Prologue: Secrets left Untold
Her heart stopped when she read the headline.
Erik is Dead, it said. The "Opera Ghost" had died. His body had been found.
Christine de Chagny had seen the large letter-print and dropped her copy of the Époque. So the phantom was gone now? The angel had descended, finally, to heaven…or the demon to hell – either way, he was dead.
The skeleton had been found; a sickening corpse with deformed bones and a skull that was no more hollow or white than the man's face itself. On the right hand had been a woman's ring, a simple, petite gold band, embedded within the joint of bones on the smallest finger. Christine felt sickened as she read the description of the ring, and subconsciously rubbed her finger and the little dent around it that that very same piece of jewelry had embedded.
The angel was gone, and the girl felt a lump arise in her throat. Christine knew she should feel assured – this man had lied to her, tricked her, hurt her, tried to kill her! Every sin imaginable he had put against the poor woman, who was only a young girl of twenty years, but Christine could not take any comfort in knowing he was gone.
Instead, the familiar feeling of pity welled up inside of her; the singer could not forget the man who had knelt before her in such a knave-like way and spouted such poetic words of passion, crying with such intense fear that she did not desire him the way he obsessed over her! Oh, the laments of the poor, unhappy Erik were many, and his wants were few, and how she had felt for the man who was a tangle of heart and terror and so pathetic and sweet, so frightened and confused he made her!
But yet, in a deep, soulful way almost too cosmic for her to reach he made her happy. Raped of her freedom she had wallowed in despair on the rooftops of the Paris Opera House, but down below, drowned in the spoils and showers of heart from her angel, Christine could pass for content.
And now, he was gone. And Christine felt dead as he was.
Dead. Yes. Very much so.
"Erik…" Her fingers ran over the type on the paper, as if the dried ink was really him, if he was lying there on the furnished table. "May God have mercy on you this time." A simple prayer, no amen, not mass-worthy, no Hail Mary, but for Erik it was enough.
And she put the paper down. Christine allowed her eyes to rest on the advertisement for another bit of a second, but she turned away and wept freely in the comfort of her own parlor, allowing the hours to pass before she stopped.
The singer leaned back against the vanilla pouf of a sofa and stared down to the carpet. There was nothing to do now – there would be no burial, no memorial service, no wake, no nothing. Who would go to a murderer's funeral? No one cared for him – the only guests would be the dead. Christine could not help him anymore – it was over now. There was no turning back time; no matter how many hours you turn the hands of a clock back, you still will push forward. It was over and done, and the strange affair of the phantom of the opera was now a memory and nothing more.
"Christine?"
The woman turned to the doorway, expecting to see the face of her husband. He wasn't there.
"Raoul? What?" She assumed he had called her from down the hall, even though that action would seem to contradict his typical chivalry.
No one responded.
"Christine." The voice wasn't a question anymore, and it was undoubtedly near her. "Christine!"
The girl's ocean eyes widened as she felt something near her. She sensed something.
"Who are you?" Christine cried out. The singer felt a hand touch her – it was not a malicious touch, it was tender and gentle and…
"Christine…" She knew the voice. It was him.
"You're dead." The singer managed to squeak out.
"I'm not gone, Christine…let me stay…"
"I can't let you stay." She said flatly, yet her voice was trembling horribly. "I'm married…I'm starting over…"
"You cannot totally erase me, and you know it." Now Erik's voice grew angry; no, it wasn't angry, it was hurt.
Christine knew she couldn't rid herself of him.
"Let me be!"
The rushing around her stopped for a moment, like the eye of a storm.
A whisper: "I will leave you. But that does not mean I cannot help you. And there is still a part of me with you." The ghost sounded somewhat pleased with himself, grinning through tears.
"Explain yourself, Erik. Now."
But there was no answer. None at all. He was gone – the angel was gone. She had driven him away once more.
However, Erik had warned her of what she was hiding. He never did say what he meant – Christine found out on her own.
But there are some secrets that are best left untold, and that was one of them.
MK: Whooo…eerie 00 sorry so short! This was all really the prologue is. It will be MUCH longer next time.Next chapter the modern part of the story will start. Whoo. Please review! I'll try to get chapter one up too.