A/N- I know, I know, the Words of Love series ended ages ago, but I wrote this fic on a request from H. Sibelius. Were it in the original story, it wouldbelong after the next to the last chapter of In Your Embrace at Last, before the little epilogue. And, in case you're wondering what happens at the end, I'm pretty sure you can be reassured if you reread the epilogue of Embrace.
Disclaimer- I don't own Les Mis, Phantom, or Jane Eyre. I actually own all these characters though. That's exciting. And I must say that this fic was begun in a really boring math class last year and finished under the influence of sleep deprivation halfway through the summer. So that explains it.
I am awake, but I don't open my eyes. Most mornings I get up immediately, turn on a movie, and begin fixing breakfast, humming along under my breath. But this morning is different. I am tired; last night was my first night as Blanche Ingram in Jane Eyre, and the family promised I would not have to work. So I lie on my back, my eyes closed against morning, Grayson's arm across me and his warm breath on my cheek. The sounds of the city below me seem louder than normal, and my mind tried to wander further than I will let it. I will think of the show, of my family, of my friend—no, not of her. My other friends, my fortunate friends, the ones I could call right now and hear their groggy voices on the telephone.
There are soft, slow footsteps in the hall—Meg is awake. I turn my head and look at Grayson, his handsome face squashed comically against the pillow. I feel as though my heart will burst with a sudden rush of love, a swelling in my chest, and I remember the day he took me to the roof of the theater during intermission, both of us still in our Raoul and Christine costumes, and proposed to me. I remember staring at his face for a moment, unbelieving, then throwing myself into his arms. I was so forcibly reminded of that day after Les Misérables—
The warm joy is gone, and suddenly I feel cold and dark. I must not think of that—of them—of anything. The door opens slowly, and I hear my daughter sneaking into my room. I close my eyes again and wait. Sure enough, she lets out a little shout and leaps onto the bed; I pretend to be startled awake and she laughs. Grayson's eyes have flown open; he blinks and pulls me closer. His lips brush my cheek and he whispers, "Good morning," before sitting up and hugging Meg tightly, pretending to scold her for scaring her parents. She giggles again and squirms out of his arms. Both of them turn to look at me, blond hair shining in the morning light. I smile; the movement feels awkward and false. The phone rings, relieving me of the tension, and Meg scampers out of the room, eager to answer.
Grayson does not follow her immediately. He looks at me, concern in his blue eyes. "What is it?"
"Nothing," I lie. Today should be a good day—it should be my day. I must not let the dark thoughts, the blood and the screams, ruin everything. My family must not know of my pain.
He looks at me sadly and goes to take the phone from Meg. I feel an ache across my heart; I've always been able to tell him anything on my mind. This, though, is different. I don't want to think of it, and even if I wanted to relive the pain he wouldn't understand. No one could understand.
"Setta's coming!" Meg shrieks, flying into my room and hurling herself onto the bed. I pull her into my lap and hug her wordlessly. If something were to happen to me or to Grayson, what would we do with Meg? Where would she go? Would she even remember us, small as she is? I look into her wide blue eyes. "Setta!" she says again. Only then do I hear what she is telling me. Setta—Cosette. My stomach churns.
Grayson comes in, a half-eaten piece of toast in one hand, looking at me intensely. "John's coming," he tells me. "He's bringing Cosette." I can not meet his gaze. I hear him tell Meg to go get dressed, and she leaves the room. The bed sinks as he sits next to me; I hear him take another bite of toast. My eyes seem fastened to a stain on the carpet. "It's that, isn't it?" he asks at last. "Your friend... and her husband... and their boy..." I still say nothing. He has finished the toast, and he takes both my hands in his. "Look at me, 'Manda. Look at me." My head feels heavy, and my eyes seem reluctant to leave the floor. He gazes into my face as if he is searching for something. "I can't imagine what you must be going through. Nothing like that has ever happened to me... or to you, really. And I've heard you talk about how much they loved each other—"
I can not listen—can not hear this. I pull away from him and leave the room. Grayson does not call after me. I am halfway to the kitchen when I meet Meg, who is still in ecstasies at the idea of our guests. "You can't let them see you in your pajamas, Mommy!" she shouts, pushing me back and demanding I get dressed.
Defeated, I return to my room. Grayson has gone to brush his teeth, and I pull on jeans and a sweatshirt in a silent room. Just as I am returning my brush to the dresser there is a knock on the door, and I hear Meg charging out to open it. I hurry to living room in time to see John step into our apartment, tousle Meg's hair, and lower little Cosette to the floor, where Meg immediately pulls her to the bedroom. I catch of glimpse of the child's face. Her cool blue eyes are red; her cheeks are damp with tears. I quickly look away, smiling thinly at John as Grayson enters the room.
"How're you kids?" John asks, a false cheer in his voice. "How's my Cosette the elder?" He means me, referring to our days in Les Misérables. I shrug and he continues. "My real foster daughter isn't doing so well."
"I saw," Grayson says softly.
John nods. "Today is her birthday. The first one with... with me. She's six. I asked her what she wanted, and she said her father."
The room falls silent.
"Amanda?" Grayson says. I turn to look at him, and only then do I realize that I have been crying. I hastily wipe my eyes and turn to leave. He calls after me, but I hear John telling him to let me go. I sink to the floor in the hallway where I can hear my husband and my daughter. Meg is speaking to Cosette in a soft voice, and I hardly understand the words.
"She won't talk about it," says Grayson's voice in the living room. "I'm so worried about her; she's never kept things inside like this."
"It took me a full week to even be able to think about it. But then, I'd had the same thing happen two months earlier with Mark. She lost three friends in one day, and witnessed two murders and a suicide."
"But she's so determined to feel alone, like she was the only one who lost a friend. I mean, the rest of you—"
"Yeah, but she was Nina's closest friend, other than Mark. And the first time she saw her in ten years was the day she was killed. And she was the second one to see...
Again I am in Ryan's apartment, full of people yet filled with a nervous silence. Someone coughs nervously, and conversation finally begins again. I see John start toward the door as if to follow Nina, but he hesitates. I approach him. Mark, dead? I could not believe it. I picture Mark as I last saw him, at the five-year reunion. He is smiling, an arm around Nina's waist, and their son holding his other hand. His eyes, an icy shade of blue, the same as his daughter's, seemed to dance in the light. I had never thought him handsome, but in that moment, he had been beautiful. They had been so happy together—I could imagine Nina as Rochester of Jane Eyre, wandering through the empty grounds of Thornfield in search of a love that has been lost. There is a scream from the hallway; it is Nina's voice. I had heard that same cry so many evenings at the theater, when she had been blocking Thénardier and the Patron-Minette from intruding on Marius and Cosette's love. Now, however, it contained an edge, a horror and desperation, that I had not known before. John is already at the door, and I am quick to follow. "Oh, God," I whisper, "what have You done to her now?" The party has fallen silent yet again. John is in the hallway; I hear him address God almost as I had done, but he is panicked. I am just behind him.
The scene is clear in my mind, and I suspect it will be until my dying day. The long hallway punctuated with apartment doors, some of which were beginning to open and reveal curious faces; John standing just ahead of me, blocking my view. I moved to see over his shoulder—an action I almost regret.
The first sight that met my eyes was blood. Black stains covered the brown carpet of the dim hallway, surrounding like an uneven frame those three figures; all of them covered in fresh blood, crimson in the light. I knew not how I reacted, what I said; I would suppose it was a scream. But when the elevator door slid open and revealed little Cosette, looking so like her father, and I watched her see the bleeding corpses of her mother and older brother, I heard the sobs wracking her tiny body. I fell to my knees, weeping for this child and her tragic family, and Grayson was beside me, his arms around me as they are now, allowing me to bury my face in his chest as I cry.
I realize where I am, in my own apartment, and I push away from my husband and go into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I look at my reflection in the mirror; my eyes are red, my cheeks are damp, and my nose is running. Somehow I see a corpse in the mirror, a dead face, and I want to rip it from the wall. I pull it out on its hinges and the corpse is gone. I stare blankly at the medicine on the shelves where the mirror had been.
I recognize this moment as a scene from a cheesy made-for-TV drama. The distraught woman, insane in her sorrow, begins taking unnaturally large doses of all of the prescription drugs in the bathroom, leaning over the sink as I am doing now. The actress, like me, is in tears.
I am an actress. I am in tears. I am facing a cabinet full of prescription drugs.
I am an actress. I have a certain respect for film and the way action must unfold in them. And my life has ceased to be a reality—such things as I have seen only happen on television. I reach for a bottle; it is only fitting.
"Amanda?"
It is Grayson. For a brief moment my thoughts are paused, my ears are strained for the tones of his voice. I know he is outside the door, but he says no more, perhaps waiting for an answer. I give him none.
I empty the bottle into my hand. Several little red capsules fall out, waiting for my next move.
"What are you doing, 'Manda? What was that sound?"
Whose is that voice? Who is that in there?
Raoul did not make it in time to stop Christine from going through the mirror to the corpse.
My silence has worried him, and it seems he heard the little clicking sounds of these pills on the plastic bottle. He begins to rattle the doorknob, calling my name. I hear John's voice as well, and the children have fallen silent. I am the focus of everyone in the apartment.
I fill a disposable cup with water.
"Amanda, answer me! I swear to God I'll break this door down if you don't say something!"
I drop the pills onto my tongue, but spit them out again. They are too large; I'll have to do it one at a time. I take the first one, swallowing a sip of water with it. The door suddenly encounters Grayson's weight with a thud; he is throwing himself at it. I hear him call for John to help. I must be quick if I am tomake it through the mirror.
Each of the pills is accompanied by a crash from the door. My ears are ringing, and I feel faint. The last red capsule in my palm blurs and becomes a bloodstain. The floor pitches upward and the door jumps open. Grayson tumbles into the room as my eyes grow dark. I lose my balance and fall toward the tile; he catches me, shouting for John to call an ambulance.
His pretty face, wild with terror, fades into the blackness, but even the darkness is not empty of the blood and the screams.