I laid in the bed for hours wondering when Erik would come back and why he stormed off so abruptly. I was still trying to piece together everything that had happened within the past twenty-four hours. I went from being a successful stage manager in the twenty-first century to a homeless woman in the nineteenth century. It was all bizarre and my head ached the more I tried to think. Erik was right about the head injury. I was pretty confident that I had a concussion from that fall. Knowing the medical field wasn't all that great in the 1800s, I hoped that my head injury wasn't too bad.
I began to think about Erik too. The real Erik... This man in the lair was real. He wasn't a fictional character. I didn't know him or what he could be capable of, but he was all I had. In some twisted way, I felt like I already knew him. I cared for him too. I knew all of the stories based upon his life, but I needed to crack the shell that was the real Erik. I wanted to know what happened to the Opera Ghost after Christine, and in some strange way, I wanted to be apart of it. I prayed that his real life would have a better outcome than Weber's interpretation of the Phantom's life after Christine with Love Never Dies.
"Erik?" I called out. I sounded weak.
In a few moments, he was standing outside of the curtain that surrounded the bed I was in, "Yes, Mademoiselle?"
"Please come in, and stop with the 'Mademoiselle,'" I said exaggerating Mademoiselle, "I told you my name is Caroline."
He stepped in front of the curtains, "My apologies. Can I get you something?"
"No, I'm just lonely in here by myself," that was a bold-faced white lie. I was always by myself in my real life, and I had grown accustomed to it.
He stood towering over me, "I can retrieve you a book if that would please you?"
"I probably shouldn't read with my head injury... I thought maybe we could just talk."
"Mademoiselle," I shot him a look and he cleared his throat uncomfortable, "Pardon, Caroline, I am not a very skilled conversationalist."
"That's alright. I am," I smiled and patted the edge of the bed next to me.
He was very hesitant, and then he snapped, "Why haven't you asked about it? Did you want to expose me later?"
"What?" I feigned confusion.
"Do not act stupid," he spat.
"Oh, the mask? Well, I figured you didn't want to talk about it. People don't wear masks unless they're covering something or if they're at a masquerade party. I don't know about you, but I don't see a party anywhere..." I looked at his surprised look on his face, "I figured it was something you didn't want to talk about," I said quietly.
"You mean... you mean," he stuttered, "You mean you weren't going to rip it off?"
"That would be kind of rude, wouldn't it? I mean, I am in your home, eating your food, and throwing up on your shoes, aren't I?"
He sat down on the edge of the bed. He looked like he was going to fall over from shock.
"Are you alright?" I asked quietly. I felt fear rising in my chest. I had to remember that this wasn't a movie. This was real life... who knew what the actual Phantom was like.
He nodded slowly, "Thank you," he said quietly.
"For what?" I responded.
"Not asking about the mask or taking it off... Most people-" he cut himself again, "Never mind."
"No, please. Finish your thought."
He shook his head, "I was going to say that most people want to know about the mask before anything else... Or they tear it off of your face only to ridicule you."
"I shan't do that," Who the hell am I saying shan't...Wow, I was really getting into this 1800s thing, "I was raised with better manners than that."