Disclaimer: I own nothing save the clothes on my back and the computer oupon which I relay this story to you all. Thank you.
The rain poured down outside the window, the sky overcast and dreary. It was impossible to tell what time of day it was; the sun had not shown itself all day and a few before this. The young woman sat, silent as death, in a dark room, the only light a small candle next to her on a table. The only sound that seemed to echo and bounce off the walls of the room was a small creaking from the rocking chair she was in as she slowly rocked back and forth. The curtains had been drawn back, to reveal the bleak outside. Blank eyes stared out the window, soulless and empty.
All the days had been like this for her; silent and spent in the same rocking chair, by the same window, in the same room. When night fell, a candle was brought to her room as she stared out the window at the sky. Nothing affected her, nothing seemed to phase her at all. And the only movement she made was every night at eleven o'clock, and every morning just before sunrise, to move from the chair to the bed, or bed to chair. Every day, every night. It was all the same. She had not spoken a word, and rarely ate; not for months, it seemed. Not since the miscarriage.
They had told her that it was due to a frail heart, the stillborn. At the time, all she could do was nod, tears swimming up and clouding her vision. Before all faded to black, all she could see was the tiny babe, dead in the doctor's arms. 'Perfect in every way' She had heard the doctor say sadly. And then she was gone, pulled away to another realm by unconsciousness. Particularly at that moment, she had thought it was death, finally come to her. She was wrong. Her sleep was shrouded in dark dreams of the past, that would not relinquish their hold upon her.
She came to but a few hours later, to see groggily the doctor still there, speaking to her husband. They could still see her, their sides to her, and so, in her drowsiness, she kept her eyes shut, pretending sleep. They continued their conversation.
"I am sorry for the loss of the child, monsieur le viscomte. I did all that I could."
"Oui…" The voice sounded weary, saddened. "Oui, I know. You said it was due to a frail heart?" There was a pause and a sigh was heard.
"That was not completely true. I believe the cause of death was your wife's depression; her eating habits, such things. It can kill a child, while still in the womb." There was another rather long pause, and the viscomte's wife lay still and silent, her breath caught in her throat in shock. Tears were threatening to spill over her cheeks now, but she could not let them, it would give her away.
"Her depression…you believe it was Christine's depression that killed our child?"
"I do, sadly. Other than the baby having a weak heart. I could only hear a very faint heartbeat when I checked."
"Christ…she can never know of this…it would break her heart…" there was a short pause.
"The secret is safe with me, monsieur le viscomte. Tell me, do you know what started this depression? What has she been doing? Anything out of the ordinary? Do you know what could have started this?" Another sigh was heard, and the young woman, Christine, was sure it was her husband.
"I think it began when she left the Opera house. She had…many memories there. As for what she has been doing…she has been silent. Never speaking a word. But at night…" His voice was choked. "Sometimes I hear her crying…crying in her sleep…I never know why…she will never say. She's only recently started her odd eating habit…rarely eating…" there was a short pause, and Christine figured the doctor was nodding.
"I see…well…should this persist, you should contact a therapist…"
"I have. None can see anything that would trigger this…none can diagnose anything save deep depression. We have tried to help her….therapy….letting her speak to someone in private….nothing works. They said all she would do was sit and stare out the window." He sighed, his voice pained. "I just wish we could help her to get back to her old self…the way she is now…it isn't her…" there was a patting sound, and she knew the doctor was patting her husband on the shoulder.
"I am sure she will be fine, monsieur le viscomte. I would continue to seek professional help, from the psychologists, and see how far that gets."
And with that, the doctor had left, leaving wife and husband alone. Christine had heard her husband move, and felt him sit on the edge of her bed. She was completely still and silent as he stroked her face from cheek to forehead, lost in her own thoughts.
It was true, she had fallen into a great depression. Thoughts of death swam in and out of her thoughts, death seeming to be the only escape, the only end to her suffering, her only way out. It was also true that psychologists had tried to help her, but she would not talk. She did not wish to speak to anyone, only him, and the news in the 'Epoque' had shattered those hopes. Once, earlier in her pregnancy, she had tried to commit suicide, by 'accidentally' falling into the lake by their manor. She was, of course, the only one who knew that she could not swim. But after that she kept the life of her child in mind, as the pregnancy progressed. She did not want to lose this baby…Not his baby…this was her child now. It was her secret, and hers alone that this child did not belong to her husband, did not belong to Raoul.
She could remember when she had found out, back when she performed at the Opera Garnier. She remembered wanting to hide it from him until it began to show…not wanting him to know. Not yet. And with Raoul back in her life…luckily, she had found only shortly before they were married, and was able to convince Raoul that it was indeed his child that she carried. He hadn't questioned the time period, in his joy, and she was thankful for that. But when the news came in the 'Epoque', her happiness for this baby shattered around her like a glass bubble. What would she do? She had two choices. Raise the child under false pretenses, or death. Death seemed at the time like the more reasonable of the two.
And so, one windy December morning, she threw herself through the thin ice into the frigid waters of their small lake. In what seemed like an odd coincidence, just as the water was getting to her, and she was close to death's door, a servant happened to inspect the hole in the ice, see her, and leap into the water to save her. She came to days later, cold and pale and lying in she and Raoul's bedroom, in their bed. After that, she decided that she would protect this child….it was all she had left of her angel. But every night was worse and worse, as her dreams brought painful reminders of the Angel of Music. She had woken many a time, tears streaming down her cheeks, huddled up against the pillows, shaking with sobs. This seemed to drive her slowly to breaking point as she went through the days.
She didn't know of the servants telling Raoul about her unconscious humming. She didn't know they told him about her singing to herself. It was unbearable….she had begun to hear his voice call to her…to sing to her, as if beckoning her to some far off place in time. Everywhere she went, she could hear him, a cold reminder of things past. She had also begun to see him in the mirrors…when she looked, she saw him staring back at her, if she were to look hard enough. It seemed she could not escape him, no matter what she did…and finally, it drove her to near insanity. She locked up; never said a word to anyone, barely ate, and spent her days staring out the window of her bedroom. No one could get through to her, or so it seemed, their words fell on deaf ears. She would not respond to anything.
But that was all before the death of her child at birth. At the moment she longed to hold her baby in her arms, to coo to her child, and to have her and her angel's babe safe against her breast, they had shaken their heads, and told her it was a stillborn. Her entire world had shattered in that moment, and she had fallen against the pillows, unconscious. It had been perfect….perfect in every way…
That was when she remembered something vital.
Sitting in her rocking chair, three months in the future, Christine's blank eyes focused for a moment, and if anyone had been near her, they could have told you that the pale young woman gasped, a shuddering breath escaping from her lips as she trembled noticeably. And in that instance something came to her mind that she had long since forgotten about, and she moved for the first time to get up from her rocking chair before sunset. Her half lidded eyes stared listlessly out ahead of her, but she knew where she was headed. To her dresser, and to a small drawer. Slipping her hand in, and feeling around at the top of the drawer, a small compartment was opened, and she gently placed its contents in her hand. Looking down at it, tears came to her eyes, and fell down her cheeks as she stood there, and brought up an index finger to gently stroke a small gold ring in her palm. A simple wedding band.
But it was not as simple as that, and tears continued to fall, seemingly unnoticed by our Viscomtess. It was his ring, the ring she had promised to return. Now, she knew what she had to do. Without a word, she wrapped her cloak about herself as the rain stopped temporarily, walking out the door, and silently down the hall, past the startled servants. Down past Raoul's sitting room, past her awed husband, and, with him on her heels, out the front door and to the stables, saying not a word, making not a sound.
"Christine! Christine!" Raoul shouted, running up to her, but she seemed to not hear him. And in reality, she hadn't. She could only hear her angel's words in her head, and her mind was only fixed on what she had to do. And so, unable to stop her or get through to her, Raoul watched helplessly as Christine readied a horse, and mounted, riding off quickly. But as she rode off, he readied himself a horse, to follow her. She was not safe alone, not in her condition.
But Christine was fully aware of what she was doing, where she was going. And finally she stopped her mount in front of the Opera Garnier, dismounting and walking swiftly up the steps and to the doors.
She entered as silently as she had come, not bothering to look around at the place she had missed so desperately. Ignoring looks from bystanders, and from a few of the younger girls she had known, she made her was to her old dressing room, which was, luckily, empty. Moving to the mirror door, she did as she had done so many years ago, disappearing through the door, and into the catacombs of the Opera House. She paused only once to go back and light a torch, and then traveled down the path she had once feared to tread, down, down to the lake and the house upon it, the house she had once stayed in with him, with her angel. To her great shock, she found a torch lit by the house, and for the second time, a gasp escaped her. She knew there was a boat docked near here, that this was the only way to cross the lake.
As if in a trance, she moved silently to the small boat, and sat down, slowly paddling across the glassy water. Apparently, the boat had been left on the other side of the water thinking no one would return to this place. The white horse of the Profeta, César, was gone, and so it had taken her much longer to get down here than she had at first thought. Of course, the demons in front of the boilers were still there, but she had not seemed to notice them as they stood, all black and stoking their fires of the boilers. But now she was here, and that was what mattered. She was nearing the other side, and against the dim light of the cavern, she looked more of a ghostly wisp than ever. Her skin was pallid from lack of food, and she was thin, thinner than she had ever been, and looked slightly gaunt. Her eyes, looking rather glazed over, had lost their old sparkle, dull blue irises laying in their sockets. Her curly hair had lost its shine, and she looked altogether rather ghostly.
She paddled on, losing strength through the bluey light, the light she had told Raoul of on the roof of the Opera. A single light blazed through the bluish glow, hanging next to the door of the house on the lake, and it looked so very out of place that she gazed at it for a moment, starting slightly only when the boat gently bumped the shore. Securing it to a small metal rod, she stepped out, pulled her cloak about her, and went to the door. Who could be in the house? How queer that there would be a lantern when the house's inhabitants were supposedly dead and gone! It seemed rather insane to do, and it was against her better judgement, but she raised a trembling hand and rapped three times on the door. There was a long pause, and it was what seemed like an eternity before she observed the doorknob twist ever so slowly, and the door opened. For but a moment, light issued forth from the doorway, brighter than the light in the cavern, and she was forced to squint for a few moments. When her eyes focused, what she saw made her faint away. To the unfocused eye, it was simply a dark figure standing in the doorway, shadowed by the lack of light in the doorway. But the form leaned forward and into the light of the lantern by the door to grab the poor fainted Viscomtess, and was revealed for all to see. What a sight it was!
She woke from a fevered sleep a few hours later in the Louis-Philippe room, lying on the bed she had once been to sleep in when she had spent the five days in this house. The door to the room opened suddenly, and this time, she was accustomed to the candlelight. There stood a man in the doorway, dressed in black, a gentleman's suit. Upon his face lay a mask, and immediately, she knew this man, but could not believe it were true. For the man standing before her was supposed to be dead! A shuddering gasp yet again escaped the rather frightened girl, and her eyes actually focused instead of remaining dull for the first time in quite a while. The man, too, looked a bit startled, or, about as startled as he could look to see her awake. Then his facial features hardened. Christine was close to faint again, but the sleep had helped her regain lost strength, so she felt a bit better than she had.
She had placed the ring on one of her fingers, and now stroked it absentmindedly, staring at this man in slight horror. Was this just another of her hallucinations? But no, it spoke to her.
"Why did you not come sooner, Christine?"