I just want to thank Li-Li-ThePinkbookgirl, Lady Luly, and DesireeBoils for your reviews. I also would like to thank all of you that favourited and alerted this story. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and also the story to come- I have a vague idea of where this story is headed but I guess it will have to be a surprise for all of us!
Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, or its characters... as much as I wish I did.
"Can you play it again, Papa?" I said, giving his favourite toothless smile. My scrawny legs swung back and forth like a pendulum, knocking my knobbly knees together occasionally.
"Christine," my father smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement, "How many times have I told you not to sit on the table? A young lady must learn to sit in her seat properly," his voice became matronly and had a feminine falsetto. He always did the best imitations of Mama Valérius.
I gave a laugh and was delighted to see that he had seemingly given up, his violin already under his chin and his bow in one hand. He played a piece—not the joyful melody from before, but a mournful, sorrowful one.
I felt tears slip from beneath my now closed eyelids. The music had stopped playing now.
"Christine?"
That was not my father's voice. It was His Voice.
Angel?
Come to the angel of music…
"I did not mean to make you weep."
I opened my eyes. Papa was gone. I was still in the tiny kitchen of my childhood home. My eyes searched fruitlessly for him, I called for him. My voice getting more and more hoarse each time I call.
"He promised me," I wept, "he promised me to send me an Angel."
"Your Angel is here."
Inside your mind…
My eyes flicked open. It was all black, too black. My eyes searched, trying to seek out some sort of light. Have I gone blind? I felt my face was puffy and sticky with dried tears, my eyes itchy and probably red.
The lyrical voice sounded in my ear again… My angel. Was I still dreaming? I tried to sit up, squinting through the dark. There was a dull throbbing in my head, and my attention came to my also sore throat and wrist. I fell back on what seemed to be extremely soft pillows.
I gave a yelp at the unexpected pain I found there. What had happened?
Two yellow orbs glowed above me. How had I not seen them before?
I reached out a trembling hand upwards and my fingers brushed against something cold and smooth. I began to see more light, my eyes adjusting. My fingers once again reached upwards.
A mask…
I gave a scream, scrambling back as far as I could. My head made contact with a wooden surface behind me.
I heard a clicking of a tongue and a dark chuckle.
"Now now, Christine, you wouldn't want to pull the stitches."
Stitches? Why would I be required to be sewn up like a piece of ripped fabric—Oh.
It all came back to me. The man's horrible breath on my face, the knife pressed to my neck, the sounding of gunshots, the bodies on the ground…
"Raoul," I whispered, tears beginning to well up.
"The boy is gone and it would be wise of you not to mention that name in this house again."
Gone.
He's dead. My saviour, my protector, is dead.
I felt a sob escape my lips, the tears now slipping. I gave a wail and put my head in my hands, sniffling and struggling to breath. I felt a cool hand on my shoulder, a voice soothing me, intoxicating me...
"Don't. Touch. Me," I managed to say between the shuddering sobs. I cowered away from the hand, misery overcoming me. I did not want to be comforted, there was no comfort for me. He was gone and dead. The little boy that had rescued my scarf from the sea, the man I had fell in love with. I did not notice the door open and close quietly, nor the sobbing just outside the door. I was in a kind of pain that no one could save me from now.
†
I went undisturbed for what seemed like a long time, the darkness gradually becoming a muted light. I did not want to look at my surroundings though, I did not want to be further reminded that I was not with my Raoul. My sobs continued, as did my wailing. I buried my face in the soft pillow to muffle the painful sound. It was easy to ignore the physical pain— in fact, I barely noticed it.
It was only long after my tears had seemed to have all been spent and my throat raw and painful, that I was disturbed.
A mousy looking woman who looked only a few years older than myself entered the room, bearing a tray laden with bread and some kind of broth. I refused to look at it as the girl set it down on the small table beside my bed.
"You must… eat," her surprisingly forceful voice was heavily accented. I sensed that she didn't know much French. I shook my head forcefully, conveying the message that I would not, and could not eat.
"Eat."
"No," my voice was croaky and hurt as I spoke.
She repeated the command more forcefully, and once again, I shook my head. The woman sighed and shook her head, muttering something in her own strange language. She left the room looking particularly fearful. I fell into a restless sleep, dreams of gunshots and red snow filling my mind.
I wasn't aware of time passing. I woke, I cried, I rejected the food brought to me, I slept. I looked blankly up at the ornate ceiling, feeling to tired to cry and yet, not tired enough to go to sleep. I heard the door burst open, but did not have the energy to look at who it was.
"Marloux, she is wasting away…" it was Him.
Another voice answered, this one was booming and gruff, "Not to worry, Master. She shall eat, whether she wants to or not."
There was a bustling of skirts, and a face loomed over my own. She was middle aged, her greying hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her light eyes were steely and hard. This woman meant business, and I doubted that she took well to rule breakers.
The woman barked an order for me to sit up. I blinked back at her, not quite comprehending what she was saying.
"You heard me, girl. I said sit up."
When I did not respond she gave a huff and firmly helped me into a sitting position. I stared blankly at the dark figure looming in the doorway. His black mask was still firmly in place, his yellow eyes unreadable.
My attention was ripped from the masked figure as my closed mouth was met with a spoon filled with broth. The brisk woman, I assumed was named Marloux, told me to open my mouth. I responded to her by opening my mouth a little.
The broth filled my mouth, running down my throat. I swallowed obediently when told to and then the process started again. After five spoonfuls of broth I felt sick. I moaned, and sunk back onto the soft pillow. Marloux sighed impatiently.
"Her stomach has weakened considerably, I don't think we can push her to eat the entire bowl, her body would just reject it."
There was a murmur in agreement and he spoke, "That will be all Madame. Your service is appreciated."
The women gave some words of appreciation before there was the sound of bustling skirts. The door closed, and I once again, drifted off.
†
The same thing happened, again and again. Madame Marloux would come in and tell me to sit up. At first I resisted, but soon I obeyed her voice. She feed me and stayed until she was sure that I would not bring the broth back up again.
I could feel myself getting stronger. The mousy woman I had encountered before took out my stitches, and my wrist was now only a bit tender.
But still the nightmares continued, as did the sobs. I wanted things back to the way they were before, to feel Raoul's comforting arms around me. My Angel of Music, or Erik as I recalled him naming himself as such, did not visit me. For that I was grateful and yet… I still wished for the comfort that his voice had brought me—just like it had when my father had died.
I pushed the thought away. He was a murderer, he was mad, he was a genius. He was not the angel I had believed him to be, and the thought of him being a living and breathing man, frightened me to death.
I had taken to walking around the room, not really seeing anything. I was beginning to feel as if I was going mad from the lack of human contact, the lack of light, and especially the lack of music.
After one particular horrible nightmare, I awoke to a strange, yet sweet sound. Music. A violin was being played, the tune loud enough to drift through the closed door of the room.
My first thought was that of my father. I could imagine him, standing in the small den of Professor Valérius while I sat at his feet, staring up at him with avid green eyes. I opened the door, and the music accordingly got louder. I could feel it moving my muscles, pulling my along to its centre.
I walked through corridors and past doors, following the sweet sounds of the violin. It was so beautiful that I could feel tears running down my face. My bare feet carried me to a door that the music seemed to be emanating from. Papa would be on the other side, he would open his arms and hold me to him…
The door opened to my touch without resistance. I could see a dark silhouette, the person's back towards me. The bow moving so fluidly that I could only watch, transfixed by it. A hand was moving along with it, long fingers dancing on the strings.
At a particularly sweet note I let out a gasp. The playing abruptly stopped and the illusion was shattered. The figure turned around and I was horror struck by the sight my eyes were met with.
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