This one's not abstract. .but it's slightly twisted. . and more than a little violent. .Christine's gone a little 'coo-coo'. (It's not my best, as I've never done anything like this..) You may not understand why she's acting the way she is at first, but at the end all will be explained. EDIT: Well..maybe not. wicked grin And just so you know, this takes place about 3 years after the final lair scene, the opera house has been restored(i know in the movie it isnt ever restored, but I thought that made no sense so here), and Christine has married Raoul.
WARNING: NC-17 for violence.
Christine's dressing room was still reasonably elegant, without being overly gaudy. The walls were painted a light, airy pink, and large oil portraits of the famous prima donnas in history lined the walls in their gilded frames. The night stand, dresser, and queen-sized bed were all made from the best cherry wood in Paris, and they gleamed in the warm light of the candlesticks placed in the black sconces that were mounted on the walls. Christine didn't really understand why they bothered polishing her room, so. .as everyone believed it haunted and it would never be used again. A large, intricately woven Persian rug laid on the wooden floor– emerald green, sapphire, and ruby red were all interwoven with glimmering gold thread throughout the pattern, and Christine often found herself lost in their twisting complexity.
And of course, the one object that drew the most attention from everyone who entered the beautiful room: the enormous, floor to ceiling mirror, with a gilded gold frame and golden cherubs and roses sculpted around the edges sat in the corner of the dressing room, and a brown-eyed, brown-haired girl sat still as stone in front of its glassy surface.
The rest of the Opera House had gone home, yet Christine had hid out underneath her bed when the rooms were checked and straightened for the night. She wanted to stay. She wanted to see Erik. Surely he was still alive. .Oh, how Raoul would murder her if he found out she was here! He wouldn't have to know. .no one did. Except Erik, of course. .her darling Erik!
Five hours later, and Erik had still not arrived. Christine sighed in impatience. She decided to entertain herself until he came. She looked around the room, searching for something that could hold her attention until her angel showed up, and her eyes finally locked on the very mirror she sat in front of.
Christine studied her reflection, disgusted with what she saw. She was hideous, absolutely horrendous! She brought her hands up to the glass, tracing her delicate features with her fingertips: her pale, porcelain cheeks, her perfectly arched, dark eyebrows, her bright, huge brown eyes, her tiny, pixie-like nose, and her full pink lips, pursed in irritation. People thought this was beauty? What was beautiful about herself? Nothing that she could see. Her face was absolutely revolting.
She strained her eyes, looking into the mirror, trying to find something worth admiring. Her mahogany, glistening locks hung perfectly curled over her skinny, delicate shoulders, and she ran her hands through it in an effort to mess up its perfect order. She tangled it around her dainty fingers, twisting it and tossing it until she looked like she had just been out in a windstorm. She was still so hideous! People were obviously terrible judges of beauty. Why else would they shun her poor Erik? Her lip trembled as she thought of him, her angel, that gorgeous, ethereal man whom hid his loveliness from the world. Why did ugliness such as hers have to be exposed to the world all the time? Why couldn't she be allowed to hide in Erik's place? He had no reason to hide. . .
She growled in anger, wanting to be beautiful, wanting to rid her soul of this ugliness that had taken place. She had once been beautiful, radiant, even! She could hear the voices of those admiring men even now. .but she had been so blind. But now she was a monster! A true creature of Hell! Why wouldn't Erik come for her to trade places? Why wouldn't he let her in? She began banging on the mirror with her fists as if it were a door, not caring as the glass shattered beneath her hands and dug into her palms. She felt the sting, and felt the warm liquid leaking down her hands, and she gave a cry of delight. This blood,. .this pain. .surely pain like this meant her beauty was growing! Pain. .she needed to be gorgeous, divine! But first she must find Erik! Surely a god like himself would know how to make her beautiful!
She continued to bang on the mirror, using her fists and her skull as well, and soon felt the warm liquid trickling down her face. Yes! She would be beautiful now! Her face, it would be celestial!
Realizing Erik was obviously busy, she brought her hands from the mirror's now shattered surface, and looked in sadness at the damage she had caused.. .what had caused it to break? She couldn't recall. .it was probably her face! Her revolting, beastly face had broken the mirror!
She began to cry, the salty tears falling down her bloodstained cheeks, mixing with the red liquid and forming a light red, watery trail. She brought her hands up to her face, wiping away the tears, and wondered briefly at the sharp stinging that she felt every time she touched her face.
She brought her hands away from her face, studying them. Shards of glass were embedded deep within her skin, and she touched them awkwardly, fascinated. How had those gotten there? They made her hands so beautiful! Getting an ingenious idea, she brought her hands up to her face, and began to scrape the glass in her hands across her cheeks, smiling broadly as she felt the blood flow more quickly out of her face, but grimaced as some went in her mouth. It tasted of copper and salt– not a very enjoyable taste– but at least she would be beautiful, and Erik would love her. Yes, he would finally love her! She knew he hated her right now, but she would be forgiven for her terrifying face once he saw this new, glorious face! Oh, how she would be envied!
Suddenly a memory flashed in Christine's head, making her gasp with excitement. She remember when Erik had done something similiar to this, only he had used her fingernails on his face! Oh, how beautiful he had been that day! Trembling with anticipation, she brought her own fingernails up to her already broken face, and dug them into her flesh. She hissed slightly at the pain, biting down on her bottom lip until blood flowed from that as well. She dragged them down her cheeks, feeling the flesh tear and curl up beneath her fingers as they became covered in blood. All this blood! Oh, the price for beauty! But it would all be worth it, she reminded herself.
Why did she feel faint. .? Why was her head swimming so badly? What was going on! Was someone trying to steal her beauty away from her! She turned her head from side to side, searching for the caster of this mysterious spell. But she could no longer distinguish any objects in the room, it was all so. .blurry! She felt herself rocking back and forth on the wood floor, and she brought her hands up to her head in an attempt to stop this craziness. It was making her naucious. When she felt the slick wetness of her hair she brought her hands away in confusion, and cried out as she saw them covered in blood. What had she done?
She moaned in agony as the full realization of what she had done came back to her. She was tearing her face, ripping her beautiful face to shreds! Why had she come here? Why? Her soul and her heart was what was ugly, twisted, not her face!
The last thing she saw before losing consciousness was a dark, cloaked figure stepping from behind the broken mirror. .looking down at her with a look of horror and heartbreak. .
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The next morning, the police investigator, Firmin, Andre, and Raoul stood looking down at the scene in front of them in horror.
Raoul had woken up in the middle of the night to find that Christine had once again disappeared from his side, and he had hurried to the Opera House, knowing that was the only likely place she would have gone. But it was completely locked, and he knew the few lit rooms inside belonged to the residents of the Opera House, such as La Sorelli and The Managers. Where would Christine have gone? He sighed wearily, thinking it best to give her time alone to prevent another tantrum when he attempted to bring her home. She would come around by morning. . .
Now they stood in the middle of Christine's dressing room, looking in disgust and sorrow at the shattered mirror, covered in blood, and the numerous bloodstains that covered the wooden floor. But Christine was nowhere to be found. The investigator was talking rapidly to Firmin and Andre, discussing possible places for the victim to have run to. There was no proof, as of yet, that it was Christine, so the investigator would need twenty-four hours to go back to headquarters and run a blood test before beginning the investigation, and they were all yelling angrily about the relevance of such a task.
"It's obviously Miss Daae, monsier 'Inspecteur'!" Firmin hissed sarcastically.
"And what proof of that do you have?" The inspector retorted. "You do not have a piece of her clothing, there is no note, and surprisingly there are no prints anywhere, so please, tell me what proof you have, beyond the fact that this is Christine's dressing room!"
"What more do you need than that?" Andre yelled, just as angry. "The girl is mentally unstable, as Raoul informed you earlier," Raoul winced at this, "And she obviously snuck in here and began hurting herself, for reasons unknown, and probably snuck away again as soon as the Opera House was reopened!"
"Then please, Monsieur, explain why there are no footprints and no blood trails, as she obviously lost quite a lot of blood. She might have been abducted, for all we know!"
They were all silent, contemplating the possibilities. Firmin and Andre's mindsimmediately flew to the Opera Ghost, but that was absurd! He had vanished years ago, and there had been no disturbances by him. He was obviously dead.
Meanwhile, Raoul stared at the mirror, a hurt and broken expression on his face, but understanding was in his eyes. He turned to the three men on the other side of him, and he cleared his throat. They all looked at him expectantly, and his eyeshesitantly flashed to the mirror.
"I believe," he began shakily. "that Christine was the one in this room.This room, it smells of Christine, and not just because this is her room...her scent would have vanished years ago. .but it smells strongly of her now. She probably came back to reality soon after she began doing whatever she did to hurt herself, cleaned herself up, and fled through the window. Her feet would have left no print on the Persian rug, which covers the whole path to the window from here, and it is quite simple to clean off one's fingerprints from the windowpane, if one knows how. She either is long gone by now, or has died of blood loss." His voice broke on his last words, and his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. The three men looked at him in sympathy. Raoul felt a small rush of pride through his pain. He was certainly a convincing liar!
"I would appreciate it, gentlemen, if you would keep this quiet. Christine is better off wherever she is, and she is a great deal happier, I'm sure, and I will increase my fundings to the Opera House by 20,000 francs if you hold off the investigation. And I will pay you, Inspector, just as generously."
The three men looked to each other in understanding. Obviously Raoul's reputation would be hurt greatly if the other aristocrats found out about this, and it was a very generous offer, so they accepted.
"Would you mind, Monsieur, if I conduct a blood test, just to be sure it's her?" theinspectorasked nervously, not wanting to lose any of his payment. Raoul smiled at him softly.
"Not at all. Go ahead."The man breathed a sigh of relief. "Please monsieurs, would you mind if I had a moment alone?" They all hastily agreed, and exited the room immediately.
Raoul looked to the partially shattered mirror, where he could faintly see the outline of a tall man on the other side, beyond his own reflection, and Raoul gave a small bow., his reflection following suit. Raoul saw the man do the same.
"Take care of her, Monsieur Opera Ghost," he whispered before turning and exiting the room.
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Wow..weirdness. Please review! I love feedback:::cookies to all: