So, in order to continue with my tradition to start a new story before the previous one is finished, here is the first chapter of "Black Despair". And, calm down, You Are Love, there won't be any Raoul-husband or - Heaven forbid! - Raoul-babies. I promise she won't go through with the wedding.
And now the bad news: There won't be an update for either story next week. Sorry, friends, but I will be away over the weekend and have a house guest coming immediately upon my return. So expect my next post in two weeks and try not to forget me till then... Maybe you can use that time to form a first opinion on this story and leave me a review. Oh, and the M-rating is not necessarily for overly sexy scenes, as it is, they are far from anything in that regard right now ;-)
Anyway, I still don't own anything or anybody.
Chapter 1 - Night
Christine woke up with a barely suppressed scream. She had had the same dream again, that terrible dream that had haunted her sleep ever since that night. She sobbed into the pillows, trying not to wake anybody. It was bad enough that she could not find rest anymore, it would be too embarrassing to wake up Raoul's aunt. The old lady had been reluctant enough to take her in and act as her chaperone till the wedding, which would take place in about another week.
Christine sighed. Her situation was precarious enough even without that dream. It was only too obvious that Raoul's family did not really approve of her. In their eyes she was a theater girl of questionable reputation who had somehow tricked Raoul into proposing to her and their dear boy was now stuck with her. Up until that night, though, the de Chagnys had at least been polite, though utterly cold. But now that tout Paris talked about her performance as Aminta, how she had abandoned herself to the seductive music and to – him, they blatantly ignored her and showed her their contempt in every possible way. Not in Raoul's presence, though, oh no. Whenever her fiancé was there, they kept up appearances, though Christine suspected, that behind her back, they tried to influence him, turn him against her, convince him that she was impure, and thus make him break up their engagement.
But somehow that threat to her future did not scare Christine nearly as much as that dream. What really caused her to toss in her bed most of the nights, unable to find sleep, was fear of having that dream again, of having to face the consequences of her actions again, of feeling his eyes on her again, gazing into hers with that look of utter desperation and sadness, yet at the same time full of love.
Christine shook her head to clear her mind. She needed to calm down. She could not let a dream disturb her so, she needed her strength to deal with the numerous other problems in her life. But when she closed her eyes, the vision of her former tutor appeared again before her mind's eye, the way he had looked that last night: his hideous face bare, disheveled, his shirt open, his clothes wet from wading around in the subterranean lake, the madness that had possessed him earlier that night still lingering at the bottom of his eyes – those sad, sad eyes, that had looked at her with so much love, while his breaking voice had told her that he loved her. Still loved her, after all she had done to him, after the ultimate betrayal, when she had acted as bait on stage to draw him out, so that the gendarmes that Raoul had placed all over the Opéra Populaire could capture him – kill him. Even after she had exposed his deformed face to the audience, he still loved her.
"He is a criminal," Christine tried to shake that feeling of guilt that followed her ever since that night. "He deserved what he got." She winced. Deep down she knew that that was only partly true. Yes, he had done terrible things, he had killed Buquet and Piangi, had made the chandelier drop down on the audience and set the building on fire, and last, but not least, had threatened to kill her dear Raoul. But if she was honest, he had committed most of these crimes only when seriously provoked. The chandelier, for instance, had had to come down, in order to allow her Ang... – him – to escape during the ensuing chaos. It could be considered a – rather extreme, true, but still – act of self-defense. Piangi might have tried to stop him single-handedly and had thus met his demise. As for Raoul – well, that had been a fight between rivals, between two men competing for her affection. No, if she was honest, she could not put all the blame on her former tutor, part of all that had happened was her fault as well, another part was Raoul's fault, who had plotted to kill his adversary, and society as a whole was to blame for his miserable life, for the pain he had suffered because of something that was not his fault at all, his hideous, disfigured face. For the rejection, pain and suffering that had shaped him and turned him into the mad, aggressive, angry criminal that she had so feared.
Christine's tears were now running freely, as she thought about how much her – Angel must have endured in his life. Not even his mother had been able to love him, he had said, she had forced him to wear a mask, to hide his deformed features, so that she would not have to face her son's physical flaw. Christine shivered as she realized that she had not treated him any better than his mother. She, too, had easily been convinced to think only the worst of him, because of that cursed face, that seemed to signal to everybody "he is a monster". Deep down, she knew that even though he could not expect her to return his feelings, after all he had done for her, he could have at least expected her loyalty, her trust, her friendship. After all, he had had no obligations towards her. When he found her crying in the chapel all those years ago, he could have just as well walked away and ignored her. But he had not. He had done the decent thing, he had stayed on and befriended her, comforted her. For ten years he had been her best friend, the most important person in her life. He had given her nothing but kindness, comfort, knowledge and music. He would have deserved some recognition of his friendship. But how had she repaid him for all those years of watching over her?
"By almost delivering him into the hands of the gendarmes," she sobbed. "And by exposing his face to the whole audience, thus hurting his pride. And then I had the gall to tell him that the true distortion was within his soul, when my own soul was so flawed and ungrateful!"
Christine thought back to all the many hours she had spent with her Angel over the years. How much she owed him! How much she had learned from him, not just about music and singing. He had been the major influence in her young life for such a long time, and then, suddenly, she had forgotten about the good that was undoubtedly in this man and had judged him based on his face, his temper and – Buquet. But had she ever asked him, what really had happened between him and the stagehand that night? No, she had judged him, labeled him a murderer and turned from him, without bothering to hear his side of the story.
"It might have been me," Christine realized. "It might have been my attitude, my lack of trust, what drove him over the edge!" And once again, she remembered him the way he had looked when she had last seen him, when she had returned the ring to him and thus had killed what little hope he had still harbored in his heart.
Those eyes! Christine shook violently. No, she would never be able to forget those incredibly sad eyes, that had adored her, even when she had virtually plunged a dagger into his heart.
"I hope he is fine," Christine thought. She knew that he had not been captured or killed, all of Paris was wondering how he could have possibly gotten away. Therefore, unless he had perished in the burning opera house, he must have been able to escape. At that thought Christine felt incredibly relieved. At least she did not have his blood on her hands. She had not killed him, even though she probably had destroyed him. But in all likelihood he was alive. He must be hiding somewhere.
Christine sighed. His eyes once again seemed to look at her. Those sad, sad eyes would follow her till the end of her days, she would never be able to forget that last look he had given her. "In his eyes all the sadness of the world," she whispered, tears running down her cheeks.
"Angel, forgive me," she sobbed. "Despite all your crimes, despite the fear you inspired in me by killing Buquet, you did not deserve this – this utter betrayal. I did not even have the decency to ask you, why... I did not give you a chance to defend yourself, I judged you without hearing you. Yes, it is true, you killed a fellow human being, and murder is a terrible crime, no matter what, but maybe there would have been attenuating circumstances, maybe I could at least have understood if not forgiven. But most certainly I should not have listened to Raoul, let him talk me into acting as bait during the performance of Don Juan. What if you had been caught that night? They would never have given you a fair trial, they would have hanged you, or..." She shuddered. "The guillotine..."
The thought of her Angel's ugly head severed from his shoulders by the falling blade made her shake and sob uncontrollably. Her imagination presented the scene of his execution to her inner eye: the crowd, all excited about the criminal's impending death, all anxious to see him suffer. Him, her Angel, filthy and weak from weeks of imprisonment, where he would have suffered countless indignities and humiliations at the hands of cruel guards, his face bare, so that all of Paris could see the monster's ugliness, but his hands tied behind his back, so that he could not cover his deformity. And her, in the middle of the cheering crowd, overcome by guilt, close to fainting at seeing him on display in such a cruel way, yet unable to turn away from the spectacle. And then... he would look up, his eyes searching the crowd, until they met hers. His eyes would caress her lovingly, and his lips would soundlessly form the words "Christine, I love you." And then... he would bow his head to the blade...
"No!" Christine once again barely suppressed a scream. No, that was just her imagination, she reminded herself. That had not really happened. "Not yet," she murmured. "At least not yet. But it could still happen, if they find him... As long as he stays in Paris, in France even, he will not be safe. And it will all be my fault. He had haunted the Opéra Populaire for years, extorted money from the previous manager, played his pranks on cast and crew, but nobody ever thought about hunting him down, until..." She hung her head. Until she had told Raoul about him, greatly exaggerating things in her panic after Buquet's death.
How could Raoul have believed all the crap she told him that night? That the Phantom would kill and kill again, kill even as many as a thousand men? Had he not realized that she was under the influence of a heavy shock, traumatized? That her words should be taken with a grain of salt? How could he not have noticed that what she was saying did not make any sense? For there had been rumors about the Phantom - for how many years? Probably more than she had known her Angel. Raoul must have heard those rumors, too, even though his family had only recently become patrons. How many violent deaths had been attributed to the Phantom in all these years? Right, none. So why would anybody expect him to suddenly turn into a merciless murderer, intent on slaying thousands?
Now that Christine could think about it rationally, she knew that he was not the bloodthirsty killer she had painted to Raoul that night, on the rooftop, when she had finally accepted her childhood friend's love. But why had Raoul not seen that? Why had he believed her every word?
"Because of those words, Raoul considered him a threat, a danger to me and everybody else at the Opéra," Christine thought. "Because of what I told him that night, he tried to hunt down and kill my Angel."
It was that simple. Her actions had put her former tutor at grave risk, her actions had led to the destruction of the Opéra and thus his home. Whatever happened to that man now, was all her fault. He had been there for her for years, had comforted her and nurtured her, had taught her so many things, had helped her develop her voice and made her a star. And what had she done in return? She had broken his heart, chased him from his home and made his life even more miserable than it had already been before.
Christine tossed nervously on her bed. "I need to put things right," she thought. "At least, as much as is humanly possible. I can never erase all the pain I caused him, but I must try to make amends. Somehow I must make sure he is alright. I owe him that much. He took care of me when I needed somebody, now it is my turn to help him. That man is my responsibility. It is my duty to repay him for his kindness towards me, when I was a lonely, fatherless orphan."
That was easier said than done, though. Christine realized that it would not be easy to carry out her plan. First of all, she did not know where to find her Angel. Was he even still in Paris? Maybe he had left town that very night and was long gone? But even if he was still in Paris, how could she go about searching for him? Raoul could not know what she was doing. He would not understand, he would downright forbid her to try and contact that – thing – as he used to refer to her Angel. But how could she keep something like that from her fiancé? Raoul paid her lengthy visits on a daily basis, and the rest of her time was occupied with preparations for their upcoming wedding. It would not go unnoticed, if she tried to make some time for herself, in order to plan her search for the man that had once been her Angel and then had been turned into a mad criminal through her fault.
Suddenly Christine had an idea. "Mme. Giry!" she thought. "If anybody here in Paris knows anything about his whereabouts, it's probably her!" She grinned. All it would take to start her search would be to contact Mme. Giry. Doing so would be comparatively easy. Christine had pushed for Meg to be her bridesmaid, and Raoul had grudgingly agreed. While he was not overly pleased with the idea of having a ballet girl as his future wife's bridesmaid, he felt he had to somehow honor the Giry-family to thank Mme. Giry for her help that night. So, all Christine needed to do was make a visit to the Giry-household, claiming to have some bridesmaid-details to discuss with Meg, and she would be able to ask the former ballet mistress if she knew where he was at the moment. Mme. Giry would know, Christine was convinced of that, and she would tell her. Once she knew, she could plan how to contact him.
But what if... What if for some reason or other Mme. Giry did not know anything? Or what, if she did not want to tell her or had been forbidden to tell her? How should she find him then? Christine sighed. She had to admit to herself that she had not the slightest idea what to do if she could not get the desired information from Mme. Giry. She only knew that it was imperative that she find him and talk to him. It was the single most important thing she had to do, even more important than getting married to Raoul next week. She needed to see him, to make sure he was fine and held her no grudge. To implore and be granted his forgiveness.
"What if I cannot find him?" she sobbed, "or what if he does not forgive me? What if he is so hurt that it is impossible to put things right for him again?"
Christine shivered at the thought that it might be too late, that his heartache and the pain caused by her betrayal might have been too much for him to bear, that he might have done something drastic and very, very permanent. That she might never be able to see him again, talk to him and beg his forgiveness. That she might be responsible for his death after all.
"Holy Virgin, Queen of the Heavens," she prayed, "keep him save, protect him. I see my sin now, I know now how wrong I was. Please give me a chance to make amends, to at least try and heal the wound I caused him. I know I cannot do anything about the fact that he loves me, for it is impossible to force one's heart, but maybe we can remain friends, maybe I can make it so that he can remember me without bitterness. Maybe I can make him understand that despite everything I do care for him. I know that's not exactly what he hoped for, but it's more than he has now, and maybe he can learn to be grateful for whatever kind of affection I have to offer him..."
Christine decided to go see the Girys next thing in the morning. She had wasted too many days already. She had to find her Angel, she had to see him once again, to offer him her friendship, to make sure he would not look at her with so much desperation and hurt as he had done that last night. If she could bring him some peace of mind again, if she could somehow alleviate the pain she had caused him, she was certain, then he would stop haunting her dreams. Only then would she be free of that nightmare, that kept her restless and disturbed her, only then would she be able to truly put the past behind her, to look forward and start her new life with Raoul.