Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with, The Phantom of the Opera. All rights go to the Gaston Leroux estate, or to Andrew Lloyd Webber, or whoever the hell else may hold claim to this story.
Authoress' Note: This is my very first Phantom of the Opera fic. I have always had a place in my heart for Meg and the other ballet girls, being that I can relate to them the most. I thought that it would be nice to take a little peep into the mind of a ballet girl and see how she saw life through her eyes. Naturally, I chose Meg, being that I feel like I can relate to her the most. Any type of response is welcome, but please do review. Thanks.
A trickle of laughter, and the soft, fluttering sound of delicate crinoline is all that is heard by outside ears. The giggling, simpering voices of young girls as they walk to their lessons behind the stage, gossiping as they go. The clop, clop of new pointe shoes on the wooden floors echoing throughout the vast universe of the Paris Opera. The ballet girls... mere children playing advanced games of dress up in a world explicitly for adults. Small forms flitting from dressing rooms and onto the stage, swirls of color and laughter. Nothing of importance, really. After all, there is so much else going on in the Opera. Small girls tend to be overlooked.
Myself, I've grown used to it. I am but another of the petite rats that must be taken care of as one might take care of a child. I must be watched constantly as all the others must be, following in the shadow of our ballet mistress or La Sorelli, our idol. It makes no difference what our names are. It makes no difference what our age is. It makes no difference what our background might be, where we came from, where we're going, or what we wish to become one day. Nothing matters about us. All that matters is that we dance beautifully and give the gentlemen something to stare at in the third act.
It makes no difference that my name is Meg Giry, or that I am sixteen years old. It makes no difference that I've lived in this country, in this town, with my maman for my entire life. It makes no difference that all that I have is dancing, that all that I am is dancing. It makes no difference that I wish to become Prima Ballerina one day. None of it makes any difference to anyone, because no one cares. They never have.
All that matters in the Opera is the singers. That's all that should matter, isn't it? The people that do come here to actually see the show do not come to see the pale waifs in the gauzy skirts. They come to see their diva, La Carlotta, or, most recently, their new replacement, Christine Daae. Those that care about music come to hear. They come to be dazzled by a floating soprano's song and fall in love with she who sang it. They do not come to watch prancing adolescents twirl across the stage dressed as tree nymphs. At least, some of them don't. Do not think that I am implying that we ballet girls have no fans; quite the contrary. Most of the young men in the audience come to see their various young ladies dance in the corps every night. I myself have no fans.
All that I have is my maman and my dancing. However, do not take me for some quiet, meek, outsider with no friends at all. I have plenty friends. The other girls are like sisters to me. We gossip with each other and tell tall tales of spotting the Opera Ghost everywhere. Jammes and I in particular are quite the best at telling these types of stories. Why, if not for us, I doubt that the legend of the Opera Ghost would have gotten much farther than the lips of the stagehands. We share an alliance, us dancers. We all possess a common jealousy of Christine Daae, though some of us border on outright resentment. I do not resent the girl, though I am greatly jealous of her. Sometimes I even wonder what it might be like to be her.
She has had the best of luck. First the vicomte expresses interest in her, something that all of the ballet girls long for-- the admiration of a Comte or Vicomte. Then, miraculously, her career soars when the opportunity arises to fill the shoes of the resident diva. The night of her great triumph, there was much whispering and twittering throughout the dressing room us ballet girls all share. Some suggested that she bribed her way into the role. Others surmised that it was the Vicomte's doing. There were even those that suggested that Christine had somehow made Carlotta purposely fall ill so that she could take over her part. I held true to my own belief: that Christine had been receiving private lessons and had reached greatness by her own hard work, and that Carlotta had conveniently fallen ill all on her own. The girls dismissed this explanation almost as soon as I had said it. It wasn't nearly scandalous enough to be true.
I still wonder if I was right, though. I remember hearing gossip from members of the chorus saying that Christine had been visited by some kind of angel... an angel that had taught her to sing. I thought that this was even more far-fetched than some of the stories that the rats made up, and that was hard to believe. Although, it did almost seem to make sense. Her mastery seemed to have been acquired almost overnight, and only an angel could work that quickly. Tie that in with the luck of having Carlotta be taken ill, and the sudden acquiescence of the managers allowing her to sing, and one could almost believe that it had been the work of an angel. Although, it is terribly hard to believe that an angel would ever cause anyone to fall ill, even one so beastly as Carlotta, and even for a good cause.
Whatever the reason for Christine's triumph, it no longer matters. Christine was almost instantly demoted the second Carlotta returned, and it seems the chorus girl's luck has not prevailed for a second time. The ballet girls snicker, and I snicker with them. A chorus girl has no place in a starring role, just as a ballet girl has no place in Sorelli's shoes. Although one has to admit... she was rather good.
Please do not think that I am as spiteful as some of the other girls are. I do not mean to be cruel to Christine, I merely envy her. I often wish that luck would smile on me. I wish that Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin would take notice of me, and perhaps promote me to leader of a row, or allow me to have a brief solo. I wish that I had an admirer as dashing as the young Vicomte, or at least any admirer at all. I wish that I were a bit luckier, like Christine. I wish that I had an angel watching over me, if what the women in the chorus say is true. I do not hate Christine. I merely wish I were her.
A trickle of laughter, and the soft, fluttering sound of delicate crinoline is all that is heard by outside ears. We are the young and lovely ballet girls of the Paris Opera, beaming as we pirouette on stage, whispering and giggling as we navigate the wide, expansive corridors of the large building hand in hand, terrified and thrilled at the thought that a ghost might be waiting for us amongst the shadows. We tiptoe past the patrons and smile at the managers. We offer relief from the monotony of warbling tenors as the curtain of the third act is lifted, and give the young men in the audience a thrill. We are used to all of this, and revel in it. This is how we have learned to live.
My name is Meg Giry, though no one will ever care to know it. All that I am is dancing. All that I ever will be is dancing. It is the only thing I know, and the only thing that I want to know.
And yet...
A part of me yearns to hear the voice of an angel, and be smiled upon by Lady Luck, and be adored by a handsome patron.
There is a part of me, deep down inside that no one else will ever know about... that wants more than anything to be Christine Daae.
Finis.
And there you have it. Like it? Hate it? Tell me. :)