Disclaimer – I claim no ownership of POTO.
Based on the film, with elements of the Stage Show. Namely, the Phantom is based on the stage version with dashes of Butler's portrayal, with the other characters closer to the film. Erik's deformity is based on the stage version. No bad rashes in need of Nivea here, thanks.
Blinding
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As they emerge from the slimy walkways leading down to darkness and the boat that rocks and hobbles on the dark sheet of water that leads to his lair, Christine wraps her fingers, tight, around the juttering bones of her shoulders and shivers. The costume from Don Juan is thin, constructed from sequins and light, swishy material, hardly susceptible for a cold underwater lake in February.
She huddles in the boat, away from her captor, who hovers over her like a demon from one of her father's old books. He berates her, berates the world and the mob and the patrons of the opera, splitting each insult and accusation with the angry slap of the oar from the water. The disfigurement curls into the upper part of his skull, where the hair lies thin and without pigment. In the dim glow of his torch, she can see the skull is dented, the skin swollen and loose, the underside of his eye hanging like a half open trapdoor.
With a shudder, she turns her head and the water reflects her wide eyes. Her hair, mussed from sweat, is the only comforter on her chilled skin.
The boat knocks against the shore. With a violent cry, he dives for her wrist and hurls her to her feet. When they were fleeing through the catacombs, the uneven stones bruising her toes, she should have tried to run then. But she was so stunned, her knees still stiff from having fallen from the stage into the pit, that she'd felt too weak, too helpless in the brunt of his fury, to resist. But now she struggles, kicks and screams, and he lifts her into her arms like a sack of potatoes.
She is yanked towards the model of herself, the mirrors, the candles that flutter in the heave of their frustrated breaths. Christine stumbles from his grasp. Hits one of the mirrors, which is backed against the wall and half covered with a Persian rug. She forces a hand against it to steady herself.
It creaks with her weight, seeming to echo inside. Her heart stops.
Quickly, she swivels her gaze back to the Phantom. But he is pre-occupied, prising the wedding gown from his dummy, undoing the corseting and lifting the skirt. Meeting her gaze, he hesitates, before thrusting the barrage of silk and lace into her arms.
"Change."
She staggers with the weight of it. Tears begin to prick the edges of her eyes. She lifts her head, her throat shifting as she swallows.
His lips crease into a single line.
"Now."
She ducks behind one of the low hung curtains, avoiding the hungry gleam of his stare. She fondles with the countless buttons, hooking each into their dainty clasp, her body shaking with the effort of holding back her sobs. She struggles with the smaller hooks, pricking her fingers, but she doesn't dare call out for his assistance.
Christine can hear the tread of his footsteps across the stone; they pause whenever she rustles the fabric.
In the opposing mirror, she catches sight of herself. The dress is beautiful. Pearls are beaded across the bodice, the glossy lines of the skirt folded in fashionable rumbles down the front. Her hair, unkempt, falls in ragged curls to her bare shoulders. Christine shivers again.
"Have you gorged yourself at last in your lust for blood?"
She reveals herself to him. He stands apart from her, near the half covered mirror. He twiddles her engagement ring between his two fore fingers, brushing the diamonds and the curve of the golden band with his thumb. Her nails cut into her palm.
"Am I now to be prey to your lust for flesh?"
He mumbles something about the denial of flesh and a mother's love, and Christine looks away. She thinks of her dark angel, her mysterious teacher, whom she both feared and adored. Now there is only fear, mingled with pity.
A veil, white and itchy, is lumped on her head. His fingers wind themselves in her curls, lingering on her neck, kissing the arch of her cheek. Pity trickles away to be replaced by the clammy touch of repulsion.
"I'm not afraid of your face," Her words are so simple, so firm, that they surprise even her. "I'm afraid of what you've done..." She buries her hands in her dress. Just out of reach is a loose silver candle holder, about half a metre long. "What you will do."
He scoffs, crossing away from her...from the mirror, towards the opposing organ that bears down from the centre of the little lake house. She watches him as he paces one, two, three metres away. On the stool there is a fresh suit and a bible.
When she strikes the mirror, the glass shrieks and cracks, and by the time he has spun in shock, she has smashed her way through to a secret passageway leading off into blackness.
Christine gathers up her skirts, and throws herself through the archway framed with broken glass. What follows her is a bellowing, inhuman roar.
The dress drags behind her, scooping up fragmented glass and dirt and the sodden mould of the sewers. Christine imagines the cool caresses of snow of her forehead, the wrap of warm arms across her breast, soft promises of security and hope...
A boot slams into the train of her skirts, almost sending her hurtling. Her scream is a broken wail, for all she suddenly sees in the shadows is the shine of mad eyes and the glint of bared teeth. A hand latches onto her elbow.
"No!" She spins, the holder still in her hand. "No!"
It catches the side of his face where the skin is smooth and undamaged, and he grunts, slipping back. The material catches around his foot, beginning to tear, and Christine launches her hands onto the buttons, and rips herself free. He falls to his knees, trying to seize her legs in the tangling confusion of satin and net, only to have her wiggle out in her petticoat and corset.
"Christine!"
Her angel half sobs with rage, his face pinched with sorrows she cannot understand. A trail of blood seeps through his hair, trickling into his mouth. He extends his hand towards the curve of her ankle.
For a moment, their eyes lock.
She gulps, settling herself on her knees. The freezing recesses of the lake water soak through her petticoats. He is still, hunched over the remains of her gown, shaking like a lost child. In the dim twilight, she can see the glimmer of tear tracks damning his face.
He is watching her now. He sniffs, wiping his mouth, leaving a smear of blood on his knuckles. Her fingers uncurl themselves from fists; she leans her arm forward, ever so slightly, and his eyes are glossed with a sudden brightness.
Her attention streaks down, from his face to the haggardness of his half open shirt, to the curl of rope grasped in his hand.
One end is knotted in a perfect loop.
Her harsh intake of breath seems to come from outside her. Her head is suddenly airy, her feet as light as if she was skirting on air bubbles. He follows her stricken eyes; he grimaces, clutching the rope as if it burns him.
Christine is flying again, and this time, the sound of the slip of soles on the ends of her forsaken dress assures her that her tormentor has once again given chase. Her hand, held eye level, stammers and shakes. She dodges left, right, then left again. The cavern is an endless supply of doorways, stairwells, small hutches that lead nowhere and tiny air holes that seem to go on forever.
"You cannot abandon me, Christine!"
His voice, thrown, like in Box Five and the mirror and the chapel. But this isn't the soothing, comforting tones of the angel, or the sensual call of the phantom, but the hate ridden gasps of a man.
"I'm your angel! Your teacher! I gave you everything! My music..."
"You deceived me," She calls out, the walls suddenly empty, reverberating nothing but the quaking timbres of her voice. "You said my father sent you! You lied! I gave you..."
Her voice sinks to a whisper.
"I gave you my mind. Without a thought. I gave you my mind."
There is silence, for a while. She is lost. There are no footsteps dogging her every move. Only the hollow echo of the drip of water. Only the clasp of hair stuck to her back in cold sweat. Only the icy air lacing the dank corridors in snowy wafts.
Air.
It is fresh, crisp, alive with the promise of midnight. A shallow, mean light glints ahead, on what looks like a lighted shaft breaking through a dead end.
"Christine..."
Its far away, very far away, but floating on the last wisps of his breath. The voice. The old voice, the one speckled with alluring mystery and music.
Her flesh prickles.
She tries the "door." The bricks groan, swinging on thick hinges rusted from the swells of water carrying on the air.
It's a storage room, bundled full of old forgotten costumes and stage props. Moonlight spreads on the abandoned stock like silver skin. A window has been left open. Flecks of snow blow in, carted around by the wind in silent puffs. All she can hear is the quiet whispers of the elements, agitating her hair.
Stealing through the costumes, Christine dresses herself in a woollen dress and a heavy cloak. On her feet she places old boots from a pre-season performance of Faust.
"Christine..."
The hidden door remains immobile.
Christine tightens the cloak around her throat. Moving away an old poster, she discovers an old, rickety exit, a long disused door. She slips out into the night, prayers and her father's old songs thrumming on her tongue.
The Opera House is in chaos. The crowds mill out in their droves, clashes of colour and cries and shouts. The fire has long since been put out, and Christine finds she cannot bear to think of all the old grandeur, the mighty red curtain and the polished stage floorboards and the angels glided in gold, all burned and shrouded in ash. She spreads her fingers on the wall, steadying herself.
Then, she thinks of passageways hidden by glass, of whispers and gloved hands in the shadows, of the remains of the veil in her hair, and Christine's chest constraints, her eyes widen, her hand slapping itself to her mouth. She slips down the wall, curling her body inwards, weeping. Behind her, the streets of Paris are lulled in a misty surrender by the brush of snow on their pavements. They stretch out into an inky blackness.
"Christine..."
A figure dots around the courtyard, apart from the crowds. Andre attempts to quiet him, but Raoul is wild eyed, soaked to the bone, sniffing around like a wild animal.
Christine scurries from her place behind the wall. Her feet begin to pick up.
"Raoul!"
Their bodies meet, their arms grasping each other so tight it hurts, but Raoul's tears are wetting her shoulder and her own mingle with his. The world is suddenly buzzing around them, questions being shot left, right and centre, mostly by Andre and members of the public.
As Raoul and Christine part, they grope each other's faces, their own queries of wellbeing colliding against one another. As if to assert her health, Christine kisses him, sloppy and desperate, and buries her head in his shoulder. He smells of soap, that silly perfumery stuff that she always teased him about, but now it just about keeps her from keeling over. His grip around her waist closes in further. She looks up, and sees him glowering in the direction of the corner from which she came. She glances back, and sees nothing but dark streets and snow.
Raoul quickly takes charge, dismissing the questions, and hails a carriage. They bundle themselves in (Raoul instructs Andre to check the driver isn't wearing a mask) and they gallop off into the night.
The houses pass the windows like hooded shadows, and Christine, exhausted, finds respite in the cradle of Raoul's arm. They curl together, like they did when they were children, in the dozy red hue of Christine's father's fire and the lulling strums of his violin, and sleep.