She felt dawn through the cold walls of the dressing room and stumbled off of the sofa. Her head throbbed and she was plagued with hunger; worse than usual. She shook from the frosty draft floating through the cracks of the opera, and headed towards the dresses to check for something that might provide more warmth than her flimsy, old clothing.
They all seemed to be not much better than her own dress, but the fine fabrics held no holes unlike the scraps she wore. She began to undress behind the screen, fearing the disease a chill would bring to her. She grabbed from the several dresses the plainest, if it at all could be referred to as plain.
The silk was white and delicate against her blue fingertips, and she scrambled to get it on, tying the corset and assortment of ivory ribbons as best she could. It still sat too large on her carcass; and the bust chaffed against her hips as she walked towards the mirror.
She stared depressingly at her reflection, the red hair draped around her shoulders was dull and brittle, and she remarked at the whiteness of her face and lips. The dress felt uncomfortably out of place on such an ugly thing.
She walked off unsure of how to function in the large skirts, but soon was able to get the hang of it as she once again exited onto the front stage of the opera house.
Her body was tired again from the short amount of walking, and she realized just how weak she really was as she dragged herself towards the only entrance and exit to the entire Palais Garnier, (as she herself had ensured) a small side door from the disheveled charcoal staff kitchen that lead to a secluded ally way.
Her feet carried themselves past the trashcans, something she would raid in her most desperate scenario. They made it onto a rocky stone road which she hoped might lead her to the market district, and to her luck (as rare as it was) that was exactly where she found herself at the end of it.
She performed her usual humiliations before receding back into the safety of darkness, empty handed with the exception of a burnt end of bread.
Her legs failed her halfway between the dusky backstreet and the side entrance. Her stomach rebelled against her thoughts of making it home before eating, and she sat consuming her crisped end of baguette lonely and in silence.
She stared up at those menacing clouds, feeling the storm intensify with every moment.
Upon finishing, she departed and concluded once again in the opera house, gasping for air from her walk, and rubbing her knee caps like an old woman.
She was pitiful. But she had in every way intruded upon his peace and must be dealt with. He sat there in what remained of the rafters glaring down at his unassuming prey. She would be increasingly easy to be rid of, her senses were dulled from weakness, and so she neither held the advantage of defense or strength against him. Perhaps, however, he might play with his victi—what was it she wore?
The snowy gown draped against her white flesh, tormenting its viewer. It was hers. "It was hers!" he bellowed bitterly, the release unfortunately giving his position away to his target. No she would have to suffer for this.
He would not be merciful and kill the beggar painlessly; perhaps he would allow nature to take its course on her feeble starving frame. A corpse would be found soon enough, and what worse of a way is starvation to die? He had found his attempts at that form of suicide quite tormenting.
He changed positions swiftly as to not attract direct attention to his form, and once again focused on the whimpering creature below him.
The girl shook like a leaf after the piercing, pained scream. She felt her foolish fears of ghosts creep up. How it seemed to be the explanation to everything in this place. The feeling of eyes watching you, the intact dressing room. "I'm sorry I am intruding on you spirit, I know this is your place" she called with a shaky voice. He became amused by this; once again he had been mistaken for an apparition. "I have to stay here though, and I am truly sorry. I will not touch any of the items in the dressing room, I will not stay there."
He belted out a sickening and perfect tenor voice
"Speak to me do you?
But who is it now who speaks?
Not a name, just a face, if it is a face at all.
More a sack of bones wasting my time
This person more ghostly than the phantom himself"
She sat stunned, the voice bringing gooseflesh to her scrawny arms as it vibrated the empty halls. Was this an Angel or a Demon? Could anything evil sound so beautiful?
"What is the name of the pigeon who invades my home?" The voice dropped to Baritone now, and she couldn't decide whether it was menacing or inviting.
"Evangeline" the words seemed to silent the world for hours. And so she sat shivering in the white dress that had disrupted everything, from neither cold nor fear.
No,
fear was what she should have felt.