And Should I Turn Away…
Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of the characters, songs, etc. associated with it. I am merely a penniless writer captivated by a story.
Eeep! I must beg forgiveness for my lack of updating. I have a hell of semester right now, and its severely restricted my time for writing. For anyone who's still keeping up with this story, take heart! I do intend to finish it. Eventually. :P
Chapter 3: Anything At All
"No." She said softly. "I will do it." She looked only at the managers, Andre and Firmin, who nodded and smiled at her approvingly. She turned to Raoul, who was frowning at her slightly, his expression worried. "I said I wanted to finish the season."
It was very quiet backstage before the performance. The whispers of the rest of the company echoed about Christine's head, making her wonder for the hundredth time that day just what she had done by covering for the man who called himself a phantom. Was it only yesterday that she had been begging Raoul to let her avoid the stage? Had it only taken twenty-four hours to go from pure dread of this opera to steely determination to go through with it?
Christine felt oddly bewildered. Was she really so fickle? So changeable? Or was it just that the situation had changed so dramatically? Outwardly, she composed herself. Her cue for the opening scene was only moments away, and there was no room for mistakes, not in this.
The final scene drew near far too quickly for Christine. Suddenly she was alone upon the stage, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, as she strained to hear the voice of her teacher. Tonight there would be no mishap with Piangi, he was to gracefully yield the stage to the newcomer (not that he had been particularly pleased with the arrangement once informed of it). Then, suddenly, that too familiar voice surrounded her.
Past the point of no return
No backward glances
Our games of make believe are at an end
Past all thought of if or when
No use resisting
Abandon thought and let the dream descend
Christine felt her heart fluttering cruelly in her chest. Dimly she knew she shouldn't feel anything for this man, aside from perhaps disgust or anger, but this was simply not how it was. He was her teacher, an artistic genius whose talent she could not deny. Why else would his voice, these words he'd written, raise her skin into gooseflesh and cause her heart to flutter?
Unless, of course, what she felt was more than mere admiration or respect.
But such thoughts were thrust aside by the passion of her work, the power of the words and music. She sang brilliantly; this opera demanded and deserved that much of her. But something was off, she sensed. There was still an inexplicable thrill to the music, but something was missing, or gone. She cast her gaze to the dark man who ascended the staircase across from her, the question in her eyes only adding to the power of the words she sang.
When will the blood begin to rise
The sleeping bud burst into bloom
When will the flames at last consume us
She stepped ever closer to Eric, suddenly realizing that there was a distance to him tonight. The music went on, and the words poured forth. His body so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her ear, the pressure of his chest against her spine. And there was power, and there was passion. And through it all he seemed to be only half there.
Past the point of no return
The final threshold
The bridge has crossed
So stand and watch it burn
We've past the point of no return
Christine gazed at him in a mix of hope and dismay as the music died away. She waited patiently for the next chords to come through, but instead the curtain fell to applause only slightly less thunderous than those that had come the night before.
She had meant to ask why he had delivered her letter. She had meant to demand who he thought he was to walk into her room at night. But he left her side so suddenly, breaking away silently, rapidly descending to stage level. Her mouth was already open to ask, but instead of any of her pre-planned questions she heard herself say something astonishing. "Why didn't you sing the last part?" She whispered, unconsciously flinching at the hurt tone in her voice.
He froze, lifting his head until his gaze met hers. "We were acting." He said curtly. "The last part isn't part of the opera." His gaze was cold and unyielding as he turned and melted into the shadows, leaving Christine standing alone in shock.
Christine sat numbly upon her bed in the quarters she shared with the other girls. Andre and Firmin, positively glowing after the night's performance, had already promised her a room all her own as of tomorrow night. She was the new diva; irreplaceable, a jewel in the crown that was Europe's opera houses, a feather in the still-new owner's hats. An involuntary shiver ran down her spine. From her experiences of being alone in rooms, and the actual lack of privacy they afforded, she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to leave the crowded dormitories, with its safety of over a dozen dozing girls.
Raoul had rushed to her side after the performance. Perhaps he had thought that he would have to defend her against Eric's advances, or perhaps that he'd have to go chasing into the catacombs to reclaim her, should he arrive just a moment too soon. Instead he had found her alone, her eyes strangely empty of emotion. It was that emptiness that Christine now struggled to come to terms with.
How had he been so cold? She found herself wondering again. How could he flip from one extreme to another over the course of twenty-four hours? It was not without apprehension that Christine found herself dwelling so terribly upon Eric, when all good sense suggested she should be dreaming only of Raoul. Good, kind, safe Raoul. Yet that thought was not without irony. Raoul's actions of late; his jealousy, distrust, and tendency to belittle all that she loved were wearing upon her nerves. Surely Raoul loved her. But she couldn't help but wonder if he loved her for who she was, or rather, who he dreamed she could be.
Christine let out a quiet sigh, unfolding herself into a prone position on the narrow little cot she had slept in for nearly the past decade of her life. As far as she could tell, both the men who claimed to love her seemed to love more the idea of her rather than the reality.
It was far from a comforting thought.
For what would happen when she let them down? For inevitably she would have to let one of them down, or even both, she thought despondently. She felt so very weak in that moment; drowned in the expectations of men who seemed so much greater than she was. Huddling under the covers, Christine finally drifted into sleep feeling very small.
The days fell into a dreadful monotony, as far as Christine was concerned. She had few requests, and no demands for luxuries or special treatment, making her perhaps the calmest and most docile diva to ever grace the Parisian stages. She instead learned her lines dutifully, worked as hard as she ever had as a simple ballet rat, and teetered meaninglessly between the requests of Andre and Firmin and the small demands of Raoul.
As the performance of Eric's opera was booked for weeks in advance, there was little to do but perfect the notes she already felt were etched upon her soul. Little bits of things to keep her in practice: small pieces and solos to appease the audiences on those few nights they didn't perform the grand operas. By day Eric was hidden away to the darkest depths, hard at work at the opera he had coerced the managers into commissioning him to write. He showed himself only for the briefest of moments before and after his turn upon the stage, offering no words to Christine beyond those he sang.
Nearly every night Christine would find herself battling a growing emptiness within her in the darkness of her newly solitary confines. If Eric could say but a word to her – any honest communication… she what? What then? Secretly she was hoping for a return of her teacher. A word of praise, or a criticism at the least. Anything to salvage her world from the off-kilter existence it had taken on.
Despite luncheons with Raoul, which should have been the light of her days, Christine discovered that she was living for her nights. Those brief moments when the passion of the opera and those devilishly tempting words would dance within her soul and fill her with emotion. Because when she wasn't singing, she wasn't feeling anything at all.
