2. Reach

Soon after his arrival, he too fell victim to my constant stalking. An unseen shadow, I would follow him, distant enough to not be seen, but close enough to unnerve him. I'm sure by the second or third week at my Opera House he was too well accustomed to the paranoid feeling of being watched. He was not often alone, but when he was, I could not help but notice when he would cast worried glances over his shoulder.

Upon the catwalks, I would track every one of his movements around the stage as he made conversation with the managers, Christine, or simply observed rehearsals. Between the walls I hid as I silently hunted him through my Opera's halls.

He was quite the specimen.
For some reason, I felt that he was different from the rest of the former patrons that my opera house had the misfortune to experience.

Something in my chest swelled, surged. Since his arrival, I had been restless, unable to sleep, and often found myself fidgeting at the keyboard when I should have been composing. I was distracted, greatly so. I had no reason to be, and it was only after many sleepless nights I blamed it on the arrival of this fresh faced, inexperienced boy.

At first, I blamed it on anxiety. I worried for the well being of my Opera; too many foppish aristocrats and comtes paraded into my
home with these grand visions of "their" Opera House while silently slipping generous numbers of francs under the table to the manager. I could not stand their type. I made it clear to them how my opera house was to be run, and a patron's place was as far away from it as possible. The ones who interfered with hopes of changing things to their likings were soon forced to relinquish the title of "Patron" with some creative persuasion on my end. I often killed the ones who were the most boorish and insolent. I have little patience.

This Vicomte, this patron, was different, though.

I used my paranoia as an excuse to double the amount of time I spent trailing him.

The more I stalked, the more the attraction grew.
Not a physical attraction (well, ever so slightly. He reminded me of a male Christine; so young, so helpless), but more of a burning curiosity. He radiated a light and airy atmosphere, he had the most generous laugh. The most admirable trait of his, though, was his complaince to my wishes. He followed my note down to every mark, and stayed a healthy length away from the managers unless they were discussing funds. Other than that, he was simply another admirer of music. He would spend lengths of time simply sitting and soaking in the rehearsals. I could see the pure joy that music brought to him explicitly in his expressions. Another admirer of the arts.

One day, as I observed him from the dark recesses of the catwalks, I made a striking comparison.

He reminded me of myself when I was young, before my life became a literal living hell.

Well, except for the attractive part. He was so blessed in the looks department.

It was then that I soon realised what was to blame for the surging and swelling in my chest. It threatened my resolve, gnawed at the edges of my already fraying sanity. I was volatile, extremely so, and I was actively seeking the most minor botch from either the new managers or the Opera singers so I could justify the need to send myself over the edge, to make my urges to kill without a thought self righteous in my own head. The accidents doubled in occurence as I sought to find the source of this searing pain that tortured me night and day.

Pained, I gripped the support rails of the catwalks. It was all I could do to keep myself from sinking to my knees and screaming. I was like an animal ensnared in a hunter's trap, and I was sorely tempted to chew off my own limbs just to escape.

It was tearing me apart, boring its way through my insides out, and all I could do was watch myself as I died a slow and painful death. I was becoming so broken, the thoughts of throwing myself in the lake and drowning myself only became stronger and came even more frequently, but it would be no use. I was already drowning at the bottom.

When I finally had it all worked in my mind, for the first time in years, I actually physically trembled. I found myself burying my face into my hands. My breathing quickened and was riddled with grief. I wished that I could plow, claw my way into my chest and wrench what I was feeling out of me.

I refused to believe it.

It was infatuation.