Music for the Brave

by SimplyMari

"Do you hear the clock, Bernadette? Do you hear it ticking away? Tick, tick, tick, tick, ticking until... until nothing. And the nothing is approaching - yes, the nothing is rapidly approaching." Time is running out for Bernadette Baudin and meeting a certain someone helps her to realise that some rules are best followed.

2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I awoke with a violent start. The twisted dreams that had haunted me for the last five years if my life had still not ceased. What frightened me the most was not the content of the dreams, but the fact that I yearned for them to continue. I hungered for them to be real, rather than subconscious illusions.

I lived for the hurt, the blood, the pain and the killing that occurred in only during nightfall. I knew that it was wrong, though I found myself not caring each time the guilt and disgust washed over me. Why try to end something when it feels so rewarding?

I disliked how weak I felt in the real world. On the outside I appeared to be bold, brave and courageous. I appeared to be someone that you would do best not to confront (for I had always had a knack for winning arguments) or disagree with. When I wanted to, I could be a highly unpleasant person. I had been told this for a fact many a time.

On the inside, however, my soul and any morality I previously had, were slowly – painfully – deteriorating. No one could help me as they wouldn't care to listen to the ramblings of a silly young woman. I was trapped, for now, until I escaped.

Where I would go to still remains an unanswered query. I had always longed to travel to England, as I had always wished I could walk the streets William Shakespeare walked, all those years ago. His work was the main source of my inspiration, and surprisingly I could not thank my father enough for having such phenomenal work in his possession.

A sudden shiver came over me as I thought of father. 'Father' truly was not the most appropriate name for him. Nothing he had ever done had made him worthy of the title 'father'. My heart fell colder than it already was – if that is possible – at the mere thought of him.

For as long as I could remember, he had treated me as vermin. I saw very little of him, perhaps an hour or so a day if I was particularly 'lucky', though the time I had spent with him had been filled with tears and hurt. That's when I took it upon myself to toughen up and rise above him. I threw great tantrums, destroyed doors, windows, glass figurines – almost anything I could get my hands on. This earned me endless beatings and foul names and words thrown in my face.

As I sat now in my nineteenth year of life, I began to ponder what was worse: the beatings or the words. Being whipped or slapped most likely would not leave a permanent mark, and if it did, in time it would fade.

However words, especially words as cruel as his, would leave a permanent mark on your heart. There would always be a permanent reminder in my head of how 'ugly', 'damaged', 'vile' and 'worthless' I apparently would never cease to be. No matter how much of a thick skin you may have, words will always be your demise.

Shaking away the troublesome thoughts, I sat up slowly. The room wasn't as inviting as it had appeared last night. Although last night I had been venturing on exhaustion, I still always have a highly perceptive mind at all hours. I spotted a mirror in the far corner and walked over. As I stood my head began spinning and I grabbed onto the bedpost, squinting at the creaking sound it made.

Could they not afford furniture of a safe standard? Whilst I had slept, the bed could have given way beneath me and I could have been greeted with an untimely death. That isn't to say that death would not have been welcomed. Even death sounded better than being someone's personal slave. I groaned at the reminder.

At a slow yet purposeful pace I made it to the mirror. There was just enough light in the room to suggest that the time was nearing six o'clock. Madame Deschamps would be here very soon. I wasn't sure that I was ready to face that dreadful woman at such an early time. My superstition was that she would be far more insufferable at an earlier time. Lucky me.

I took the time to gaze upon my worn features; my unruly blonde curls, chestnut brown eyes and unusually alabaster tinted skin. These past few weeks my skin had gradually paled. I supposed it was stress induced, as well as the impromptu morning sickness spells. Of course there were…other explanations. Explanations that were far more likely and more probable. I would refrain from informing anyone of that certain possibility, as they would surely evict me from here and back to my hateful parents. And I, enough of a shame to the family anyway, would be thrown onto the streets.

I pressed a palm to my stomach. It seemed no more meaty or swollen than usual. I really had no way of telling whether or not I truly was burdened with this predicament, but still I hoped that I wouldn't be.

I had no desire to be around whiny little people that regularly demanded to be fed, loved and nurtured. I wasn't even aware that I had the capacity to love someone, thus making me an unsuitable candidate for the role of a mother. The foetus would be a constant reminder of the circumstances of my impregnation, which certainly were not pleasant.

"Mother," I whispered, noting how the word sounded dull and sickly in my mouth. My own mother preferred me to call her 'Madame'. Sometimes, when I was feeling slightly rebellious, I would spite her and go against her wishes.

I shook my head, ridding my thoughts of the possibility. If the time came when I was forced to admit the likely gestation, then I would. For now I would attempt to go on with my slavery unnoticed.

To the left of the mirror I noticed a sink, toothbrush and bar of soap. Next to that, an open wardrobe with a number of black dresses with white pinafores draped over them. They were unflattering and bland – I would definitely find some way to complain about the lack of choice.

I washed and dressed before making my bed and sitting on the edge, awaiting the arrival of my commander. I had never made a bed in my life; the sheets where crinkled, the pillow limp and the duvet wonky. I thought I had done an adequate job, seeing as it was my first time having to fend for myself. I'd seen enough nicely made beds to attempt to copy that on my lonesome.

Having been up for approximately two hours, I wasn't surprised when I heard a brusque knock upon my old wooden door. I made sure to slouch into the pillows rather than sit straighter, just to push Deschamps' buttons.

"Who is it?" I asked sweetly.

"Bernadette, it is Madame Deschamps. Do not tell me you are still in bed?" She snapped from directly outside of my door.

"Of course not! Do come in," I insisted, kicking off my shoes so I could pick my feet up onto the mattress.

Deschamps entered, took one look at me and hurriedly shut the door, rushing to my side in an outraged manner. She proceeded to tug me upright by my shoulders, raise my chin, lace up my boots and pin my hair back neatly. It was almost as if she thought I wasn't capable of doing so on my own. I glared at her.

"What do you think you are doing?"

"Relaxing," I replied bluntly.

She did not seem amused. Instead, she pulls me to my feet and dusts down my dress, not caring when she brushes over my derriere. I blushed and yelped as she did so, until she was satisfied with the way I looked.

"You look quite the lady when you have been tended to appropriately."

"Thank you?" I questioned, unsure whether or not she was complimenting or insulting me.

"Yes, you are welcome. Follow me, child."

She led me from my room and through those long, winding corridors once again. This time there were no dancers or actors roaming the halls and gawking at me. Only a few stagehands, though they were too submerged in their work to properly notice me. I assumed it was much too early for the pampered princes and princesses of the stage.

I must have snorted or made some form of 'unladylike' noise since Deschamps shot me a furious look. I shrugged and continued on until we came to what I assumed was the Primadonna's room.

There was a large piece of metal on the wooden frame with the name 'Bruchan' engraved onto it. The door was slightly dented, as though it had experienced years of metal frames being taken down and put back on.

I looked to Deschamps as she pinched my elbow firmly. She nudged me towards the door, causing me to almost fall straight into it. Stopping myself, I knocked briskly, twice, and waited to be told to come in.

"This is where I leave you. Remember: do not answer back, or wonder off, or do anything apart from what she tells you."

I nodded to let her know I had heard her, but really I wasn't listening. I was too busy looking at the definition of true beauty standing before me. This must be the infamous Madame Bruchan.

She was extremely slender and had a body much like a young girl, and her eyes were the deepest shade of brown I had ever seen- so deep they were almost completely black. Her hair was lying loosely in strands of a dead-straight, silky brown.

She raised her eyebrows in surprise and that simple facial change caused me to snap back to my senses and curtsy politely.

"Madame Deschamps," the woman said, "Who, pray tell, is this wonderful young creature?"

I furrowed my eyebrows in disgust as all my liking towards her disappeared. Why must people always use such terribly condescending words whilst in my presence? I wondered if they could already tell what a terror I could be and decided to use patronisation, assuming I was just another silly little girl, to attain a place in my good graces. I took far more than that to win me over.

"This is your new maid, Bernadette. Her father brought her to improve her manners."

I shot a look at Deschamps.

"Oh, I see. I shall try my best to assist you in straightening this young lady out."

Madame Deschamps ignored my glares as she inclined her head and left. Madame Bruchan sighed what I imagined was a sigh of relief and ushered me into her room. It was…considerably bigger than my own room. I was too blinded by jealousy to take in every inch of it, though I did take note of the oversized mirror, the oversized wardrobe, the oversized bed and the oversized couch. Everything appeared to be oversized in here.

I watched with fascination as Madame Bruchan unceremoniously flung slumped down onto the divan in the middle of the room. I could not believe my eyes. They thought I was the one that needed 'straightening out' and here slumped a married woman of wealthy connections void of any ladylike mannerisms.

"What an insufferable woman," she sighed, placing her legs on the table.

I was unsure whether to follow her lead – and her eyes were practically daring me to – or to start dusting something. I decided to busy myself with fluffing the pillows. I'd always loved when my maids had done this. I faintly remembered them placing sweets and pastries under the puffed pillows, as they knew my parents never allowed me to consume such things.

Once I had finished I met the bizarre woman's eyes. She was watching me carefully, much like Deschamps had, but without the intense scrutiny.

"Bernadette." She stated slowly.

"Madame," I replied.

"Bernadette," she groaned again, though I did not reply. I wasn't quite sure I liked this silly game of hers.

"Please sit, you're making me feel skittish with all your movement."

I watched her cautiously as I did as she commanded, ensuring I sat straight with my shoulders back.

"No, no! This will not do! How are you to be in my company if you are insistent on jumping around, fixing perfectly fine pillows, while I am relaxing here?"

I squinted at her, supposing she was quite confused about the terms of my visit. I was sent to succumb to her every need and now she tells me not to do so. Admittedly I had not expected to have to fix her skirts after every step, but I had been prepared for something. In fact, I wanted to be her slave more than I wanted to be her friend.

"Madame-" I began.

"Murielle, please call me Murielle. I may be married but the word 'Madame' makes me feel so terribly old. Do continue."

"Very well, Murielle. Perhaps you were not informed about the terms of my visits to you. I am your maid. Not your friend or confident. You are meant to be ordering me around and I am meant to be following your commands."

She looked hurt for some reason. Her lips pouted and her whole face seemed to slump downwards. I guess it had something to do with me saying we weren't friends.

"I do not require a maid. To be honest, this was my husband's idea. He says that every young woman of wealth should have a maid."

If possible, Murielle sunk further in her seat.

"I am just so awfully lonely. I do not like having to walk the halls alone and see those piggish stagehands whispering to each other how much they wish me to be theirs. It frightens me. I cannot help but wonder what will happen if I am murdered here…my darling children would have to live without a mother, my generous husband would undoubtedly struck with grief.

"I just want a friend, Bernie. May I call you that? Bernadette is my daughter's name, you see, and she detests having to hear a name of that length spoken too much. I seem to be getting off subject. As I was saying, your friendship will be the only thing required of you. Will you grant me the gift of your company?"

I did not wish to have to endure the endless drone of her voice day in and day out. Nor did I desire the chance to sympathize with the troubles of the poor, lonely little rich girl. Could she not ask her husband to find her friends? Or, here's an idea, actually venture out and find her own friends?

I frowned, not wanting to upset her further. Despite her annoying complaints and babbling I could understand her point. I knew all too well what it was like to be lonely, friendless. The idea of a friend, even if they were irritating, did seem quite pleasant.

"Murielle, please understand that I have never been a friend to anyone. I am not quite sure what friendship requires, but I will try my best. That is, if you agree to try your best to tolerate my foul mouth and offensive comments."

She then did something I did not expect: she hugged me. She was warm and comfortable and I found myself growing far too emotional in her embrace. She reminded me of what I wished my mother had been like. She even smelt like my mother.

For a few seconds I pretended she was my mother, almost letting tears spill from my eyes. I composed myself quickly and sat straight. Murielle grinned at me and stood quickly. She held out her hand for me to take.

"Come now, my dearest Bernie, I do believe it is time for rehearsals."

I frowned, "You mean I am allowed to accompany you to rehearsals?"

"Well, yes," she paused, "Only if you would like to. We are starting a new opera today, so we need to hurry if we want to get there early! The managers hate tardiness."

She rolled her eyes and pulled me to my feet. Regardless of my usual cynic attitude, I was very excited to be going to watch an opera with a…friend. It was still very hard to admit to myself that I actually had acquired a friend in the space of no more than fifteen minutes.

Murielle patted my hair and ran her fingers through it, smiling much like a child did with a new toy.

"I love your hair; it is so unruly. An exquisite colour too. Wouldn't it be nice if we could swap bodies? I would love to look like you do. Oh, silly me! I have just assumed that you wish to look like me. I do not want too seem too big-headed! Oh, you think me pretentious now don't you?"

"No, not at all. I would gladly swap bodies with you. You are considered a great beauty, you know." I informed her, trying my best to sound friendly.

She blushed, "I do love the way you jest, Bernie."

I furrowed my eyebrows for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. Surely that was only the first time I had 'jested'. I hadn't even intended for her to take my compliment as a joke.

"Murielle, I can assure you I am not jesting," I paused, noting the slight happiness in her eyes, "You are definitely beautiful, if I may say so myself."

This was not a lie; she really was very handsome. Her character, however, certainly did not match the sophistication of her face. You would assume that someone with her looks would be extremely shallow – perchance even slightly dull-minded. She truly was a pleasant surprise.

Murielle held my hand in hers, treating me with the delicacy one would give a porcelain doll, and led me through the unfamiliar corridors of the Opera House. She babbled on gleefully as we strolled, talking of nothing that interested me. I nodded when necessary and made noises of agreement but apart from that I was completely entranced by the splendour of the theatre. I realised then that I could learn to tolerate this place; partly because of my newest acquaintance and the exquisite surroundings. Mostly it was my determination to discover the ghost's hideout.

Before I knew it we had arrived at the stage. By this time, Murielle had improved her posture and seemed to have regained her ladylike mannerisms. Now, rather than holding my hand, she wrapped her whole arm around mine. I was not entirely sure whether I liked her closeness or not.

Seeing that there was no one around, Murielle skipped over to the middle of the stage and began coughing and doing what I assumed were vocal exercises. Looking around again, Murielle started barking like a dog.

It took me a moment to fully process what she was doing before I erupted in nervous laughter. The sound wasn't wholly foreign to me, but it was a rare occasion that I let the happy noise escape my lips. I am unaware why I considered her sudden act of insanity and arbitrariness as funny, but I did.

Hearing my laughter, Murielle glanced at me, her face the personification of pure gaiety. She then began dancing wildly and for a moment I considered joining her mad dance. My consideration was not followed through as we both stopped what we were doing at the sound of an outraged gasp.

I turned quickly and saw a round faced man wearing a suit which reflected his obvious wealth. I presumed he was one of the two managers currently at the Opera.

"Madame Bruchan!" He exclaimed, "What on earth are you doing? This act surely cannot be safe for a woman like you!"

I glared at him slightly. Murielle seemed very embarrassed and I took her pleading glance as a request for help.

"Monsieur, Madame Bruchan was startled by a very large spider. As you arrived she was simply ridding herself of the vile pest."

He nodded at me, dismissing my explanation as he fussed over the Prima Donna. Murielle gave me a sad look, though I shook it off and perched myself on a red velvet seat.

During this time I was able to look around the stage. I understood it was not decorated as it might have been during a performance, yet I still marvelled at its sheer magnificence. I had always had an interest in theatres and stages, particularly this one. I eyed the rest of the theatre; the rows of seats, the curtains, the many doors. I gave a particularly pointed glance to box five. The forbidden box.

It may have been my imagination, but I was almost certain that I saw one curtain give a slight flourish. I shook my head and turned back to the stage.

By now the ballet dancers and actors had gathered on the stage. A conductor seemed to be ordering them and providing them each with sheet music. I saw Madame Deschamps lurking in a corner, quietly instructing the dancers. She regarded me with a strange look before turning back to the girls.

Murielle was also singing her solo. It took me a while to notice she was singing directly to me. I vaguely remembered hearing the aria before - D'amour, l'ardente flame was its name. What puzzled me was that that particular aria was about a young woman's sorrowful brooding at the fact someone had left her. Le damnation de Faust! As Murielle winked at me, I realised that she meant for it to be a joke.

I snorted quietly, though apparently it wasn't quiet enough. Murielle heard it and smiled, the dancers heard it and gasped, the managers heard it and glared and Madame Deschamps…well I cannot even begin to describe the pure hatred on her face. They had obviously all jumped to the immediate conclusion that I had been laughing at her singing. Fabulous.

"Stop the music! Stop the music! Halt! It seems our new little Mademoiselle finds the greatest singer to grace our Opera House amusing." A manager sneered, sticking his long nose into the air.

"Perhaps she thinks that she can do better!" The conductor piped in. All the while I was shaking my head.

The other manager spoke up, "Yes, do come up here and show us your obviously great talents. What is her name, Madame Deschamps?"

"Bernadette Baudin." She spoke quietly, undoubtedly ashamed of me.

All at once people from all corners of the stage taunted me with their 'hurtful' words, expressing their outrage. I stood up at once, smirking at each person that opened their mouth. At the word 'bitch' I began to laugh heartily. I laughed so loud I was unaware that Murielle had somehow managed to stop everyone's shouting.

"The fault was mine, not Mademoiselle Baudin. As she was informing me earlier, she is very familiar with the opera. She noticed that I had muddled up some of the words, though I did not understand that she was mouthing the correct words to me. She was merely laughing at my rather frantic bid to decipher her speech."

It wasn't a very believable story, but somehow people seemed to fully believe what she said. I assumed it had something to do with her Prima Donna status.

"Very well. Practice is over for today. You shall all return to your dormitories." A manager said. I did not care to know his name at that current moment.

Murielle indicated for me to follow her back to her room and I did, huffing and stomping as I went. She did not dare touch me this time and I was grateful. I did not think it would be safe to be within touching distance with me at that current moment.

We reached her room and I didn't step aside to let her go first. Instead I trekked over to the far corner and crossed my arms over my chest. My gaze moved to the mirror and I rolled my eyes at its ridiculous size. I heard Murielle sit down on the divan. This time she seemed to remember her poise.

"What have I done to upset you?" She asked quietly.

I turned around and stormed in front of her.

"I could have handled that just fine on my own, Madame! I do not need to be assisted by anyone!"

"That is not true."

"Yes it is! Do not try to correct me!"

She stood level with me and spoke quietly, "Do not raise your voice at me. You do not scare me and I know that underneath your hard exterior you are hurting inside."

I let out a barking laugh, "Do not pretend to know me! We haven't even known each other for a full day – merely a couple of hours. I am not 'hurting' inside, as you so delicately put it. I am fine, I am well, and I am alive."

I would never admit it, but I seemed to be attempting to reassure myself, more than her. She did not seem to believe me, in any case.

"I am very sorry." She looked at me then with those sympathetic eyes. The eyes which everyone seemed to offer me when I seemed unstable. She was just like everyone else.

"Please, save your apologies. I will see you tomorrow – hopefully I will be in more of an agreeable mood then. Goodnight, Madame. If you would excuse me," I said as I curtsied and practically sprinted out of the room.

I was far too proud to allow her to see my increasingly flushed cheeks. I wasn't ashamed of the way I acted; I was more embarrassed that she had seen past my façade. Not knowing entirely where I was going I sprinted up the staircase. I went up and up and up until I came to a steel door. It creaked open after I had nudged it with my shoulder.

I almost closed my eyes and turned back as I faced the bright, midday sun. The sky was sparse of any clouds and was a pure blue. I could not remember the last time I had actually enjoyed being out in the sun. I ran to the edge and leaned over, gasping at the sight of the city from above.

I smiled to myself as I remembered a song my mother always sang when the sun shone. It never made sense to me; she sang a song that wasn't happy in the least whilst the weather was quite the opposite. I started to hum it until my gleeful mood forced me to sing quietly.

"Well I recall his parting words

Must I accept his fate

Or take myself far from this place

I thought I heard a black bell toll

A little bird did sing

Man has no choice

When he wants every thing

We'll rise above the scarlet tide

That trickles down through the mountain

And separates the widow from the bride

Man goes beyond his own decision

Gets caught up in the mechanism

Of swindlers who act like kings

And brokers who break everything

The dark of night was swiftly fading

Close to the dawn of day

Why would I want him just to lose him again

We'll rise above the scarlet tide

That trickles down through the mountain

And separates the widow from the bride."

I finished the last verse with a slight wobble in my voice. I had not realised that I had been nearing tears until I completed the song.

It made me think of mother and of how I missed her despite not really knowing her. It made me think of father and how much I detested him. But most of all it made me think of my escape from this loathsome place.

As I cowered in the corner of the rooftop I did not notice the eyes angrily boring into the back of my head.

---

I had originally intended to get this out last week, but my schedule has been unusually busy as of late. I'd like to thank RedDeathLvr for reviewing and following, SunWillRise2340 for the favourite and CupidsArrow27 for following!

The song used in this chapter is The Scarlet Tide by Alison Krauss.