Hi there, people!
My name is Julie, known online as Jegsy Scarr. This is my first ever fanfic, so be nice!
So basically, this is a modern-day kidnap drama, featuring Erik and Christine. It's pretty self explanatory (I hope) as it goes along.
Just a heads up, I am from the UK, specifically from Scotland, where the language is slightly different, as you know. I don't mean my story's going to play out:
"Christine, ma bonnie lass, dae yae no ken how much ah love ye?"
"Away fae me, Erik, ye've a coupon like a skelped bahookie that maks ye want tae boak."
- I just mean, the spelling's different, we've got different words for sidewalk, diaper, cell, et cetera - I don't think it'll be a problem, but please don't hesitate to tell me if I'm making no sense whatsoever.
So, all that aside, please read and review!
Jegsy Scarr
xxx
It had started out like any other Saturday. Christine Daaé had woken to the sound of 'Beautiful' by Belle and Sebastian, her current favourite song and slipped on her pink-and-blue slippers, before sleepily making her way to her en-suite bathroom.
Like any other Saturday. Except this Saturday, everything would change forever.
Outside, in a black Rolls-Royce Phantom parked across the street, sat Erik: the man in the mask who would later that night abduct her from a nightclub.
He was, at present, keeping a close eye on Christine's bedroom window for even a glimpse of her. He was unconcerned about that evening's events: he had thoroughly planned every last detail ensuring that he had everything ready. One thought alone occupied his mind: Tonight, you will be mine.
Erik was woken from his reverie by the mobile phone ringing in his pocket. It wasn't a call for him, of course, he himself having no real acquaintances, but one for the Daaé household, due to the equipment he had hooked up to their phone a few months ago; indeed, he could see in a downstairs window the figure of Christine's father, Michael, as he made his way to the machine, looking rather dishevelled. Poor man. His appearance was no doubt due to the fact that his wife's anniversary was upon him: twelve years since her death.
The man held the phone to his ear, still watching Christine's window intently.
"Hello? Michael Daaé speaking?"
"Hi, Mr Daaé!" A shrill, high-pitched voice. "Is Christine there?"
Meg. Erik froze. Christine's best friend; is there a change to tonight's plans?
The man heard Michael's voice, slightly muffled, calling Christine's name, followed by the sound of footsteps as Christine made her way to the phone. Erik smiled as he caught a glimpse of her angelic figure as she passed the window. Now that had made his morning.
A stifled yawn. "Hello?"
The man smiled. Even first thing in the morning she sounds so perfect.
"Sorry, Chris, did I wake you? I suppose 10.00am is a bit early for a Saturday…"
Christine laughed a little, despite her tiredness. How adorable. "It's fine, I was awake. What is it?"
"Oh, nothing. Just wanted to make sure you remembered I'm picking you up at quarter-past-eight instead of half-past."
Outside in the car, the man gave a sigh of relief. For an awful moment, he had thought Meg was calling to say the night out was off: in which case he would have to rethink all of his plans for a later date. He didn't want to wait any longer: he couldn't wait any longer. As much as it pained him taking her away from her friends and family (especially now with her father in his present condition), he knew it would kill him if he had to wait even another week.
"Yeah, I know. Hey, what do you think about my blue dress? Not too formal, is it?"
"The one-shouldered thing? No, it's nice. I'm wearing my green one, so it won't look out of place, I guess…"
Ah, Christine's blue dress. Expertly chosen to complement her eyes. Oh, she did look wonderful in it, although, of course, Erik was sure that his Christine would look beautiful in anything. He slipped back into his thoughts again: My Christine…
"…so I'll see you tonight, then?"
"Mm-hm. See you, Chris!"
The call ended, and he replaced the phone in his pocket before returning his gaze to the house. Glancing up at the downstairs window, he watched as she made her way to the kitchen and back to her room. She was carrying something: breakfast's usual healthy green apple, and…a bag of pretzels. Salsa flavoured, in fact. Hmm.
It was strange, Erik realised: of all the things he watched her do, it was the most mundane tasks that he enjoyed watching most. Seeing her out shopping with her friends, or at school studying, or even getting her breakfast, it seems. Every time he saw her he learned something new about her. It was like revisiting an old friend, no, like seeing a beautiful work of art again for the hundredth time only to see it in a whole new light. I suppose she does look a lot like the Venus de Milo, he thought with a grin. Only with arms, of course.
As he sat there, his mind travelled back to the day he had first met her…
Christmas-time, a year and a half ago. It was a painful time for someone like him, someone completely alone in the world; no family or friends to speak of. Dreadful time, really. He had been wandering the streets, searching for something to pass the time. He had resolved that, if he could find a bar that wasn't too crowded (crowds he detested with a passion), he would go and drown his sorrows with a bottle of absinthe, or, failing that, he would probably go home and settle into his armchair with a syringe of morphine (he had been trying to give it up, but what the hell).
Short of being completely inebriated or in a drugged stupor, he felt there was nothing more he could do to ward off the unbearable feelings of depression and suicide from his mind.
Yes, it was a dreadful time of year. The sight of happy families or children out playing in the streets: there was no time all year that reminded him more of all he didn't have. A slap in the face to reinstate once again the fact about how pitiful and worthless his life really was.
As he searched the town, pulling his coat tightly around him to drive away winter's bitter chill (for it seemed to him that even the weather had turned against him), he had noticed a poster outside a small church, advertising a performance by the local choir. 23rd of December. Tonight. He paused. Shrugged. He figured that he might as well watch it. It might take my mind off things, at least, he thought. He had nothing better to do, after all, and the ticket price was far cheaper than a bottle of absinthe.
Paying for a ticket, he settled down into the back row of the church hall, where he hoped no one would even notice his mask.
He hadn't been expecting anything special, of course. The choir was made up of around forty or so young people, from about twelve to twenty-one, and a small instrumental ensemble. Some of the songs were well arranged for such an amateur group, he had to admit, but inevitably, there were plenty of incompetent singers. Really, how anyone could let them sing in public was a complete mystery. If he could tell that they had no business singing, and he was sitting in the back row of the church, surely anyone could tell.
He had hardly been paying attention to the next song beginning, when he had heard her. His first thought: An angel? The man lifted his head to see the soloist. Was she an angel?
In front of the rest of the singers, stood a young girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, singing O Night Divine with the most beautiful voice he had ever heard. She was beautiful: long, flowing blonde curls, like honey or molten gold; pale blue eyes the colour of the sea, or the sky, or the rain; rose red lips… He sat in a daze, unable to take his eyes off of the soprano as she sang. He forgot everything else in the world; the horrors of his past, the uncertainties of his future; everything else in the world no longer mattered.
All his life he had wondered how it felt to be in love. Now he knew.
He forced himself to look away from her just long enough to find her name in the programme. Christine Daaé. He smiled. With a name like Christine, she must be an angel.
He knew her name: all he now had to do was find out her address. The violinist in the ensemble, he noted, was also named Daaé. Knowing his name, it was all too easy to find their address listed in the phone book. His obsession for her grew as the weeks went by: he made sure that he never missed a concert featuring her (and there were plenty of them, it being Christmas time).
At first, he conceded that attending her concert was the closest he would ever get to her. It was not enough. One day, when Christine and her father left the house to go shopping, he broke in to their house.
Well, perhaps 'broke in' was the wrong wording to use. The window was open, after all.
He spent hours in there, trying to learn everything he could about her: her friends, her hobbies, her favourite colour – everything.
And he realised that they were perfect for each other.
No, they were made to be together. Soulmates.
But she would never want anything to do with him. If Erik's age didn't deter her (he was almost thirty years her senior), then his face certainly would. No sweet young girl of eighteen would want to be with someone like him. She would never even consider being with someone like him.
So Erik decided to take her. So that they could spend every day together, as they were meant to. Because with time, she would grow to love him. She would realise how perfect they were for each other.
That Saturday night was the date Erik had set.
That night, she would finally be his.
Thank you, folks! Read and review!
