Perhaps I am not who I believe myself to be.
I know I am certainly not what my father thought I was, nor am I who my fiancé perceives me as.
You would think me mad if I told you that the only person on the whole of this earth that understood me was a ghost.
My logical mind tells me that he is not a ghost, but a man. Yet a part of me wants to give in and believe that he really is a spirit from another realm. That someone, somewhere, cares enough about me to crossover and protect me.
My own father did not love me as much, God rest his soul. So for some stranger to break free of whatever was tethering him to his rest, for the sole purpose of being my friend... Is it any wonder I feel he knows me better than all?
He is so kind to me. I would follow him in a heart's beat. He has been my only companion for a number of years. Longer even than my Raoul.
Oh, my dear Raoul. He is so very sweet. Absolutely doting on me with every chance he gets. His sisters enjoy my company, and I adore them. They have all been so welcoming, and Raoul the perfect suitor. I could not ask for anything more. And yet...
Yet I still find myself aching for something else. Something more. I feel vaguely out of place in my perfect life. Slightly detached, as if I were viewing my own experiences from a different perspective. It unsettles me. Each time I mention this feeling to my spectre, he is silent for a long while, as if pondering some important thing. He, too, must be puzzled by this condition of which I suffer otherwise silently.
Sometimes I believe I can almost smell him distantly. I always associate him with roses and crushed pine needles. One scent without the other now seems incomplete. Most music, now, is empty as well, after hearing his. The only way to describe the sound is heavenly and ethereal.
It strikes me that my ghost may not be a ghost at all, but an angel. The thought appeals to me, and I bite my lower lip in thought. I can feel Raoul's eyes on me, but I do not seek to meet them. Not now. It is best that he is left ignorant about my inner thoughts. I should not change his perception of me now. Not two weeks before our wedding day.
No, it is best that my angel remains my own little secret. I feel a little giddy at the thought, and I wonder if this is how girls feel when they entertain more than one suitor. I suppose it may very well be that they have similar feelings, but I dismiss the errant thought from my head without so much as a sniff.
"Christine, darling, you look to be in some sort of trance," Raoul says, reaching out and placing his warm hand in my own.
"Not at all," I reply with a gentle smile, smoothly taking my hand from his. I am not very comfortable with Raoul's touch, though many married women tell me that is perfectly normal and I would grow accustomed to such things.
"Christine." A harsh whisper reverberates through me. It is him. He has not spoken to me in many moons. I stand swiftly, following the general direction of my ghost. Raoul watches me for a moment, then asks where I am going. My response is something akin to needing fresh air, but I am not paying entirely enough attention to my own voice. I can see in my peripheral vision Raoul returning his attention to the opera we are currently viewing. He knows it is a habit of mine to disappear for a few moments just after the beginning of the second act.
"Christine." It comes from my left now, and I turn sharply to follow it. I find myself standing in front of an ornate mirror. How I got to where I am currently standing is unclear to me, but I study my reflection in the mirror closely.
My pale, swan-like skin brings out my blue eyes, and my loose golden curls are a nice contrast to my deeply pink lips. Some women would snigger and call me vain if they saw me studying my own reflection. But I never could understand what was wrong with appreciating beauty where it could be found.
I find myself leaning closer to the mirror until it seems that I may fall through.
And then I do.
I am too astonished to scream as a firm, gloved hand catches me and pulls me up. This touch does not make me uncomfortable. I turn my gaze upward, only vaguely registering that my rescuer is wearing a mask, before I turn around to see the mirror swing shut behind me.
I am behind a mirror in the dark with a masked man whom I do not know.
How exciting.
"Christine." I feel gooseflesh appear on my skin, and I open my mouth to reply, though no words come out. The man lights a torch which apparently had been making its home on the wall previously. I can see the bracket on which it sat, though now it is in the left hand of my mysterious phantom.
We are in a tunnel, and my phantom is studying me. I realize that he's looking for signs of fear. I search myself for them, too. I find none, and I meet his eyes - they are slightly mismatched shades of grey - and I reach out for his hand and take it within my own. I feel a thrill, and the gooseflesh returns, but still I am not afraid.
He is still watching me, and I tilt my head up to look at him. Overcome with a sense of something, I stand on my toes, as he is quite tall, and place my lips on his.
My eyes are closed, but I feel his hand come around my waist. I hear the torch clatter to the floor and sizzle out. I can smell him, like smoke and the sea.
And then, nothing. I open my eyes, and Raoul is still holding my hand, and the opera is still going on.
Nothing but a dream.
Fin.