing for your poor Erik, and you s-smile at him, he's n-never had someone smile at him kindly... l-like you do..."

I had learned how to keep my eyes dry during these sudden, pitiable bursts of emotion, but still, they stung horribly.

"Erik, dear-"

He sobbed now, simply sobbed, then suddenly he ceased, looking up at me with tears in his eyes. Just as his mouth opened to say something, he bowed his head again, as if ashamed.

"Will you promise Erik," he said softly, tentatively, running his fingertips along the hem of my dress. "Will you promise him that you will... one day... m-marry him?"

My heart stopped for a moment, then beat frantically. I felt myself spinning, all the house turning around me, and just as I shut my eyes to make it all stop, it ceased.

"I will not," I told him, nearly in tears. "Erik, you know I do not wish to marry. I have no desire for marriage; I have told you this time and time again. I will be your dearest friend, if you will, but I'm not ready to marry. You love me, you tell me this, so you would not want to make me unhappy, now, would you?"

"Never, my dear, never, but... oh, my dear Christine, Erik loves you too much to let you go back without being sure of your return! So, please do not be upset with your poor Erik, for he loves you more than anything, but he requests that you wear this ring... h-his ring."

He took out a little gold band from the pocket of his jacket. I stiffened in seeing it, as if he was presenting me with a ball and chain, which, in a way, he was.

"It's pretty enough for your hand, isn't it?" He asked.

For my freedom, even just my illusion of freedom, I nodded and extended my trembling left hand to him. He slid the cold ring, which was slightly too large, onto my finger, and the fragile weight of it was unbearable.

I expected him to fall to his knees, overwhelmed by my willingness to fall into his hideous lie. He was deceiving me into becoming, for all intensive purposes, engaged to him. The thought sickened me. But still, I expected him to be overwhelmed with euphoria, and instead he grabbed my hand roughly and held it in front of my face by the wrist. I stared into the black pits where he eyes lay, terrified by the strength of his grip and the sudden change in his demeanor.

"You will wear this always," he commanded. "Or else Erik shall have his revenge!"

I nodded, and he released my wrist, which I rubbed to rid the feeling of his cold and bony grasp. He seemed to not realize he had hurt me, and I would have confronted him about it, were I not so close to being freed, so very, very close!

"Come with me," he said decidedly. "And I shall return you to where you belong."