Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Reviews would be appreciated!
Trigger Warning: Sexual abuse, violence, and language.
Christine was not popular amongst the men, for this she was grateful. Too passive, she was bland in bed; she felt no reason to perform well if they were going to pay the price she'd given anyways. She learned quickly what type of men was worth trying with, that was the man who tipped, and he was the man dressed well and who tasted of wine instead of rum. Only then did Christine bother to fake moans or pull at their hair, otherwise she would thrust lazily and keep her eyes closed and lips pliant. Her dream land had sprung back to life, but it had taken many new forms. Now she dreamt of a man who loved her, who brought pleasure to her, who didn't twist her nipples with wrinkled fingers or pull her hair as she bobbed between his thighs. She dreamt of a tall, blonde man with blue eyes, the type of man who wore silk in his breast pocket and would never dream of coming to a place like this. The type of man who would offer his arm to her on afternoon strolls, who would allow her to sleep at night in a grand bed full of luscious pillows, and even bathe in a bathtub that could hold enough water to cover her entire body. Christine was broken from this dream when her customer slapped her across the face, before squeezing her cheeks tightly.
"Bitch, you'll look at me when I cum in you!" It was a demand she heard often, that did not send her into a fit of rage like it had the first time she heard it. Eyes opened and unimpressed, Christine watched the man's contorted face before he fell into a sweaty heap atop her, mouth sending hot air across her chest.
"Thanks, doll."
It was a bronze coin that landed on her naked breast before he slammed the door behind him. Working at nights was difficult, because it left her exhausted and with the only option to sleep during the day, so she had no idea how these customers came and exhausted themselves then went on to lead normal lives in the morning. She wished to understand where man's endless strength from, she wished to possess all the strength in the world in the morning. That morning she would add the coin to her stash, counting up what little money she had. Having no plan but one of escape and no dreams but of love and freedom, Christine Daae decided in that moment that she was going to run away. Where she would go she had no idea and how she would travel, again she was clueless. But she refused to live like this any longer, in this dank, musty place where her body was some sort of toy to be fondled and abused by strangers. Her cheeks strung and she knew she stunk of sweat and sex as she stared up at the ceiling. In the morning, she reassured herself as she felt hot tears escaping from her tired eyes, she would pack what little she had and she would leave for good.
Her sixteenth birthday had been ten months ago, every night she'd worked since then had haunted her every dream, every breath, every thought. For reasons she would not admit to herself, her job had become her life completely. It was how she passed her time, it was how she had a home and food, sex had consumed every portion of her life, but it had not consumed her innocence. Christine was a rose that had been left out in the sun for too long, tired, anxious, drooping, but still holding an inner beauty that shone out through her eyes. Although young women never know how beautiful they truly are, Christine could see that if all else about her was hideous and worthless, at least she had a gleam of hope in her eyes.
When the moon had fallen and sunlight poured in through the windows of the brothel, the stable boy made his way through the rooms closing the curtains and washing the sheets, and finally silence fell upon the building. Fake moans were replaced by exhausted snores, the sound of glasses slamming against the wooden bar were replaced with the neighing of horses in the stable, and the clacking of the Madame's heels across the wooden floors was replaced with the sound of Christine yanking her clothes off of her body. It was not an easy decision to make, to leave all that she knew in the middle of a day to try to find work in a busy city where she had no skills or contacts. She was a whore, knew only of whoring and cleaning, and surely those two things were useless in everywhere but a brothel. Leaving Madame Rouge's would mean leaving a bed, food, and the comfort of protection from the band of brutes.
She dressed in the rags she'd arrived in, sticking her father's music and her money into her boots; she wrapped the stained white shawl around her shoulders. The skirt was torn and ragged around the bottom; the shirt was tight against her now-grown breasts. Somehow, she took comfort in making the bed of the attic one last time, leaving the whore's dress folded carefully and the worn heels at the foot of the bed. Christine took one last peak out the small window, seeing nothing but rain clouds and hearing nothing but thunder and the crack of lightning, she left the room with a numbness that reminded her of the walk from her father's funeral. As she descended the creaky stairs, being sure to tiptoe carefully past the Madame's office in fear of being forced back into work, her heart hammered at the prospect of being found out. Apple would surely slit her throat for running away with no warning, and when her fingers easily slid open the front door of the brothel she paused for a moment—expecting to be under attack at any second. Rain soaked through her clothes in less than a second and the wind ripped the door from her hands, sending it slamming shut behind her with a loud bang that she knew had surely awoken some of the building's occupants.
Panic sparked through her and, although she was utterly exhausted and emotionally worn down, Christine ran. The streets were empty due to the rain and she ran as far through them as she possibly could, not stopping in fear of the sight of Apple and his two followers coming after her. At every corner she thought she saw the Madame waiting for her, behind ever street lamp was the man with the eye patch using his knife to clean out his finger nails, in every park Apple was waiting to hoist up her skirts and take her in the flooding grass. Positive that their eyes were upon her, she ran frantically through the empty city, hoping to find somebody who could help her. She found no one and again was alone, so sure that it would be only moments before she was hauled over Apple's shoulder and pulled back into her room in the attic to be served with a beating; other girls had been dealt more for less. Christine ran until she couldn't run anymore, and then she collapsed in the street. The stone cut at her hands and knees, tearing her skirt and sending pain shooting through her body. Tears mingled with the rain as her unmanageable curls tumbled around her, sticking to her slicked skin. The shawl was little protection against the rain, and out of pure terror and fatigue, Christine collapsed in the streets of Paris and allowed herself to faint, destiny and God were the only two who would take care of her.
She didn't open her eyes when she awoke, perhaps if she sat still for a couple more moments, the shadow looming over her would disappear. Christine remained completely still, trying to remember where she had fallen asleep, whatever she was lying upon was too comfortable to be her bed in the attic. Terror struck through her at the sound of a grandfather clock ringing throughout the room, she jumped, green eyes snapping open and quickly taking in her surroundings. This was not her room in the cramped attic, this was not Madame Rouge's office, this was not Papa's cabin, this was not a place she recognized. It was, she realized as her vision cleared, unlike anything she'd seen before. Extravagant silk drapery clothed the tall windows, the ornate ceiling was blue and held a sparkling chandelier above her head, the bed she was cuddled in was swimming with light blue and white silk covers.
"Mademoiselle, are you quite alright?" Upon looking at the man who'd spoken, Christine was positive that she had hit her head and was dreaming this. He was beautiful, and looking at her with great concern, blonde hair was tussled above great blue eyes and kind pink lips, he was tall, clean, wearing a suit and leaning toward her with such concern she thought she might faint.
"Philippe! Call Marie, the girl's awake!" It was a holler toward the open door that Christine had not paid mind to before, from her angle in bed she could see out and into the hall, also decorated ornately with light colors and heavy materials.
"Can I get you something, Mademoiselle? Perhaps a glass of water?" Unable to manage much more than nodding her head, she did so, as she pulled herself into a sitting position and clutched the soft silks to her body. Somebody had changed her she realized in discomfort, she was in nothing but a cotton slip, a blush lit her cheeks as the man with the blue eyes helped her sip from the water glass he willingly held to her lips. She couldn't help but notice the cleanliness of his nails, of the way his eyes scanned her face, anxiously waiting for some sort of response out of her. Another man entered the room then, Christine assumed him to be Philippe, he was taller than the first man, but had the same blue eyes, slightly darker and shorter blonde hair, they must've been brothers.
"How are you, Mademoiselle? Can you speak?" Philippe looked less worried, more frantic though, eyes wide and hair disheveled, less pleased to see her awake. Had she caused the brothers trouble?
"I am better now, monsieur. Where am I?" Almost ashamed at her own hoarse voice, the thought that she hadn't spoken to a man outside of sexual situations in years brought a humiliated flush to her body.
"The de Chagny household in Paris, France. What is your name, where are you from?" Philippe had pushed the younger man out of the way so that he could sit on the edge of the bed, closer to Christine's weak form, better able to look her in the eyes when she spoke.
"Christine Daae, I'm from Sweden but have lived here for some time, Monsieur." That explained her coloring, Philippe decided. She would be beautiful, one day, he decided. Perhaps after a good scrub and a few good meals, many nights of good sleep. For right now she had heavy circles around her green eyes, shaking thin fingers that clutched helplessly at the blanket she was wrapped in, her unkempt hair wild around her shallow face.
"You speak French very well, Mademoiselle Daae. Do you have family that will be looking for you?" The younger brother spoke this time, kindness radiated from him, somehow he fit perfectly in this white room. The expensive fineries all around him seemed only to compliment his beaming smile and cleanly clothing, he was holding onto the bedpost as he studied her with a dazzling grin.
"No, no Messieurs. My Papa is dead, I never knew my mother. No one will be looking for me; I've been living on the streets for years now." The lie came easily to her, falling from her chapped lips before she had time to consider what would happen if they found out the falsehood.
"And you look it, apologies Mademoiselle, we've been rude. I am Philippe de Chagny, this here is my brother Raoul de Chagny. If you'll excuse us, Marie will be in to attend to you in just a few moments, adieu."
Before she had a moment to argue and ask for explanations, the men had moved from the room and shut the door tightly behind them. She could only assume the best of them, as they'd been so generous so far. They'd most likely seen her passed out in the street and brought her back home, perhaps the woman Marie dressed her in the sleep and she'd been innocently tucked into bed. Guilt flooded through her, she had wanted the help of others yes, but never to force herself into a household and force the men to wait upon her. She could only be grateful though, she reminded herself as she stretched against the silk sheets, she should be thankful it was they who found her and not anyone else.
Marie was a woman in her late fifties, short and stout with kind, watery grey eyes and greying hair hidden under a white cap. She was the head maid and led Christine out of bed and into the washroom gently. She had already drawn a bath and forced Christine into the warm water, surprised at Christine's lack of shame as she sat naked in the tub in front of the stranger. It struck Christine then, as Marie used a brush to scrub at her nails, that these people had no idea of her past. As she washed away the grime and abuse from years of disservice to her body, she was washing away her history. To these people she could be anyone she wanted; her past job could have been a horrible nightmare that she escaped with only a few scratches and bruises.
"Now, dearie, Madame de Chagny is not a warm woman, but I have a funny feeling she's going to enjoy your presence in this house. Let's get you dressed and ready to meet the Madame, that alright, dearie?"
The words cut like ice through the hot water but she nodded submission anyways and allowed herself to be wrapped in fluffy towels and dried to be wrapped again in a light silk robe. Every bit of material was soft and clean, as if somebody had handpicked every decoration to be the finest possible. It was overwhelming to be tied into a gown so fine and heavy that her knees practically buckled under its weight. The cream colored silk outlined her figure quite nicely, without smoky makeup or ridiculous lipstick; she decided she did indeed look like a lady. Shocked by her own transformation, Christine remained silent as she was lead through the house up, up, up four sets of stairs to a grand office. She wondered if she would ever grow to be used to the fineries in the palace of a home, and decided most likely not. The room smelt of honey and sweet leather, books covered every inch of the walls besides the wide windows that looked out onto the greenery of a park. And in front of that window sat a blonde woman, she was beautiful even with age, and must have been the exact opposite of Madame Rouge.
Class exuded from her pores, her long yellow hair was piled atop her head, a high black collar buttoned at her neck, encasing the curves that Christine couldn't help but notice beneath the miles upon miles of tulle that she was wrapped in. Diamonds hung heavy from her ears and pearls encompassed her neck and wrists. Her face was wrinkled but kind, the blue eyes of her sons shone equally as brightly on her, her lips were painted in a dark purple that Christine would have questioned if she had seen herself as an authority on fashion of the upper class, but she remained silent. She sat in the short leather chair opposite Madame de Chagny, and waited. The older woman said nothing for a few short moments, simply looking Christine up and down as Christine tried to keep from slouching in the heavy material, she'd never been dressed so finely in her life and found it slightly uncomfortable.
"Name?" The woman had taken out a quill and scroll after a few more moments of scrutiny, and began to write down what Christine assumed to be notes.
"Christine Daae. That's D-a-a-e."
"Age?"
"Sixteen." A slight nod of her head. Christine sat in confusion, what on Earth was going on?
"Homeland?"
"Sweden." The woman paused for a moment before continuing to scribble, faster now.
"Previous occupation?"
"I worked as a maid in an inn for two years and ten months."
"Your reason for leaving?" Madame de Chagny had not lifted her eyes to meet Christine's.
"My boss was physically abusive."
"Is Daae any relation to the violinist, Gustav?"
"He was my father."
"And I was a fan. You're hired and start immediately, Marie will find you a uniform."
Christine did not have time to protest or show gratitude for the job she was not sure she wanted, Marie had her changed and situated with a rack in the servant's courters immediately. Christine began in the kitchen, washing vegetables, cleaning dishes, serving food and wine. The tasks were easy, mindless, taking little physical effort and earning her much more money than she was used to coming into favor with. She didn't see the young de Chagny brother often, at least not as much as she would have liked to. Madame de Chagny nor Philippe were in frequent contact with the workers and most days Christine was left to her own devices. As long as her few tasks were completed, she was free to wander as she pleased. There was a backdoor to the servants' quarters, a long room that held racks upon the wall and was usually bustling with the mindless chatter of the many women and few men who worked in the household. Nobody paid her much mind, which was perfectly fine to her.