Wow. Wow. I haven't posted anything in a really really REALLY long time. Actually, I posted my most recent story so long ago that reading it actually makes me cringe. Anyway, since I have a ton of revision to do for my A-Levels in January, the only logical thing for me to do is put revision on hiatus and write another story. Oh yeah, and start playing Sims2 again.
Recently, I watched the movie Phantom of the Opera, and MY GOD, it's amazing. I'm going to see it in Her Majesty's Theatre next year and I actually can't wait. I have a feeling 2012 is going to be a good year. Plus, I'm joining one of the best non-vocational ballet schools in England in January, and auditioning for RADA. So excited akjsznckjd bsfjc dnxzlksmcszmcdj vds.
Right, well, on with the story. I couldn't just leave poor old Erik where ALW did, alone and crying. Plus there was that whole thing with Meg finding his mask. And their matching costumes at the end of the movie (ErikxMeg was clearly meant to be). I just had to give him some love, and that love just happens to come in the form of a blonde ballerina…
Oh, and I don't own the Phantom of the Opera, just the DVD and tickets to see the show in London. That is all.
The mask lay there, smooth and white and unassuming. It was also the thing that caught my eye, even amidst the grandeur of the deserted lair. I picked it up and turned it thoughtfully over in my hands. Somewhere in the bowels of the Opera House, there was a tortured soul, angry and alone, wandering without his disguise. This image sparked pity in my heart, despite the deaths I knew he was responsible for. Despite the torment and confusion he had caused within the Opera Populaire over the past few months. I just couldn't shake the image of his face from my mind, the bewildered and hurt expression he had worn when Christine had shown the world what lay beneath the mask.
The sounds of destruction drew closer to where I stood, and I bit my lip. The Phantom had millions of secret passages and tunnels throughout the Opera House, and was most likely far away by now. And where was Christine, my sweet and naïve friend who was so easily lured in by the mysterious O.G.? I felt conflicted. Should I help the mob search the vast tunnels for the murderer who had taken the lives of people I had known for years, or should I find my mother and distance the both of us from our former home that was, even now, burning to the ground?
Clutching the mask resolutely to my chest, I stood. I wouldn't help this group of vigilantes find the Phantom. He had killed, yes, but he had also been Christine's 'Angel of Music' since she was seven years old. I couldn't hunt him down like an animal, chain him up and stand his before a magistrate who would never even consider giving him a fair trial. I fled the same way I had come, pushing past the thugs who were destroying the palace the Phantom had created for himself.
The water of the lake was cool as I waded through it, trousers clinging to my legs. I tied the mask around my neck, using the drawstrings on my collar before deciding which direction to take. I knew returning the way I had come would be pointless, since I had no idea if the fire above was still raging out f control. Instead, I tried to keep to the largest tunnel in hope of exiting aboveground somewhere. This was easier said than done, as the tunnel kept branching off in various directions and forking far too often for my liking. I lost track of time wandering the underground canals, which sometimes grew so deep I had to stand on my toes to keep my head above the water.
Eventually, I came to a large, dark opening in the tunnel wall that looked reasonably dry. Exhausted, I hauled myself out of the water and sat for a moment with my back against the rough stone. The passage beyond was dark unlike the canals, which were lighted with candles and gas lamps. Obviously this was one tunnel the Phantom didn't frequent. Nonetheless, I decided my best bet would be to follow the dry route, since the effort of wading through water had turned even my strong dancer's legs to jelly. Determinedly, I climbed to my feet and started down the tunnel. To my horror, it grew narrow after some time and I had to move sideways to keep from getting stuck. I squeezed my eyes shut and breathed shallowly through my mouth. Small spaces were one of the things I hated most in this world. The pressing darkness and stone walls squeezing me from both sides terrified me, and I forced myself to keep moving forwards. I tried not to think about what would happen if I got stuck and couldn't free myself, for I knew that the idea of dying trapped and alone in a musty underground cavern would render me senseless.
Hot tears poured down my cheeks as I forced my body through the increasingly narrow tunnel. The air seemed thick and stale, and tendrils of hair stuck to my wet cheeks. I felt I was suffocating, unable to breathe properly in the confined space. Something ran over my foot and I sobbed aloud, clenching my fists to keep me from breaking down completely. I couldn't afford to lose my head, not here. Just when I convinced myself that the tunnel had grown so narrow I was sure to die down here, the passageway opened out. I collapsed, shaking with relief onto the floor and gulping in lungful after lungful of air.
"Marguerite Giry, get a hold of yourself," I whispered fiercely, picking myself up off the damp floor and squinting into the gloom. A little light filtered in through a grate of some kind high above me, and I could see that I was in a small chamber about the size of the chapel back at the Opera house. To my horror, it appeared that there was no clear way out, other than the way I had just come. Forcing myself not to cry, I decided to walk around the edges of the room in search of a hidden exit. A noise sounded in the darkness a few feet from where I stood, and the hairs on my arms rose. I froze. Whatever made that sound was far larger than a rat. My heart thudded so loudly I was convinced whatever was in the room with me would hear it.
"Who's there?" I drew myself up to my full height and tried to sound imposing. "I- I'm warning you. I'm armed," To my surprise, a soft chuckle emanated from the shadows.
"Little Giry. Have you come to hunt me down and bring me to justice? You always were one for adventure," The voice was bitter yet eloquent with pain. My memory stirred, and I gasped as I recalled an encounter from almost ten years ago.
"You go Meg, I'm scared!"
"Yes, let Meg go. She's always so brave!" The girls crowded round me in the dormitory, small hands pushing me towards to door. I clutched a small box tightly in my hand, holding my small candle aloft in the other.
"Hush, petites rats! You'll wake Madam Giry," One of the older girls hissed. She had, along with the other advanced students, remained in her bed. They considered themselves above our childish antics, but, possibly remembering their pranking days, did not interfere with our jokes and often warned us if they heard Maman approaching. The other girls fell silent and gestured wildly to me. I nodded and slipped from the room, candlelight illuminating the shadowy corridor. With the hushes calls of "Good luck" echoing around me, I padded barefoot down the narrow staircase and through the maze of the backstage area, arriving in the wing of the grand stage within a few minutes. The theatre was empty and dark, the gas lamps extinguished. I had no idea of the exact time, but it must be late if all the stage hands had already retired.
Setting my box and candle down at the edge of the stage, I stepped out of the wings and into the middle, white nightgown billowing around my bare legs. The costume rails had been left to one side, and I approached with interest. The stiff ballet tutus of the elder girls hung neatly in rows, adorned with ribbons and flowers. I stroked the fabric of the costumes longingly. The youngest members of the ballet house were never given the opportunity to dance in any performances, and I sighed. It would be at least four years before Maman allowed me to progress to pointe work, and another two years before I was good enough to dance onstage in the corps. At age eight, the most I could do was take lessons and hope, along with the other ballet rats, that I would one day be picked for the company.
With a quick glance around, I slipped one of the tutus off the rail and pulled my nightgown over my head. I knew the garment would be far too big, but I put it on and tying the bodice and ribbons as tightly as I could. Even so, the straps slid from my shoulders and the skirt trailed on the floor. I stood in fifth and gestured to an imaginary crowd before beginning the dance I had watched the older girls execute earlier that day. I was forced to improvise parts of the sequence that I had forgotten, and without being on pointe, I was pretty sure the dance didn't look anywhere near as beautiful as it did when danced by the corps. All the same, I felt weightless as I danced, finishing with a double pirouette. I curtseyed as I would if performing in an actual show, and laughed to myself. Dancing made me feel better than anything else in the world.
A movement in the shadows of Box Five caught my eye, and I froze. Who could be there at this hour? My first thought jumped to Joseph Buquet, the stage hand who mother had warned all the older girls to be on their guard for. I didn't quite understand the reasons for this, but I avoided him all the same. Something about his leering manner frightened me. I crossed my arms for courage and stood as tall as I could.
"I don't know who is up there, but I'm warning you. I'm armed!" My voice sounded disappointingly high pitched and shaky, but I stood my ground. I kept my eyes fixed on Box Five, knees trembling. A soft voice, filled with mirth, answered me.
"Armed indeed. Tell me, little Rat, what fearsome weapon do you intend to use against me?" The voice did not belong to Buquet, or any of the other stage hands for that matter. They spoke in rough tones, laughing at crude jokes and swigging from unmarked bottles. This voice was smooth and velvety, and sounded as if it belonged to a nobleman. I gulped and shivered as realization dawned on me.
"The Phantom of the Opera," I breathed, heart in my mouth. A soft chuckle drifted down from the box, and I prepared to flee back to the dormitory.
"Very good, little Rat," He laughed, the same mirth filled chuckle as before. I considered fleeing back to the dormitory, but the thought of navigating my way through the dark backstage area made me cringe in fear.
"I should warn you. I am Mme. Giry's daughter, and she will be most upset if anything happens to me. Also, she- she knows I'm here. She's on her way downstairs so you had better go." Once again, the Opera Ghost chortled.
"Little Giry, no one knows where you are. You and the other Rats have most likely come up with another of your pranks that you intend to play on Mlle. Apolline, but you crept onstage to dance like always," he said. I could feel his smirk despite not being able to see him.
"You watch me. Us." It wasn't a question, and he didn't answer. Instead he laughed yet again.
"I know everything that happens in my theatre," he said. "Now finish your prank and go to bed. There are men worse than I still about."
I stood still for a moment, taking in what he had said. Worse men that him? What could be worse than a man without a face? Fearfully, I picked up my nightgown, candle and the small box and left the stage, hurrying briskly to Mlle. Apolline's dressing room. She was the Opera's new soprano, and everyone hated her. She was rude and bossy, and considered herself above everyone, so we had decided to teach her a lesson. After leaving our "gift" on her dressing table, I ran from the room. Expecting the backstage area to be pitch black, my heart started to thump. On the contrary, I found my way lighted by several small candles that stood on the floor. They continued up the narrow staircase to the dormitories, and along the passage.
I pushed open the door of my dormitory to see the other girls had fallen asleep while waiting for me. Maman stood by my bed, arms folded with a stern expression on her face. Expecting to be scolded for being out of bed after hours, I hung my head. However, my mothers voice was gentle when she spoke, noting my attire.
"Dancing again," She shook her head in despair. "Do you not get enough practice during your lessons?" I shrugged my shoulders helplessly. "Return that costume before morning, and God help you if there is a mark on it. Now go to bed Marguerite. And stay there." She sighed, leaving the room. "He is pleased with you," she added, closing the door behind her. Confused, I glanced around. On my nightstand lay an ornate candle like those laid out in the passage. Beside it, a single white rose tied with a black ribbon.
Whether that rose had been a gift because the Phantom liked my dancing or admired the audacity of my prank I never found out. Nor do I remember exactly what the "gift" we left for Mlle. Apolline was. All I know is it was enough to get us all severely punished when Maman discovered it was us Ballet Rats who had left it. Now, standing in a dark and dusty room far below the city of Paris, I was very different from the girl I had been then. I no longer played pranks on the members of the company, nor was I afraid of the mysterious man in the darkness. Instead, I took a step away from the wall in the direction of the voice, hands held out in front of me.
"Yes, I am Meg Giry. Please, Monsieur Phantom, I am not here to hand you over to the law. I - I came to help you. Don't be afraid, where are you?" I heard the rustle of clothing to my left and turned sharply.
"Help me?" His laughter was cold and inhuman, and filled the whole chamber. "I am beyond help, little Giry. The only thing you can do for me now is put me out of my misery." My heart ached with pity for the man, and I took another step forwards. A cold draught reminded me of how soaked my clothes were and I shivered, hugging my arms to my chest. Something pressed uncomfortably into my chest, and I remembered the mask.
"I have your mask Monsieur, if you want it," I swivelled on the spot, trying to discern where the Phantom stood. I heard soft breathing close by my left ear, and stretched out my arm in the same direction. My cold hand brushed against soft cloth, and I knew I had found the Phantom of the Opera.
"Why do you not flinch away little Giry?" He asked, placing his hand on my arm. I felt his warmth through my thin shirt, but had no answer for him. "My mask," he demanded when I did not reply. I fumbled with the strings that held the mask in place with one hand and gave it to him. He let go of my arm, presumably to fix it in place, and I found myself missing the warmth of his touch. I had forgotten to be cold amidst my fear in the tunnel, but now I realised my fingers had turned numb, and violent shivers wracked my body. My teeth had begun to chatter uncontrollably, and I hugged myself in a vain attempt to keep warm.
"I-is there an-nother way out of here?" I spoke through gritted teeth, my damp trouser legs sticking unpleasantly to my skin. I jumped violently when I felt the Phantom's hands on my shoulders, and he pulled away.
"I'm sorry," he spoke bitterly. "But I need to touch you to guide you to an exit. I had thought that in the darkness, where you cannot see my deformity…" My heart contracted in pity once more, and I reached towards him, hands making contact with his reassuringly warm shape. I gripped his arm tightly, in fear that he would shake me off.
"Please Monsieur, you took me by surprise, that's all. I didn't know you were so close,"
"Very well." I imagined him giving a curt nod and almost smiled at his formality. So much like the nobleman I had first thought him to be when we first met in the darkness of the theatre. He placed his hand yet again on my shoulder and steered me briskly, if a little roughly along the rough walls of the room before stopping suddenly at some unseen way out. "Here. There's a small gap in the wall here that leads up to the street. Go now, and leave me alone." I felt the crevice with my hands and shuddered. It was smaller than the one I had come in through, and I had no desire for a repeat of earlier.
"I- I can't Monsieur Phantom," I whispered, hating how pathetic my voice sounded, even to my own ears. "I'm afraid of - of small spaces," To my surprise, he didn't sneer at me, or make any snide comment. Instead he spoke softly, his tone gentle and almost admiring.
"You are very brave then, Little Giry, to come through the tunnel from the canals. It is far narrower and longer than this one." His hand was still on my shoulder, and I stepped a little closer to him. The warmth emanating from his body was too much for me to resist, I was so cold. What horrors had this man suffered that had made him so bitter and angry? How long had he lived like this, alone in the damp underground catacombs of the theatre? I placed a hand on his arm gently. Though I knew he was capable of murder, I didn't fear for my life. We were alone, far enough from any other person that he could kill me and no-one would ever discover it and yet all I felt for the man beside me was pity and sorrow.
"Come with me. I could help you get away. We could cross the border and you'd be safe."
"How like your mother you are," He sighed. "I don't deserve your kindness, or your help. Go now, the tunnel isn't that narrow, only the opening. Go, your mother will be looking for you." I sighed and folded my arms. I wasn't going anywhere.
"Is there no means of lighting this room?" I asked impatiently. I was growing sick of speaking to nothing.
"So much like your mother," He repeated. "She's stubborn too." I growled in frustration and almost stamped my foot in anger. I was trying to help this man, and all he was doing was laughing at me. How infuriating. Suddenly, he was gone, and I cried out in surprise. Without his arm to hold onto, the room seemed infinitely bigger, the little light filtering in from above inadequate to illuminate the depths of the shadows around me. I forced myself not to panic and squinted into the darkness. A light flared in the far corner, and I realised that the Phantom had lit a small candelabra that stood atop a spindly table. He remained with his back to me, dropping the spent match to the floor. I glanced around the room, taking in the high ceiling in the flickering candlelight. It was frescoed with images of angels, and the rough stone walls were washed in white paint. Several crevices lined the room, some deep and dark, others appearing to go back only a few feet. Save for a dusty armoire almost directly opposite the crevice by which I stood and the small table in the corner, the room was bare.
"Thank you," I smiled. The Phantom nodded without turning. I crossed the room and touched his shoulder. He flinched away from me, hiding his face in his hands. I bit my lip. Despite having his mask fixed firmly to his face, he had no wig to cover the lack of hair on one side of his head. He truly believed that I would see his deformity and run. I sighed laid my hand fully on his broad back. The torn white shirt he had worn for Don Juan little to conceal the toned muscle beneath my hand, and the small part of his profile that I could see was that of a God. Angel of Music indeed. Never was any term more fitting. "What's your name?" I asked, partly out of curiosity and partly because calling him "Monsieur Phantom" just seemed silly.
"Erik," His answer was short and clipped, but I smiled all the same. Erik. It suited him, far better than Phantom or Opera Ghost, because the warm body beside me was most definitely human.
"Well then Erik. Where to now?"
Well that was a decently sized chapter. Normally I struggle to make my chapters more that 1,500 words long. I'm impressed with myself. Sorry for the shoddy quality of writing by the way. I am doing this at 5.20am. I've done my best to check it over, but there'll probably be some grammar mistakes in there somewhere.
Oh, and sorry for the dodgy ending. I had to finish it somewhere. I wanted to end with them curled up together to keep warm but that seemed sort of forced so you'll have to make do with an obscure, OOC line from Meg.
There's probably more that I wanted to say here, but I honestly can't remember. Oh, and Meg tying the mask to her shirt... she didn't have any pockets on those ridiculously tight (and gorgeous) pirate trousers and having her carrying the stupid thing for the whole chapter would have been a bit an annoying.
Please review. This took me a long time to write, and I am forgoing sleep to do so. PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW. Yes, I'll admit, I'm desperate. When I don't get reviews I actually get very sad.
Lots of love,
thephantom'sdancer xo