Christine falls face into her bed, the doctor's words still ringing in her ears. Silent sobs wrack her slender frame. She never would have imagined at the start of all this that it would turn out this way. It had started so innocently - a minor irritation, a tickle in the back of her throat, nothing she couldn't push through with a extra cup of tea now and then. It had progressed to pain in the coming weeks, causing her to have to sit out a number of performances, but still, these things were common - perhaps she was over exerting herself, too much practice and not enough rest, the stress of traveling and singing at new locations. Even then, at the onset of the fever, she still thought it would be temporary. But the hoarseness that was expected during her fever still lingered when the heat had expired. The pain when she raised her voice in song was now almost unbearable. It had been weeks.
She would never forget the look of unease on the doctor's face after she explained her symptoms, the frigid silence as he struggled to find the words to tell her what would change her life forever, the pounding of her heart as her last naive expectation of being given some pill or potion that would bring her voice back to its melodious former glory slowly died away and fizzled into the emptiness of uncertainty.
"It's quite rare, Madame, but these things do happen. In all likelihood this is as recovered as you'll hope to be." he shuffled nervously. "I do suggest you try to not push yourself anymore - too much strain on your vocal cords now could cause you to lose your voice entirely at this point. If you enjoy being able to talk, you must never attempt to sing again."
She walked numbly from the office into the street, her face a blank mask. It is not until she crosses the threshold of her lodging that the thin buzzing in the back of her mind comes crashing down in a cacophony of realization that this is not a dream.
Not a dream, no. A living nightmare.
She twists her hands violently in the sheets, squeezing her eyes shut. What will become of her? She takes a shuddering breath. She has no other special talents, no skills, no experience. She has no family. And now, she has no career. No future.
The walls are closing in her and she fears for a moment that she will go mad. She had given up everything for this. Her mind touches on all the futures she'd turned down, each one snuffed out like a candle in pursuit of that glorious sun shining in the distance, her one dream. With that great and terrible sun now gone, she has no flame left anywhere to reignite any of the candles. They will stay dark forever, and so, she fears, will her life.
Years ago, she had had the opportunity to become the Viscountess. Ah, but a Viscountess does not sing. A half a year engaged to Raoul after they returned from the catacombs had been enough to expose the conflicts between who she wanted to be and who she was expected to be. She loved Raoul, of course she did, and he loved her too - but a Viscount's life is not his own. There was propriety to uphold, mothers and brothers and society with expectations that often clashed with personal wants. And a Viscountess does not sing. It had hurt both of them terribly, when they finally had to do what must be done. A mutual breaking of engagement, a mutual shedding of tears. He loved her, yes, and that was why he could not sentence her to life that must forsake music. She had loved him, she did, but she would not - could not - give up so vital a part of her heart and soul to be by his side. Their fatal fault lay not in themselves, but in their stars. He had married someone else within a year's time, and though they had parted on good terms with each other, they had not kept in contact since.
But it was not dear Raoul her thoughts now turned to, not to her potential comfortable life as a Viscountess, not to the bitter irony of having lost her music either way.
Her thoughts turned to him.
She knew she could never face him again. She couldn't. Not like this. She cries over the loss of her voice, over the loss of her future, the loss of her hope - she is crying over the loss of her Angel. Those four things are so closely tied to each other. And in a way, to have lost the proof of those long hours, those endless exercises, that skillful coaching - it feels to her like she's lost an important part of her past as well. All those years poured into perfecting her voice - gone, with nothing to show for it, as though it never even happened.
And with that path forever closed now, where else could she go? The Opera Populaire had been her home for so long. Madame Giry was the closest she had to family. She cringed at the thought of having to be there with the shadow of that building hanging over her, the knowledge that he was so close yet she could not let him know. But she had no other option, no other choice. Madame Giry was the only person she knew that would not mind the imposition. A brief flicker of a thought told her that perhaps she was not the only one, perhaps he would not mind either, but she crushed that thought underfoot, smothered it till it dare not arise again. What a foolish child's fairy story that would be - and she was no longer a naive child to believe such things. No. She could not allow hopes to linger where she knew they would only be dashed to pieces by reality.
She sat up and scrubbed at her face, talking a deep calming breath. It would not do lie here forever and cry.
She would leave for Paris in the morning.