The mob left agonizingly slowly, but one lingered. A lone ballerina, one of the best. She was different than most others. She was quite tall and curvy. But her legs were strong and sure. Her hair was and intresting mix of chesnut and midnight black strands that fell half way down her back. Her eyes were green like a forest with warm browns towards the center. She peered out from behind the organ as the last of the mob left. This is too dangerous if you are caught their is no telling the consequences, she whispered to herself. Then again she was never one to wait at the side lines. Sighlently she crept towards the moaning figure at the edge of the lake. Up until now he had been sighlent, she breathed a sigh of relief knowing that he was alive.
She kneeled down beside him her dancer dress from the opera "Don Juan Triumph" getting slightly wet, but she didn't ming. The figure before her was once beautiful, she could tell. His tattered and bloddy shirt revealed hard mussel and gashes up and down his top half. Examining his arm she found one bent at a disturbing angle causing her heart to bleed in compassion. She pressed on with her exam, his legs, like the rest of him, were full of gashes and brusies. But nothing could have prepared her for his face. one half was untouched, that half was beautiful, he was actually quite handsome had it not been for the other half. the other half had been full of old scars that had now been reopened. His lip was busted and his eye was starting to turn a livid shade of purple. The senseable part of her just wanted to leave the murderous man there, but her compationate side torn out and she quickly set to work.
She ran like a hurricane not sparing anyting that could be used in her path. She torn ruined clothes to make a sling and bandages, she luckily found morphine but her mind wondered why it was there; however, that didnt matter. The only tihng that mattered was that he survived. Carefully she tok off his shirt, which was no easy task since the pain had rendered him unconsious, and dressed the wounds. She replaced his tattered shirt with a clean shirt and then shot the morphine into his arm. "Thank god on high that my father was a doctor." she whispered.
Now she had to get him out of there. She looked around but there was no boat. "Great, " she muttered "now what?" She could just leave him in this hell. Could she though? Of course not, it would haunt her for the rest of her life. With a sigh she went over and tried to pick the man up. "Your heavier than I thought." she muttered to him knowing that he couldn't answer. She soon found a room much to her relief, and set him as gently as possible on the bed. Which didn't work, for when she turned back to go get supplies he slid off. "Really, just really, this is great." She muttered sarcartically. After five tries with the same results she succeded. With a cry of triumph she proceeded to the kitchen, at least that was well stocked.
She made a kettle of tea and took it back to the room. The man was stirring, but she was to distracted to see him attempt to climb out of bed. As soon as he hit the floor she jumped in surprise. Looking at her in confusion he whispered, "Christine have you com back to your angel?" His voice brought tears to her eyes, he sounded so desparate, so broken, she only wanted to help him more. "No," she said gently approching him causiously, there was no telling what the feared Phantom of the Opera would do. She paused for a moment to try to reach out and help him up. She barley had enough time to comprehend the hand that was no firmly wrapped around her neck.