I have officially caved. After three years of reading other magnificent author's works upon this site, I've finally plucked up the courage to put pen to paper (or my fingers upon the keyboard) and upload a new story. This is the first chapter of a longer story that will deal with the fundamental ideas of Phantom of the Opera, but take a slight sidetrack to explore the other side of Christine and Erik's character. Enjoy! :)
"Christine? Christine? Where are you?" A voice called from the doorway to the crumbly, dilapidated house that was known as home to Gustave Daae, a Swedish violinist whose fall from fame and subsequent ill-luck had led from one poor decision to another, and his only daughter, Christine.
"I am here father." The young girl of seventeen replied, tucking the loose tendrils of her dark chocolate curls that had come loose from their loose securing behind her ear, and depositing the scrubbing brush back into the pail of murky, soapy water, she stood, rubbing her hands on her apron before hurriedly exiting the room to greet her father.
"Christine, I expect my supper to be ready. Is it?" Gustave asked, his body swaying as he regarded his only daughter from watery, blood-shot eyes. The stench of alcohol and sweat clung to his clothing, and Christine had to fight back a wave of nausea as she approached him to take his coat and hat.
"Of course father. If you would please wash your hands, I shall go and serve dinner for you." She said, placing her father's belonging on the hook on the wall.
"Do not tell me what to do you little bitch." Her father roared, raising his hand as if to strike her.
"I am sorry father. Please.." She begged, her eyes wide with fear as she cowered beneath his penetrating gaze.
"Go. I cannot stand to look at you, you worthless little runt." Gustave spat, and avoiding his fist as she passed should he choose to attack, Christine quietly slipped into the kitchen, tears welling in her eyes. She could not stand to see her father in this state. It was the same each night. He would return to work, having stopped at the inn to drown his sorrow, and would return home late into the night drunk and violent, expecting Christine to fulfil his whims without objection for fear of his fists or a beating with his belt. It had been the same since her mother died three years ago, a time when her father had been loving and gentle and a world class violinist telling her stories of the Angel of Music and Little Lotte. But now, that was nothing more than a fleeting memory.
Wiping away her tears with the corner of her apron, she began with the task at hand, ladling the pitiful amount of meat and potato stew into a chipped and tarnished dish. Retrieving a knife, one of the very few items of value that they possessed, she began to hack at the stale, rock hard loaf, more curls springing loose in the process.
"Christine." Gustave Daae yelled, his voice reverberating around the few simple rooms of their lodgings. Although it pained her daily as to how far they had fallen from luxury and splendour afforded to her father's fame, they were luckier than most, who had to share one dismal room with several strangers in the foul, stinking slums of Paris.
"I am coming father." Christine replied, returning to her father in the main living area where the two of them also slept, her hands full of his supper and a mug of water that she had collected earlier from the communal pump.
" Here you are father. I hope it pleases you." She said, waiting for approval as she careful handed him his meal. Tearing off a huge chunk of the bread, he savagely swiped it into the stew and into his mouth, wolfing it down without properly chewing. It was wrong of her, she knew, but she sometimes prayed to God that one day he would choke on his bread and she would be liberated at last from the constant cycle of fear.
"Is it acceptable?" Christine ventured, hoping desperately that he would be satisfied and not beat her for her insolence. In reply, her father nodded once, her only acknowledgement for the hours she had spent slaving away before the stove, preparing a meal for him that would not ignite his fury.
"May I have some supper father?" She asked timidly. Once again, a nod served as a reply, and she quickly left the room, her stomach growling from lack of nutrition. She was afforded only one meal per day, except for the few small scraps she took here and there, for the little money that her father earned was spent primarily on his alcohol addiction and a poor second on food to feed him, without regard for his daughter. Retrieving the loaf of bread, she cut herself a chunk and a small slither from her father's lump of cheese. She dared not take more than that for the very real threat of punishment hung like a heavy raincloud over her young head. Carefully, so as not to damage her teeth on the unforgiving bread, she took a bite and slowly chewed, the muscles of her jaw aching with the exertion.
Suddenly, she stopped mid chew, her jaw slowly closing as she listened, her heightened senses tuning in to an occasional thud and muffled call. It was hard to tell where the noise was coming from, for the walls that divided their quarters from their neighbours were as thin as a sheet of cardboard as just as sturdy.
"Father. Father. Is everything alright?" She called, tensing for the expected harsh reply. Silence. With fear and dread in her heart, she swiftly walked into the adjoining room, but upon entering, overwhelming fear causing her to gasp, her hands flying to her mouth in horror.
" 'ello sweet-cheeks."