-1A/N: Obviously don't own the characters.
I'm pretty much a Leroux purist, so it slays me to modernize the story, but I just had to do it. This idea's been swimming in my brain lately. This is my first attempt at something that isn't completely original, so let me know what you think!
PS: If anyone is a good reader for aesthetics (rhythm, sound, images etc) please let me know. I have a pretty good sense of grammar, but I'd love to have an impartial ear on those other fronts.
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"So why are you here today?"
The psychiatrist is a fat and homely man, writing with a fat pen in a homely notebook. The office smells like cigars and rotting wood.
Christine kicks indecisively at the lime green carpet, avoiding his eyes. "I don't know."
"Come now." His voice is low and cigarette burned; it reminds her entirely too much of her dad's. "You know why you're here. We can't help you if you can't acknowledge a problem"
The sound of his shifting positions makes Christine uneasy. "I'm here because I was sent here, and I don't really think I have a problem. I don't really think I need to be here."
"Okay." He scribbles furiously in his little notebook. The room is small and ugly- everything ugly and small and claustrophobic- and decorated with clashing lime green carpet and burnt orange wallpaper. The psychiatrist's desk overflows with papers and drawings and filled up tattered notebooks. There are several crayon drawings on it, labeled with children's names and ages. Christine recognizes none of the names, but she knows the drawings: she could have done them herself at three or four or five. They are emotions, portraits of happy days with parents, anger at the school bully, the sadness of a pet dying or loneliness of time spent away from home. More frightening are distorted drawings of monsters and hallucinations and faces barely recognizable as human. Christine knows these drawings, too. "Well, then, let's try it this way. Why did your... why were you sent here?"
"I was sent here by the hospital." More furious scribbles from the fat psychiatrist. "I had a toothache and took some vicodan for it and then some Tylenol. I must have took too much because it made me really sick and you know how you can get..." She pauses for a minute and bites her lip, then continues, speaking more deliberately. "I was just worried, so I went to the hospital, and they kept me. For three frigging days."
The psychiatrist nods and then looks up from his notebook. "So, the hospital kept you for three days."
Christine still hasn't looked up at him. "Quit that active listening crap. Does anyone actually buy it?" She picks her nails and then her cuticles, pausing carefully to look out the window. She doesn't know if she's waiting for a response.
"It's not crap, Christine. I want you to know that I understand what you're saying." He leans in closer and tries to engage her with his eyes, tries to look fatherly and sympathetic.
"Whatever, I know you learn all about that in first year psychology. I took that course."
He writes in his notebook, a few looping words, then makes a small hmm sound. "Alright, at any rate, why did they keep you for three days? Did you hurt yourself that much?"
"No, nah, I mean, they tested my blood and I was fine. My levels weren't dangerous." The view out the window is spectacular; it's a two part bay window, facing the city diagonally. The whole sprawl is laid out, rising and falling with the belly of the land, and in the distance, past a sea of offices and houses is the high rise cluster of downtown. It's shrouded in a thick brown cloud, but the sky above the smog is a crisp winter blue.
"Well, then why?" The psychiatrist has set the notebook on his knee, and is leaning towards her, his elbow on his other knee and his chin in his palm.
"I don't know. They didn't believe the toothache story. And my potassium was way off, so they kept me in psychiatric and health observation for the 'required by law' seventy two hours. And then I got a referral here and my dad made me come so here I am." She finally meets his eyes and spreads her palms open, shrugging a bit.
He watches her for a moment, blank or captivated, then returns his pen to his notebook and falls silent while he takes notes. After a long pause, he looks back to her, but she has averted her eyes again. "The fact that you yourself called it a story indicates to me that it may not be entirely true, that you took some medication for a toothache. I am particularly worried about you taking controlled, prescription medication."
"You can't be worried about me, you don't even know me!" Christine bites her bottom lip, hard, and her eyes go big and black and unfocused. The claustrophobic little room, the psychiatrist, both gone.
He watches her then shakes his head. "I know you're a beautiful young woman with a lot of potential. I know that anyone in their right mind would only want the best for you." He smiles and waits, but she offers no response. "Is there anything else you'd like to talk about today?" Still, no response. He follows her gaze out the window, to a circling hawk, and they both watch it for a long, silent while. "Are you sad, Christine?"
She only shakes her head, and looks at her watch. "Our time is up."
He sighs and stands up while straightening his slacks. "So it is. Will you please send your father in? I'd like to talk to him, just for a second."
Christine stands, silently and gracefully, picking up her purse and coat. She exits the tiny room without another word, pushing through the oak door to the waiting room, her stick thin body weighed down by the heavy coat and oversized purse. Her father sits anxiously in one corner, crossing and uncrossing his legs, reading Sports Illustrated. He looks suddenly older, gaunt and pale, but he smiles hopefully when he sees her. "How did it go, honey?"
She only shrugs. "Okay, I don't know, ask him." The psychiatrist stands in the doorway, smiling. "He wants to talk to you, I'm going to go downstairs to the vending machines or something, I'll meet you down there." Her father nods and stands as Christine brushes by him. She turns, guilty, and smiles at both the men, but their backs are turned now as they enter the horrible little office.
Outside the door, she drops her purse and faces the office label to put on her white winter coat. "Dr. Millard Pediatric Psychiatry." She reads the sign out loud- a habit she's had since she can remember- as she struggles to put her arm in the left sleeve of her coat; suddenly, the coat is lifted for her, strange hands help her put it on. "Holy shit!" She turns quickly to find herself face to face with a tall, thin man in a ski mask. She almost stumbles into him. "I mean, sorry mister. Pardon my French." He looks a bit older, in his late thirties, and she doesn't want to offend a total stranger. She can see him smile under the heavy black ski mask.
"It's quite alright. I may have overstepped some boundaries myself." He smiles wider. His voice is quiet but deep and clean, melodic and untainted.
All Christine can see is the reflection of herself in his sunglasses, and she pauses staring at his covered face for a moment. "Well, thank you, it's fine, I have to go... outside... though now so thank you and adieu." She stoops to pick up her purse but the strange man remains standing there.
"Well, what a coincidence. I was going outside myself. Do you mind if I walk you there?" The strange man is wearing thin leather gloves and a heavy leather coat over a casual black designer suit, but the bulkiness of the clothes does nothing to disguise his lankiness.
"Sure, I guess. I was just going to go smoke a cigarette or something, I don't know, I mean, there's only one elevator." The ski mask is making her nervous. She loops her purse over her shoulder, but it slides right back down to her elbow.
"There is only one elevator."
"You're not going to murder me or something, right?" She chuckles a little to herself.
"Probably." He stands stone still and serious for a minute, then chuckles too. "The elevator is a little obvious for my tastes."
Christine widens her eyes then laughs again, way too high pitched and nervous. She turns away from him without a word and walks toward the elevator; she can hear him following. She didn't notice his shoes, but they sound like nice ones, especially once they move from carpet to the linoleum around the elevator hall. They're not clunky or plastic sounding like boots; instead, they click like women's heels.
She pushes the button and turns to him again. This time he's minding his personal space, standing a few feet away but smiling graciously at her- at least, as best she can tell, looking at the ski mask. She takes note of his shoes, which are leather with laces and polished to a dramatic high sheen.
The elevator dings and the doors open, and he nods to her to go ahead, then follows quickly behind. When they're both in, she reaches to push the button, but he does it first, bowing a bit in an old fashioned way. "Allow me." They both stand facing each other as the elevator drops the fourteen floors down to the ground level.
They both walk out the doors of the building to stand outside, Christine leading the way, the strange man following behind. He hardly makes a sound, other than his shoes; she rustles her coat when she walks. Outside it's a blue sky winter day, with a few wisps of clouds rising over the horizon. It is bitterly cold.
"Well, I leave you here. I have an appointment to keep." The stranger bows slightly and brings his fingertips up to his cheek. "There really is no reason to be so lonely, Christine. You're young and beautiful, you could have the world at your feet." His hands come together and intertwine, gracefully, lightly, almost as though his hands themselves suffered from a great sadness.
She is transfixed momentarily by the hands, which then wave her a small goodbye as he walks away. The stranger strides, catlike, to the edge of the building while Christine digs in her purse for a cigarette, then lights it. She stands breathing the smoke and cold air momentarily until suddenly, she turns to the corner of the building he disappeared around. "Hey, wait!" Her breath makes great billowing clouds as she yells. "How did you know my name?"