The next day, it happened again.
And again.
And again.
It was like something was missing... important.
As if some piece of the mosaic stubbornly did not want to a standstill.
Eric was tired.
He spent the next day in bed.
And the next.
On the third day, Eric stood up in the evening and gently put his black coat on his wrinkled shirt and snuck upstairs. He didn't choke Pianji, he just tied him up and left him behind the scenes. At the sight of the Ghost, like a clown, unshaven, with his hair bent, the orchestra was silent, only some trombone squealed for the last time. The audience also quieted down.
Christina looked at him with bewilderment.
Eric smiled.
- Christine, your love with the viscount is so beautiful that I'm ready to admit my defeat. Hear that, de Chania? - Eric looked up where the Commander's statue was frozen in the Vicomte. - I'm giving it to you. Of course, you'll get married... if your relatives let you. Oh, I'll be nice to you: let's say the wedding is nice and modest. Christina has a lot of kids, and her figure will be blurry from the birth, and you'll get bored listening to a report about diapers and snot every day, and you'll remember the old romantic acquaintances. Of course, Christina will know about them, but for the sake of her children and herself, she will be silent. The children will grow up, and then you will realize that you have nothing more to talk about, and the sweetheart of nonsense about chocolate bars and fairy tales are already boring and extinct for years. - Eric turned to Cristina, looking at him with her widened eyes, at the very bottom of which tears were boiling: "Have I upset you, little Lottie? Then keep dreaming, sometimes it's really a way out.
With these words, Eric stepped aside and disappeared into a hatch disguised as a flame. He didn't stay beneath the stage, jumped right onto the tier, and from there, from below, listened to the growing noise: it seemed the audience had finally come to its senses. Sadly shrieking, Eric set course for the familiar wine cellar.
On the fourth day, he carefully prepared, as he did for the very first time: he chose a shirt for a long time, he hesitating between the dazzling white, milk and ivory, tucked the elk in the boots so that there was no wrinkle, with particular care wrapped around the belt of the couch, spread all the folds, checked how the wig sits and do not stick out of the costume of thread.
He threatened to use his gun without wasting time tying it up.
He sang the part of Don Giovanni as if the Lord God was personally present at the premiere. No, in the beginning, Eric probably tried as hard as he could, but at that moment he wanted Christine to feel the power of his love, to charm her, so that she could forget about Raoul, who was carried away by the power of Eric's voice, even for a short moment.
And now Eric wanted to be remembered.
After finishing the aria, he let Christine out of his hands and instead of confessing so recklessly throwing it at her feet, he said quietly:
- There's no other way out. Remember that one day we had a wonderful day.
Cristina was surprised to find herself frowning. And Eric looked at her, trying to pick up a lovely image, to imprint it on her memory so he could only see her. He was looking at her lips and hesitating for a second to see if he could get the last kiss out of them... but he didn't dare.
- Goodbye, Christine! - He shouted, took a wide step back, pulled the sword out of the sheath - and cut it down the only rope that only held the chandelier after Eric had cast a spell on the fasteners and chains.
The crackling on the ceiling distracted the audience. People were noisy, screaming and panicking. The chandelier descended with some majestic slowness, accompanied by pieces of flying off a plaster, and then began to accelerate, faster and faster...
Eric swung over the bridge railing and landed on stage. Without taking his eyes off the approaching chandelier, he walked forward and jumped into the orchestra pit from which the musicians were scattering in all directions.
At the last moment, however, Eric couldn't stand it and closed his eyes...
...to open them in my bed in the dungeon.
- Nah," he said, "and he was covered in a blanket with his head.
Eric was stubborn.
He chose a dangerous razor for the second time.
The bathtub was hot, and the cuts on his hands seemed very small and fearless. My body was filled with weakness, my heart was drunk, my head was spinning...
Eric didn't remember losing consciousness.
Waking up was scarier than a nightmare. Even after death, he was returning to the beginning.
Then there was poison.
Then a bullet to the head.
Then he jumped off the roof of the theater.
Desperate, Eric even somehow pulled up the crew, which ruled the Viscount, taking Christine out of the opera after the premiere, and rushed under the wheels. Grabbing the air with his mouth and shuddering with a sharp pain as broken ribs were absorbed into his lungs, he vaguely saw the familiar silhouette as he heard his native voice through the mist:
- Raoul, it was him! Oh, my God! Rual, do something!
And a confusing answer:
- Christine... I'm afraid there's nothing more to help him.
And nothing could really help Eric. Death itself couldn't rip him out of the circle. The trap had no way out.
to be continued ...