Thank you so much for the reviews. Seriously, I was terrified this idea was going to bottom out, to be honest. However, it's slightly liked and for that I'm horribly thankful. Anyway, I don't own anything and again, thanks for everyone who even skimmed this. I'm eternally grateful. I actually might not follow the plot completely from the old edition of this, but I'm liking where it is so far. Thanks so much!
Onward!
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My expression can't break from wide-eyed, Daae horror. I won't lie by saying I'm not in complete shock and maybe a little flattered to be… this.
I can't help but wonder…do I look like Emmy Rossum or Sarah Brightman? I mean, I've got nothing against Sarah Brightman but I don't think I'd mind very much looking like Emmy—
"Kat! I have boobs!" I glance over at 'Meg', who still seems very much enraptured in halfway feeling herself up. "Look at them! –And they're bigger than yours."
Yeah. Definitely Emmy Rossum. –Not that I have anything against you, Emmy. I can't say I'm not a little bothered mine aren't bigger. I mean, as Kat, I've always had considerably…gifted cleavage, and now?
I glance down. What time is it? Five in the morning? I'm still half focused on my lack of boob.
Sunlight creeps in idly through under the cracks of what I assume is a dusty door. Nick…or Meg, whichever it may be by this point, is still trying to acclimate to his…or her surroundings. That, or the fact that he's just now realizing he's surrounded by skinny, pretty girls in scantily existent costumes.
"Enfants! Rehearsal! Everyone up, cet instant!" I pause, and I stare around tiredly. Seriously, my head is only just attempting to accustom to this time of the morning. I groan, though, and when I do so it comes out with this gorgeous little English tinge to it. I can't help but feel repulsed by the cuteness in my voice.
"Rehearsals?" Nick—or Meg asks, and stares at me in utter confusion. Rehearsals…I'm trying to assess this, slowly, confused, until my companion brings up a much brighter idea than I, "Rehearsals for what? I don't know shit about—…rehears—Hannibal?"
My stomach bottoms out. There's this terrible ache in my gut. Hannibal. I feel sick, suddenly. If we're rehearsing Hannibal…then…
…I haven't become a soprano yet.
Pause. Hold that thought.
Why did I just, quite clearly, think the word I in Christine's body? This panics me—but definitely not more than the sound of Madame Giry's voice incessantly yowling for my attention.
And then it rouses, like a child lazily waking from a slumber, only it echoes completely in my head, 'My, it's bright in here…'
I stare up at the ceiling like I'm questioning the voice I swore came from up there. I heard it, only moments ago. It was the sweetest little murmur, the most beautiful little tone, like a skittish kid. I can't help but love it, for some reason, like this warm, tingly…familial sensation.
Before I know it, Meg and her gargantuan knockers are shoving me out of bed and it's a massive hurricane of nervous ballerinas. Children of all sizes, red-heads and brunettes and blondes, are fretting about erratically in frantic attempts to get ready.
Meg holds up the costume (is it even a costume?!) and her face breaks out in a wide grin, right from ear to ear as she exclaims, "This is so cool!"
I shrivel at the sight of the hardly artful bustier and the pitiful skirt, halfway unwilling to prance around like some cheap whore of a showgirl. I think people have been better covered by a loincloth. Then again, I'm also self conscious, but what female isn't?
"Maintenant! Cette minute! La Carlotta will be upset if we are not on time!"
….
….
….
…Anyone but Carlotta. Please.