Erik staggered around his vandalized lair, his music tossed and ripped, beloved organ smashed, no knowledge of where his opera, Don Juan Triumphant was now. Possibly sold to another composer, or trashed as he was, forgotten. Now he had gone into a comatose state; breathing but barely alive, he had no care in the world, he was empty, gone. He walked around now in his lair in a living dead pace; shuffling through puddles, not minding that it soaked his once best shoes, in his long boned arms he held tightly to his chest, was Christine's wedding veil. The one he had specially made for only her, now the fabric laid limp in his arms, draped over his long-fingered hands, his swollen lips kissed the hem of it just like the night long past.
The night he had made his object of desire choose between staying trapped with him or to let her lover, the Vicomte, die at her refusal. It had not been an easy task to withhold, if he were see through her eyes and saw the outlook of who he had to sta