Disclaimer: I own nothing that does not reside in my own imagination . . . Gaston Leroux created the tale of the "Phantom Of The Opera". Many writers have taken that tale and given a piece of themselves to it, I merely do the same. I mainly borrowed my characterization and a few lines from Susan Kay's "Phantom". The lyrics are from "Possession" by Sarah McLachlan.
Premise: A short POV piece written in response to a challenge offered by a friend and fellow writer. In Susan Kay's novel "Phantom", Erik sends Christine away for a week. In the book, she spends that week with Raoul . . . what if she got over her initial anger a little quicker than Kay told us she did?
Challenge Rules: Use the lyrics to Sarah McLachlan's "Possession". Must be from Christine's POV. Everything else optional.
Challenge Participants: my friends and fellow authors LadyDennean, LadyAyisha, and myself.
Feedback: Of course, all gushing praise and constructive criticism readily accepted. Flames? I have a bag of marshmallows sitting by my desk at the ready.
Authors's Notes: Thanks to LadyDennean and LadyAyisha for actually getting me off my bum to finally get something past my writer's block, and for writing with me one crazy night :-). And for the encouragement I needed to post this.
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. . . And After I'd Wipe Away The Tears . . .
Listen as the wind blows from across the great divide
Voices trapped in yearning . . . memories trapped in time . . .
The stillness of the dressing room surrounded her as she laid first her hot cheek, then her hand, against the cool surface of the mirror. One word alone fell from her lips.
"Erik."
His name a soft, hopeful whisper, nearly a prayer breathed into life as a tear fell down her face. When he'd left her on the banks of the lake that morning, she'd been in a fit of anger. Run along and play now Christine, while I compose my opera. The rage had burned white hot for hours, leaving her empty and hollow inside.
A week without his voice. It had become, to her, a drug as necessary as the air she breathed. For she now found herself longing to be enveloped in the darkness of his home beneath the Palais Garnier. Oh, just to have a chance to . . . to touch him. To hear his voice speaking to me, singing with me.
The night is my companion and solitude my guide
would I spend forever here and not be satisfied?
Ever since the night he had told her the story of the Nightingale, she had longed for the courage to simply touch him. Why, oh why, did I not reach out to him while I'd had the chance? Over and over she berated herself, wishing with everything in her soul to be able to turn back to that moment.
Now, he'd left her in this solitude for the next week, and she sat before the mirror where they had once, not so long ago as it seemed, had her music lessons. The mirror, where she had believed him one of God's own Angels, before the bitter truth had been revealed.
Through this world I've stumbled, so many times betrayed.
Trying to find an honest word, to find the truth enslaved
That truth had been revealed to her the moment she had unmasked him, his rage, and then, that awful attack which had laid him up, and nearly frightened her to death. A man stood in her Angel's shoes, sickly, dying (or so she had thought,) man.
That moment, her undying adoration for him had been altered irrevocably, or so she had thought.
One week . . .
One moment would be too long.
Oh you speak to me in riddles and you speak to me in rhymes
One moment, a veiled request for affection – another tear ran down her cheek as she closed her eyes and sighed, her memory rewinding once more to his story – and the next, the anger and hatred dripping from his voice as he crushed the spider with his bare hands. The temper that had been unleashed upon her as she unmasked him, compared with the way his voice wrapped with hers in song as they practiced.
The way his eyes searched hers, as though he were searching her very soul.
And yet . . .
My body aches to breathe your breath, your words keep me alive
Her head lifted from the cool glass, her hand still attached, as though she were trying to entwine it with the mirror-hand. For a moment, she thought she saw the outline of his mask across where her face was in the reflection.
"Erik," she whispered again. She imagined his hand where the mirror-hand resided, saw the two meld together, two becoming one. Her heart skipped out of time as the image superimposed itself on her mind.
Into this night I wander, it's morning that I dread . . .
So accustomed to his world of night had she become, suddenly she found herself regretting that the dawn must come. She found she had no will to move from where she leaned against the looking glass.
Another day of knowing of the path I fear to tread . . .
If he were with her now, would she have the courage she only dared to dream of? Would she be able to reach out and touch him?
Her eyes closed as she slowly lay down to the floor, her dress puddled around her, and her dreams were filled with him. Filled with herself, but not. A woman who was no longer afraid to touch Erik. To reach out to him. To remove the mask from his face and caress his naked skin. A woman who no longer shrank with revulsion at the thought of his deformity. A woman who was no longer a shrinking violet, but a magnificent rose.
A woman whose heart shone through her eyes.
A woman who . . .
She bolted upright, dazed, as her hand reached out for the mirror.
"Erik," she whispered once more. And her heart stopped as she once again saw in the mirror her hand melding with his. Her gaze rose from their joined hands and up to his face . . . but though she'd just seen his hand in her own, his face faded from the mirror, and left hers alone. Christine's eyes locked with the mirror-eyes. And what she saw there both shocked and calmed her.
A woman whose eyes shone with love.
Nothing stands between us here and I won't be denied . . .
Dear Lord! I love him. I am in love with Erik.
Her fear melted away as she caressed his masked face in the mirror. Her hand reached up for the mask.
And as she saw the image in the mirror, she knew she would never be able to wait out the week holding her emotions inside. Finally shaking off her lethargy, she drew herself to her feet and ran from the dressing room, her skirts flying around her ankles as her feet skimmed the floorboards.
It seemed no time a'tall – an eternity – before she'd managed open the gates to the Rue Scribe entrance. Her breath came in puffs on the cold air as her tiny hands worked the key, opened the gate, her heart racing the entire time as she made her way down to the lake.
In the pitch blackness that now surrounded her, she heard her voice echo against the walls as she cried out.
"Erik!"
The blackness stretched before her into eternity, and she found herself sinking to her knees once more.
Oh into the sea of waking dreams I follow without pride . . .
She felt the cool glass against her cheek once more, before she heard the voice from behind the mirror.
"Christine?"
Her eyes flew wide open as she lifted her head.
"You said . . ." Her voice trailed away, as her heart hammered in her chest.
Erik's reply was clipped, "I did."
"Please, Erik," she paused, her throat going dry. "There is . . . something I wish to speak to you about."
The silence on the other side of the mirror sent the fright running through her veins, its vastness interminable, before the mirror turned on its pivots, and her reflection disappeared, only to be replaced by the man. Flesh and blood man.
He stepped into her dressing room, his cape flowing gracefully behind him, before the mirror closed over. She could see them both reflected within, his back, her face. She took a deep breath.
I am in love with you.
How did one make such a declaration?
And I would be the one to hold you down, kiss you so hard,
I'll take your breath away
Not with words.
She closed the steps between them. Like the dream, the shrinking violet was replaced by the braveness of the rose. Her hands reached up towards his mask. She saw him flinch.
"Please, Erik," she whispered, her voice nearly choking in her throat from the emotion.
"Why?" he asked, his own voice choked, and she nearly felt herself shrink back before noticing the dampness beneath.
"Trust me," her strangled voice replied as he leaned into her, and allowed her to reach behind his head, and untie the ribbon holding his mask in place. It fluttered, unnoticed, to the ground by their feet as her hand moved to . . .
. . . and after I'd wipe away the tears . . .
Just close your eyes dear