Approaching the old opera house is much more difficult than the young soprano, Christine Daàe, had imagined. Not because of the fallen debris, or the scorched marble staircase she has to climb to reach the top. Nor is it the bittersweet memories that fill her mind when she manages to open the large, wooden door that leads inside. No, what is difficult is the task she has set for herself, the entire reason she is here: her angel of music.
Christine wraps her arms around herself with uncertainty as she attempts in vain to find her old dressing room. The opera house is a wreck, fallen debris and burnt remains scattered across the floor. The reminder of what he did is almost too much, almost enough to make her turn back and leave. I came here for a reason, and I intend to fulfill my purpose. After hearing that the Phantom was never found and assumed dead, Christine could not, in her right mind, get married to the man who caused his demise. She admits she even shed tears for the man who once inspired her voice, and as much as she didn't want to admit it, she did care for him. And then there she was, about to wed the very same man she had gone to and betrayed her angel.
It wasn't like Raoul meant to...she attempts to reason, but then she pauses. Actually, she thinks, his plan was to kill him all along. Shaking the thought out of her head, she moves a burned side table out of the doorway which had been blocking the very room she had come to after her first performance. That night feels so long ago. Fighting back tears, she steps into the debris filled room and looks around.
There are scorched paintings, flowers that have been long dead, and furniture that looked it might break if you so much as breathed on it. Yet, in the center of the room, still stood the mirror, seemingly untouched and unfazed by the dark reminders around it. That same mirror from which he had come to Christine, and she had followed him through. For a moment, it seems almost as if nothing has changed. She is still that young girl, waiting for her mysterious angel who calls out to her. Yet, it is not the same; for no sound emits from behind the mirror. The thought sends unwelcome chills down Christine's spine and she swallows a sob as she slowly approaches the mirror, pulling it open.
Behind it, Christine half expects to find those lit candelabras lining the walls with that mysterious glow which stills haunts her dreams. But the hallway is as dark as death, the only light is that of which is behind her. I should have brought a torch! She scolds herself, opening the mirror widely to let as much light in as she can.
The hallway is still dim and gravely, and Christine turns around, desperately searching for a matchbox. Her fingers fumble as she opens a blackened drawer where she once kept the flame sticks. Inside are burned letters, discarded articles of clothing and jewelry, a candle holder, and the box! Christine almost leaps with joy when she discovers the small device which could quite possibly save her from her suffering of darkness. Opening it quickly, she lights a match and goes out into the dark hall once again, wedging the box of matches into her corset. Better safe than sorry. Christine lights one of the candles and takes it out of the wall, setting it in the candle holder she found along with the matchbox before she begins to make her way, down once more through the dark passageway she once walked.
Darkness is not something Christine is very accustomed to, so as she walks down the dim, candlelit path, she feels herself start to panic. She turns behind, glancing longingly at the light of the dressing room she came from, and takes a dream breath. I must do this. I must see if he is alive or not. The thought of her angel-no, the phantom, being dead surprisingly tugs at her heart and makes her feel very, extremely sad.
It is as though Christine is on auto pilot as she navigates through the tunnles, twisting and turning every which way until eventually she finds herself at the lake. The boat, she gasps, it is still here. "Ah!" She suddenly seethes in pain and drops the candle stick quickly as hot wax drips down her tender hand. The candle extinguishes immediately as it hits the cold floor, leaving her in utter darkness. Suddenly Christine feels like crying, she feels like a little girl lost in the darkness with no light to guide her. Silent tears stream down her face, and she falls down, groping at the space in the ground to find the candle. Relieved, she wraps her hand around something that feels like the candle, only to discover it is definitely not solid wax she is holding: it is a bone.
Christine screams out, throwing the bone into the lake with frightened tears running down her cheeks. "W-why?" She curls up on the cold ground, pulling her knees to her face as she sobs. "Am I to die here?" Christine's voice is shaken and scared as she speaks to no one but herself, and perhaps God. "Am I to die here? In my pursuit of redemption?" She buries her face in her hands and backs up against the cold wall.
"No," she pulls her hands away from her face, "no, this is not my fate, it cannot be." Christine takes a shaken breath, and reaches for the box of matches carefully wedged in her corset. She wraps her cold and frightened fingers around the box and slides it open with delacateness that she did not know she had. Lighting a match, she holds it out in front of her in attempt to find the candle once more. This time Christine does manage to find it, and grasps it quickly before the match burns out in her fingers.
Before her, she discovers the candle holder, which she places the candle in gratefully, and the rest of the skeletal body from which she had so innocently plucked a piece from just to throw into the murky lake. It looks like a soldier, though with its withered skin and sunken eyes, it is extremely hard to tell. If someone had told told Christine she would be doing this a mere week ago, she'd have called them mad. But here she is, in front of a ghostly corpse in a the catacombs, holding only a candle to light the way to someone who, may or not, be dead himself. "I apologize," she whispers to the corpse before her, although she knows he has been long dead and rotting for nearly six months.
Six months. Six months since she has last seen him. Six months since she has left him. Six months since she has spent every moment with a maddening Raoul who drowns his anger and aggravation in alcohol.
With new found determination, Christine climbs aboard the boat and sets the candle down gently so she can grasp the pole with both hands. I can do this...I can do this...she rows carefully in the darkness, and begins humming to calm her growing nerves.
Christine arrives at the open gate of his lair with a sudden loss for words. It looks so dark, so deserted. No, he must be here. She docks with a sudden sense of nostalgia and uneasiness and grabs the candle from the boat carefully. She walks slowly up the stairs and grabs a candelabra from his desk, lighting it with her candle before setting the almost completely melted stick of wax down. Turning, she takes in the sight around her, a growing uneasiness settled in her stomach.
"Angel?" Her voice is soft and gentle, and it is very clear that she is on the brink of tears. I came all the way down here...He must be alive! She begins to panic, her breathing becoming rapidly faster as she thinks about how he might be dead for real.
Shakily, the young soprano approaches his organ. Her face is distorted in worry as she trails a finger down the dusty instrument before her. Christine stares down at his organ which once held so much life, now covered in cobwebs and dust. "No..." she starts to shake, and sets the lit candelabra on the side table; her hand at her mouth in horror. He wouldn't just abandon his music. "No!" She shouts, loud sobs escaping her mouth as she falls to the floor. He's gone...he's dead. "Angel..." she curls up in herself and sobs so hard that it is becoming increasingly difficult to breathe.
"Christine?"