Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera.
It had been a difficult Tuesday for Jonathon Plusope. The difficulty had not come from his wife's morning lecture about how he had grown distant, nor had it been from the careful and reluctant warnings he had given towards Ms Lawson regarding her family life encroaching upon her work. No, the day had been fairly normal, or at least, it would have been, had it not been for the plain, unmarked envelope that had greeted him the second he had sat down at his desk.
The disgustingly familiar envelope held something that Jonathon Plusope looked upon with a mixture of anger drowned out by fear. When had his life come to this? When had the biddings of a masked man become the priority of his life? How could he have so easily usurped him for real control of the newspaper, or knowledge? Most importantly, how could he get into the locked office in the dead of night? Why did he always have the urge to protect his neck when he saw the masked man's long, grasping fingers or the rope that only was sometimes revealed to him and only when the masked man was threatening him?
Not for the first time, Jonathon Plusope wished that he was not a coward.
Opening the envelope, he readied himself to read of the masked man's displeasure. Mr. Plusope's eyes widened as they scanned the contents of the man's review, his hands shaking as they tightened their hold on the paper. Even more unsettling than the critique was the masked man's wishes written at the bottom of the page in his own blood red scribbles, 'Wait for me tonight.'
And so Mr. Plusope's Tuesday was ruined with the prospect of the masked man's uncalled for visit. The thought of the troubling review didn't help his nerves, shown by the spilled coffee, blank looks, and anxiety attacks of the day that made the entire staff of the newspaper aware that for some reason the 'Critic' would be making an appearance.
After the last staff-member finally left, leaving the shaking Mr. Plusope with a sympathetic look, Jonathon Plusope smoothed out the crumpled review, reading it over again, memorizing it again in order to be prepared for the masked man's unexpected and completely unwanted 'visit'.
In order to be a good writer, as Mr. Plusope obviously was, he had trained himself to avoid clichés, overused phrases, crutches born out of lack of vocabulary skills, but the only way to describe the masked man's entrance was…hair raising…it made his skin crawl…and so on and so forth.
Of course, he appeared out of thin air…again. Jonathon Plusope knew that he couldn't have simply materialized. It was impossible, right? Right?
"Good evening, Mr. Plusope." Or maybe not.
"G-good evening, s-sir." The usual formal yet terrifying round of pleasantries done with, Mr. Plusope tried to cease his shaking enough to examine the man, at least, as inconspicuously as possible, and without looking into his eyes of course—if Mr. Plusope looked into those lights he would not know how to proceed…how to breathe…how to not cringe in terror and fascination.
"Regarding the latest review, Mr. Plusope, this meeting will be quick and hopefully," the masked man's words took on an oddly more terrifying tone, an ominous mixture of a threat and a desperation, "painless." The man hissed on the last syllable. He drew in a breath, leaching the air from the room.
"You will print this in the next edition of your newspaper. It will be prominently featured. You will not change a letter." Jonathon Plusope's eyes had inadvertently glanced up into the masked man's, and the obvious menace in those glowing, searing, burning fires that threatened to smote him right there. "I believe that you comprehend what will happen if such an alteration occurs. Am I correct?" Mr. Plusope dumbly nodded, caught in the eyes that would not let him escape into the world of light. "Excellent. And of course, as per usual, you will state the review as from the Critic."
The masked man finally released Mr. Plusope, which made him remember why the review had troubled him so much, what he had to do, and what the last meager shreds of his courage must be devoted to.
Gathering his remaining sanity, or lack thereof, Mr. Plusope did the unthinkable—he questioned.
"B-but, sir, this," poor girl, he thought, "Christine Daae, she's j-just a chorus girl. I m-mean, is she really—"
"Yes," the suddenly very angry masked man interrupted, his eyes again spitting something more than fire. Mr. Plusope saw in them the very clear image of an early grave. "She is. And I will not have questioning of my review. You will print this exactly as I have written it." This was a new fury to him. It was in fact almost a rage. The madman grabbed him by his shirt collar, bringing their faces much too close, reeking of death and destruction and music. "Am I quite clear, Mr. Plusope?"
"Y-y-yes." The one word calmed the man, and his ever-changing eyes morphed again into something almost akin to…serenity?
"Good, very good." He released the petrified editor, "and regarding Miss" he paused, a strange tone of his voice overtaking the threatening boom of the previous conversation, "Daae, I am well aware that those jealous of her abilities will make their complaints known to you after this review is printed. Record the names of those who do so and leave it on your desk." He paused. "That will be all."
And the masked man was gone.
Jonathon Plusope slumped into his desk and prayed for the first time in a long while. Please, God, help this poor girl. She'll need it.
Then he left for the night, locking the door and knowing that it didn't really matter.
"Look, she's over there. She wasn't better than Carlotta, was she?"
"She can't even sing that well."
"Have you seen her high jump? The Critic wasn't talking about that!"
"What makes her so special?"
"I heard she bribed the Critic."
"Oh yeah, well, maybe it was a little more than money."
Christine tried to not show her burning cheeks. She kept her head down with her blonde hair covering her face. Beside her, Meg glared at anyone who came too close to Christine. Her own personal guard dog. Christine almost smiled at the image of her best friend, but then she overheard another whisper and laid her head on her arms, shielding her burning face from view.
It was just so embarrassing! Why had she ever even wished to be noticed that night? And deep down, Christine couldn't help but wonder if those malignant whispers might just be correct. Because, honestly, she had no idea what had brought that review about.
The thought of the aforementioned review made Christine cringe
The performance of Strawberry Bushels was abysmal. The songs were commonplace, and any enjoyment that would have been taken from them was altogether ruined by the cawing of the lead, Carlotta Guielli. The rest of the cast was ordinary in their mediocre rendition of a performance already tainted by the manuscript. The one gleam of hope for the production was the voice of a chorus girl, Christine Daae. Ms. Daae possesses a voice finer than anything that Ms. Guielli could ever hope for, if in need of a little polishing. Indeed, it would be to the managers' detriment should Ms. Daae continue to play those parts that are better suited for those that currently play in more important roles.
The Critic
It was that stupid review! What could have made the Critic write that about her? She had always heard the stories, urban myths really, of the man that went by the Critic, and reviewed every major theater production in the region. The man, or it could be a woman, no one really knew, was notoriously harsh in his words and ruined the careers of many singers.
So why hadn't he ruined hers? Why had the Critic, the most exacting censor that anyone had ever known, actually promoted her? Christine felt that she should be happy, but the ominous, foreboding feeling that had possessed her ever since she had read the review took over again.
Something was about to happen.