What Doesn't Kill You…

7

"A Ridiculous Dream"

I hummed quietly to myself as I swaggered through the beehive of hallways of the Opera Populaire, proud that I was getting to finally know my way around. I had a sack full of rubble slung over my shoulder, my hands cracked, dirty, and bleeding. My back ached, my face was smudged with so much dirt my skin tone had darkened, my feet were blistered from those terrible shoes, and my hair was gritty and smelled like ash. But I was surprisingly content. Two days had passed since I received my job at the opera house. I had managed to make friends with the few people that spoke English, a no-skills-required job had attracted many the immigrant trying to scratch out a living for themselves in Paris. We were drawn to each other, feelings of camaraderie sprouting from speaking the same language.

Kathryn Bishop, an off-the-boat from England, and I had become fairly close, our personalities immediately clicking. She was cleaning somewhere around the stage, I was meeting her so we could get lunch together. The pay was hardly decent, enough to get by only because the opera house was providing a place to live and two meals a day. The clean up crew wasn't extensive; apparently the managers were trying to be as thrifty as possible since their patron—Raoul—had threatened to back out. Or so I had heard. That had the rest of us working around the clock in extensive shifts. Despite being completely dead-to-the-world exhausted every night, I had never felt better. In this dream world, I contributed it to not having to worry about essays, tests, labs, or any other stressful activity grad school had in store. Manual labor really isn't all that bad…maybe when I wake up, I'll remember this and become a sandwich maker or something…

Actually, I now was rather unsure about my existence here. I had figured out by now that I wasn't anywhere near home, not even in the same time period. The fashion, the language, even by the English speakers, was just too wrong. I continued to reassure myself that I was unconscious in the hospital and would soon wake, but even that was wavering. It was a good thing I fell asleep so solidly, otherwise, my worries would never let me rest. During the days I would simply push the thoughts away, distracted by my work.

My throaty hum raised an octave, alone in the halls I had no reservationsBeing in this place…I couldn't help myself. Although the stage still had a massive hole in it, I quietly emerged from the wings, and standing in the middle of the stage, I inhaled deeply, breathing in the beauty and sheer wonder that was the theater. A nervous excitement overtook me, building its way up into my chest, filling my lungs. Elated, and grinning foolishly to myself, I blasted out the first few verses of one of my favorite songs from my voice lessons in college, a Henry Purcell piece. I had been active, well more than that, in music in high school and college, at one time even believing that I would major in it and become famous. A dream, a ridiculous dream…completely unrealistic. So instead, I majored in science. I liked it a lot, and it ensured that I would have a future. I shook my head, I hadn't sang in so long, I was incredibly rusty. That was ugly…I wish I still had an iota of what I had before.

There was a time I was strong, my powerful soprano once reaching notes that most others couldn't. It was years ago, my range had deteriorated, and my technique forgotten, my voice no longer able to stretch the way it could. It had depressed me when I first realized two years after I had stopped singing, and even now, a little sorrow pinched in my gut. Those days are over, it makes no difference. I just wish people knew how good I was, that I had some way to show them to redeem myself…

Sighing, I retreated back behind the wings to clean until I was due to meet Kathryn. Moving through the labyrinth of rooms and corridors, I pushed my way into one I had never seen before and gasped in sheer delight. This must be the costume room! Look at all the beautiful clothing!

I shuffled over to one of the racks of clothing, dropping my sack of rubble with a clatter. I sifted through the flashy, glittery, silky garments, pausing to admire the occasional dress or suit. The fabrics were of the finest material, embroidered with glass beads and crystals, gold and silver wire. Every stitch was hand-made, each garment fitted perfectly for the wearer. Still humming to myself despite the harshness of my voice, I went through three more racks and decided that it would take too much time to look at all of them. There were costumes for every cast member, every singer, and every dancer, for every show. I wondered how long they kept the costumes after every show. Thank god the fire didn't reach the costumes, all this beauty completely destroyed… Continuing to shuffle through them, I let out an exclamation at the piece of clothing I had come across. My green dress! I thought I had lost it forever! Some one must have found it and thrown it in here! Holding it aloft, my excitement drained away. I guess it doesn't matter, it's ruined anyway. Some of the fabric had been ripped, some was also dribbled with blood. Seeing the blood, my expression turned grim, remembering Jonathan. Bastard. Wherever or whenever I am, I hope he's in prison. I ran my thumb over a blood stain, flipping the dress over my arm, thoughts still heavy on Jonathan. I tried to push the angry thoughts away, concentrating on what was in front of me. Continuing my browsing,I paused at a rack of rather drab clothing. It was shoved against the back wall, half of it covered with a sheet. These don't look like costumes…what are they doing here?

Flipping the sheet off the rack, I sorted through them. They looked like someone's regular forgotten clothes. Dresses, skirts, riding habits and bodices made of wools, cottons and muslin in grey, brown, white, black, and blue. Even nightgowns, stockings, and corsets hung over the rack. Grabbing a dress from its hanger, I held it against my body. Seems long enough…and I am severely lacking acceptable clothing here. If they're just going to sit in here and get dusty…Stripping the clothing from their hangers, I made a large pile over my shoulder. Moving along the rack, pulling every garment free, I stopped as I came across the last one. Instead of being made of common, plain fabrics, it was made of the highest quality silk I had ever seen. Intricate lace hung in layers on the off-the-shoulder sleeves, around the bodice, and in long waves around the skirt. It lacked all the glitz and glamour of the other gowns, and looked slightly antiqued, as if it had not been made for the stage at all. I wonder whose clothes these were? They couldn't have been for a show… Drawn to the elegant, graceful beauty of the gown, I stacked it on top of the other, plainer clothing.

"Gwen?" a familiar accented voice called to me, echoing through the hall outside.

"In here, Kathryn! In the costume room!" I shouted back to her.

She swung into the room, heavy skirts bustling around her, kicking up dust. She paused, arms folded across her chest, smirking ironically."What y' be doin' in 'ere? Tryin' on the costumes?"

Grinning sheepishly at her over my shoulder, I batted my eyes innocently. Shoving some of the older dresses into her arms, while tucking the rest under one of mine, we hefted them to the entrance in front of a large mounted mirror. My back to the mirror, I dropped my load to hold up the beautiful costume gown.

"Only this one…" I brandished the dress to her. "I only wanted to try it on. Those others I just wanted to borrow until I get a wardrobe of my own. Everyone else has more than one set of clothes, and I'd rather not have to wash my dress every single night." Struggling to undo the buttons that ran up my back, I wiggled around, attempting to reach them all.

"I suppose if they be just sittin' around 'ere in this dusty old room, it does no 'arm. Y' want some 'elp with those buttons?"

I nodded gratefully, able to reach a good portion of them, but flailing at the rest. It usually took me about fifteen minutes in the morning just to get the dress on, and I was extremely pleased to find some clothing that didn't have buttons all up the back. Kathryn undid the rest of the buttons, and I slipped the dress from my shoulders. Although I knew she didn't care, I was happy I had kept my slip that I had worn with my green party dress, appreciating my foresight. I delicately undid the hook and eyes on the costume, sliding the dress up over my hips. Hooking all the hook and eyes again, I adjusted the dress, making sure it fit. It was tight around the waist and chest, but if I sucked in, it fit, if not comfortably. Gazing at myself in the mirror, I was perfectly willing to sacrifice comfort.

"It's…incredible. It's the most gorgeous dress I've ever seen, let alone tried on!" I twisted, admiring my reflection from different angles.

Kathryn gave a low whistle, smiling appreciatively. "Aye. My God, Gwen, you look like you were born t' wear that dress."

I flashed her a brilliant, excited smile, adjusting my chest in the dress. "I love it! I just wish the chest were a little bigger. Whoever this dress was made to fit must have been pretty thin. I guess I'd better get out of this thing now, before someone sees me." She nodded, reaching out to help. I pulled off the dress reluctantly, wishing that I could wear it all the time. About to hang it back up on the rack, Kathryn stopped me. I turned to her, quizzically.

"It's just too perfect on ya, Gwen. Who would notice if y' borrowed this one too?" she smiled devilishly as she took the dress from me, hanging it over her arm. Chuckling with evil agreement, I picked up the rest of the clothing, Kathryn grabbing my sack of rubble. Slipping into the hall, we thought that the clothes would be our little secret.

o o o o o

Hours after his last period of cognizance, the former Phantom's eyes fluttered open, and he groaned as the pain of being conscious struck him. His body racked with pain the emotional apocalypse had over the past three days had settled into his body, pain becoming physical as well. He hadn't eaten, barely even moved from his crumpled position on the stone floor in his room. Hoping he would just die, he had ignored food, drink, any sort of physical relief except sleep. He had passed in and out of a coma-like slumber until only the pain suggested whether he was awake, or asleep, alive or dead. Finally unable to refuse his body's demands for sustenance, he pulled himself to his writing desk, using the chair for support as he attempted to stand. Legs wobbling, he willed them to work, leaning heavily on the chair. Standing, his reddened eyes scanned the room. Everywhere he looked, everything reminded him of her. This whole damn place! She was never in my room, but always in my thoughts…

His eyes darted to the writing desk in front of him. Sheets upon sheets of half-finished arias all written for Christine, sketches of her beautiful bright face covered it in muddled piles. Sudden rage overcoming the weakness of his drained limbs, he sliced his arm across the desktop with a snarl, the papers taking flight like a flock of birds. The papers scattered across the floor, he became aware of other offending objects—the desk itself, his chair, his bed, his dressers, everything. Snarls growing into howls of blinding fury, he unleashed his pain onto his furniture, shoving his protesting legs through the desk, splintering his chair, his arms and once-graceful, elegant hands ripping through his mattress. Seizing a corner of his dresser, he flipped it. All the furniture in his room destroyed, he moved into the main chamber of his underground home, snapping, smashing, crushing anything in his path. Sheets of his masterpieces were shredded in cruel, insane hands, candelabras thrown across the cavern, smashing into various objects. He came across the first of his many mirrors, their purpose not only to illuminate the cavern by reflecting the candle light, but also to remind him of his despicable appearance so he would not try to join the upper world. Christine was the only reason he had ever considered trying to assimilate with the outside world. Before her, he never had the confidence. Examples of society's reactions to his distorted face always lingered in the back of his mind, but Christine's "understanding" and "love" made him think that he could, one day, be accepted. To her, he had believed, he had not been "the Phantom," "the Opera Ghost," "a monster," "a devil," but a man; a man who wanted love and acceptance like any other. He had simply been…Erik. But she, like all others, did not see him as a man, at least not a man she could ever care for. Memories exploded through his mind as he stared at his bare face. Unable to withstand the raging flood of memories, he staggered backward, gripping his face. A hollow scream burst from his lips as he tore at his face with his nails, ripping at the tender exposed flesh, rending it from bone. Blood ran freely, drenching his hands. He gazed upon himself, the raw open gashes left from his nails only making him look more revolting, more inhuman. Lurching towards the mirror, he drove his fist through it, the glass slashing his hands, wrists, and forearms. The pain was blinding, disorienting. Lost in his pain and anger, he grabbed a candelabra, and shattered every other mirror within reach before losing full consciousness.

Unaware of how many hours had passed, the broken man awoke. Dried and cracking blood stained everything around him, clothing, skin, and the carpet of music beneath him. Lightheaded, he crawled towards the lake of dark water, hissing as he let his body fall into it. I could just go under, drown, it would be easy…no one would care, no one would even know. No one would mourn the loss of The Phantom…but I am no longer him. Who am I? What am I now? I am not Erik, I am not even the Opera Ghost. What would he do? Kill everyone, everything…The shudder that consumed him was not due to the frigid temperature of the water as he floated on his back. I could not do that. His mind explored possible reasons. Christine. She made me this way. Another anger grabbed at him. Before Christine, he hadn't cared about anything or anyone. Only my music… Human life had held no value, they were just like insects scurrying around in their useless attempts to survive comfortably. She had opened the locked doors the he had kept his emotion behind all his life. Despite despising everyone, everything, even himself, he could no longer just extinguish life. It was easier that way, before her. The Phantom was a product of his previous thinking, of the abuse and hate that had shaped him. The Phantom had strangled Piangi in cold blood, the man's life force drained out from under his fingers, and he had never been struck with any regret. Now the thought sickened him, and in the water already filled with his blood, he spilled whatever contents his starved stomach held. I should not be alive. The crimes I have committed, the pains I have endured…and caused. He stood up in the water, his thoughts becoming increasingly morbid as he told himself that death was the only way to escape. He tried to convince himself it would be easy, simple. And yet…something in his soul resisted, afraid, unwilling to give up—my pathetic existence. Hardly a life at all. It hurts too badly, I could be free…Marching into the deeper water, one of the places where he couldn't steer his gondola as the water was too deep, he was only a few steps from being completely under. Sucking in his breath, he forced his feet to move onwards, into the pitiless arms of the freezing depths.

"Sweeeeet, sweeeter than rooooses…" A heavy soprano cut through the tension-thickened air, echoes ringing throughout the cavern… "Or coooool, cooooool evening breeeeze…."

Christine! The notes weren't particularly lofty and had the husky edge of a range that had not been used for quite a while. The voice sounded nothing like her, the tone and timbre were completely different. But hope surmounted his senses, he was deaf to the real sound of the voice. Surging out of the water, he leapt into the shallow boat used for crossing the underground lake, forcing it to glide as quickly as possible. Christine! Christine! She has come back to me!

"Sweeeet, sweeeter than roses, or coooool, cooool eve, evening breeeze…on a waarrm, waaarm flowery shore…"

The voice taunted him as it splashed through the cavern. The song was completely foreign to him. The voice even more so. His clouded mind could not comprehend it, though, and he pumped his protesting legs along the passage leading to the stage. She will be there, she will be on the stage! She is glorious! He climbed up through a trapdoor, not even bothering to look if anyone was around to see him. He nearly burst from the wings to present himself to the singer when he realized that it was not Christine. Shock slammed into him, his feet froze so abruptly that he rocked forward. It is not Christine! Backing away into the darkness of the wings, he tried to calm himself. Pure exhilaration at "Christine's" arrival had caused him to shake violently, now a crushing disappointment caused his trembling. Suddenly aware that he was still far too overexposed in the wings, easily visible if the woman on stage bothered to look behind her, his clothing drenched and encrusted with dried blood, his bare face shredded and still bleeding, he panicked. Glancing upwards, he seized a nearby rope and pulled himself up into the catwalks and pulleys holding the curtains, tucking himself away in the flies. Once completely enshrouded, he turned his full attention on the mystery singer, trying to keep himself from longing for Christine.

She continued to belt out her rusty tune, oblivious to his presence. He winced as she pushed through a difficult line, her withered technique not able to support her through a run. Clouded green eyes narrowed with contempt; it was extremely obvious to him now that she was not anything like Christine. Her tone was darker, richer, than Christine's airy, bright, effortless soprano. It is not beautiful, but it once must have been…She has more potential than Christine did when she started…Christine…His eyes watered as memories once again began to surface. He withdrew into himself, his sorrowful mind grabbed at thoughts of his love, he truly wanted nothing more than to slink back into his caverns and hide from the world, with only himself and his memories of Christine. No! I will not resort to a blubbering mass again! I will not hide! Angrily shoving his thoughts aside, his pride not allowing him to return to sobbing like a helpless child, the former Angel of Music analyzed the newcomer. Her physical appearance was just as different to Christine's as her voice was. For starters, her build was not the tall, slender, willowy frame that Christine had graced, but a harder, lean, muscular one with larger hips and bust. While Christine's build was just as wispy and graceful as her voice, this girl was all muscle and angles, seeming sharp and tough. She stood with her shoulders thrown back, feet firmly planted, while his love was more withdrawn, her presence not strong. Christine was demure and modest. Chaste, innocent... She knew her place as a woman…He sneered at her with mild disgust. Christine was the perfect woman, his ideal personification of beauty. This one does not. And then that hair…The woman on stage had a cloud of fiery curls cut as short as a boy's might be. If it was not for the dress and the soprano, I might have not known her to be a woman at all…He was unable to see her face, but imagined it fierce and aggressive to match her firebrand hair and fighter stance. His lip curling with distaste, he felt a rising animosity towards her. If she could only be Christine…Although her not being the former star of the Opera Populaire was no fault of her own, he privately blamed her, wanting to believe that she was the reason Christine had not returned. She cut off after only a few verses, shaking her head, visibly unhappy with the sound she produced. She should be, she sincerely needs to be trained. To think what I could do with that voice! The thought immediately offended so much that he shook his head viciously to dispel it. NO! I will not be caught in that trap again! No, I do not like this woman invading my opera…His eyes burned on her as she left the stage, still unaware of their intense glare.

She left the stage, withdrawing back into the wings and then into the maze of hallways, a rich hum wafting behind her. Drawn by curiosity and a desperate need for distraction, he followed, silently. The woman never hesitated in her march down the halls, never heard the footsteps soft as snowfall. Suddenly she stopped short, and he felt a flash of panic. There is no where to hide! So he stood still as stone, only the shadows of the hall protecting him. Still, she didn't notice his presence, she merely ducked into what he knew as the costume room, her sack of wreckage swinging jauntily over her shoulder. He was slow to follow, but heard her gasp of delight. A surprising sliver of vague amusement broke through his melancholy. Peering around the doorway, he watched her with growing interest as she perused through the costumes, vanishing from view behind the burdened racks. Taking his chance, he slipped through the doorway towards a large mirror that was mounted on a wall facing the racks. Although he had hardly ever used the passage behind the mirror that connected to his network of underground tunnels, the mirror opened easily once he found the latch. Hearing a female voice calling from somewhere outside the costume room, the former Phantom stepped behind the mirror to watch.

Another worker soon entered, the women spoke in English—a language he had hardly ever heard spoken but had often read in. Their dialects confused him slightly, the woman who entered had a thick cockney British accent, while the other…I have no idea…she is not British, where else speaks English? America? The women chattered in the back of the room, shuffling to the entrance again with a mountain of clothing heaped over their shoulders. The singer turned her back to the mirror, displaying a garment to the newcomer. Women and clothing…Does anything else matter to them? His ire mounting as his mind worked over the vanity of women, he was suddenly struck with alarm as the singer began to undress. A angry blush rippled up his cheeks as he averted his eyes. Never had he seen a naked woman, and it seemed even less appropriate to goggle at one whose face he hadn't even seen. The women continued to chatter, completely oblivious to his discomfort. Listening intently to their conversation in hopes that it would tell him when she was decent again, he waited. A gasp and excited exclamations regained his attention. Deeming it safe to look, the nameless man turned his gaze to the woman standing on the other side of the mirror. He lurched backwards in surprise as she leaned into the mirror, wide blue eyes seeming to pierce the glass and stare into him. He had been right in his assumption that she would have a fierce face, but she certainly wasn't ugly. Her squared jaw, angular cheekbones and high brows were certainly intimidating, but not entirely unpleasant. Each feature was slightly unusual, but meshed well, creating an interesting whole. The red swarm of curls that clouded around her face did nothing to soften her striking features, the only thing even hinting at the softness that had embodied Christine was the new girl's arresting blue eyes. She's beautiful…very beautiful, but in a very strange way. Not like Christine at all…

Slowly, he approached the glass of the mirror, curiosity dominating all other emotions. He welcomed the new emotion, wanting to delay the pain that had overcome him for the past few days. With a slightly repulsed interest, he realized that she was dirty, her face decorated with smudged ash, her hair gritty with it. The dirt, however, did not extend below her face, the collar of her other dress preventing it from reaching the lily-white but freckle-peppered skin below. Freckles flecked her neck and shoulders, nothing like the soft, pure snow of Christine's skin. The repulsion only increased exponentially as he took in the dress that she wore. Christine's wedding dress! The very dress that he had forced Christine to wear when he took her to his lair three days before now hugged the trim body of the new worker. A thousand thoughts whirled in his mind, he was unable to control them. A violent physical illness came over him as he could not stop the pent-up memories from pouring out of the recesses of his mind. Quaking with rage, frustration, hate, fear, longing, lust, and utter despair, he weaved on his feet. Suddenly nauseous, he tried not to pitch forward through the mirror. The dress was no longer water-logged and sagging, and swathed in the layers of white silk and lace, the raspy soprano look luscious in a way that Christine had not. Along with the tightness of the bodice on a fuller chest, the girl radiated a confident maturity that Christine had never developed, and he felt reluctantly drawn to her. More than reluctant. Hatred boiled over all the other emotions that fought for dominance as he gazed on the strange beauty of the woman in front of him. NOT AGAIN! NEVER AGAIN! The mere idea of another woman pulling him into her clutches terrified him, and he reacted with a loathing towards her that he reserved for few. As she spun and laughed in the mirror, giving him a view from all angles to admire, he could no longer watch. Flinging himself into the passage leading to the reassuring darkness of his home under the opera house, he tried to force what he had just seen out of his mind.