Author's Note: Not too long ago, I had the great fortune to see The Phantom of the Opera on Broadway, and I have since become enraptured with Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical. As I have not yet seen any film adaptions or finished the novel, this piece is based soley on the musical, with my inspiration drawn from the particular cast I saw perform. Feedback is always appreciated!
Racked by intense shivers and huddled on the sodden rowing boat seat, Christine had never felt so cold. The night air had a furious human-like quality, as if frigid, damp hands had roughly taken ahold of the young woman and chilled her to her bones. If any warmth was present, it was only in the stinging tears slipping from her eyes. Wiping them away with a shaky hand, she looked back to the strong form guiding the boat across the lake.
Just as she had done on the evening she was reunited with Raoul at the opera house, Christine again searched for her childhood playmate in this tall, handsome man. Raoul's weary gaze meanwhile was fixed on the bobbing orange lights peeping through the fog –the lanterns carried by the opera house personnel in their quest to destroy the Phantom. The view of the lair had since disappeared.
While Raoul had been something of a dashing stranger to Christine when he had appeared at her dressing room after so many years parted, she now could see that familiar little boy. With his shirt soaked and torn and unruly curls of hair plastered to his forehead, Christine could not help but picture a much younger and smaller Raoul emerging triumphantly from the sea, having rescued her flyaway scarf. As reward for his gallantry, Christine's father had permitted Raoul to stay for dinner while his clothes dried by the fireplace. She remembered sitting at the foot of her father's chair after dinner, as he related her favorite story about a girl named Little Lotte who could hear the Angel of Music. Raoul was beside her, his body drowning in her father's clothes. "She sings like you, Christine!" Raoul had whispered, a glowing smile on his face. "Maybe you'll hear the Angel of Music too."
How Christine longed for those days at the seashore, and how she longed to be a child again, safe in her father's loving arms. She and Raoul indeed felt like children –confused and frightened children, shaking from the cold. Christine wondered now if the Angel of Music was nothing more than some fantastic, too-good-to-be-true story character. Blindly she had given her trust, and Raoul had nearly lost his life as a result. The red irritation circling his neck was evidence of how close he had been to certain death.
Raoul was safe, and soon they would marry. Why then did she feel so empty, so depleted, so cold?
"Christine?"
His questioning tone was met with wide, sorrowful eyes, and in an instant, Raoul had set aside the rowing oar and moved to the seat across Christine. She shifted to face him better, and Raoul took one of her small, delicate hands in his own. With his other hand, he tenderly caressed her tear-streaked cheek.
"You're trembling," Christine noted softly, and Raoul withdrew his hand. He averted his gaze back to the dim lights.
"I was afraid. I was afraid you wouldn't leave with me."
Christine did not answer. The gentle lapping of water against the boat filled the silence between the pair. "Did you see the music box?" she ventured at last.
Raoul turned his attention back to her. "I didn't."
"Oh, it was lovely, Raoul. It was ebony with gold filigree, and there was a charming monkey with cymbals." She spoke wistfully, and Raoul regarded her with interest.
"And the song…" Christine continued. "A melody that will haunt me, I'm sure." She closed her eyes and began to hum.
The face -that pitiful, distorted face- suddenly flashed through Christine's mind, and abruptly, her voice caught in her throat.
Raoul scanned her with his eyes, trying to understand, begging for some explanation. "Christine, my dear Christine…"
"Take me home, Raoul," she said simply, and without another word, Raoul stood and resumed his rowing.
She could not, however, return to the Paris Opera. At least, not right away. In that moment, Christine decided it would be best for her and Raoul to go far away –somewhere where her thoughts would not wander to the music box, to the candles…to him.
Yes, she would be happy with Raoul. Happy, free, and safe. They could rent a little cottage by the sea. Christine wrapped her freezing hands in the folds of her skirt, and formulated a sunny picture in her mind:
Seagulls soared over head in the bluest sky she had ever seen, and sunlight made the sea sparkle like a green jewel. She and Raoul raced hand in hand along the beach –she with her skirts hitched up, and he with rolled up pants. The sea breeze kissed their faces, the white sand warmed their bare toes. After a picnic lunch, Raoul rested his sleepy head on Christine's lap while she read aloud from one of her father's books. The lazy aura of afternoon ultimately settled upon them, and they fell asleep together on the sand, blissfully content in this sun-bathed paradise.
As pleasant as the imagery was, Christine's naivety had been subject to a beating, and she knew, deep down, that any near future, even alongside Raoul, did not promise her the happy days she had known in her childhood. The best she could hope for was some warmth, but that too seemed terribly distant, as another pang of frigidness stabbed at her heart.
"Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me, your glory," she sang in but a whisper, and her words, her half-hearted plea, disappeared unanswered into the thick fog.