Alright, MindGame says not more than once a day, but no less than once every three days for reviewing, and so I shall stick to that! thanks MindGame! And the rest of you let me know if I'm going to fast for you, I tend to get a bit excited... and for once it has nothing to do with Gerry at all... :)
Baffled Seraph: Thankee! Yes, definitely Star-Wars derived...
Beads: Sorry I caused your neighbor to worry... (snerk) Please keep coming back and reading!
butterflywings32: I have fun with everything, including chapter titles. And any and all references to Gerry's pants... :)
Librarian of the Deep: ah! Thanks much! I know I take a lot of bows, but I have to take one now too (takes a bow) A genius, eh? Okay, but my all time favourite description of me, courtesy of Terreis: "bizarre and oddly entertaining." That one is going on my gravestone.
phantomy-cookies: Exactly! If you watch the movie, there is no way on earth that Christine thinks the Phantom is her father! Noooo way! No way! She is obviously emnjoying the whole let-me-run-my-hands-all-over-you thing waaaaay too much. And, ahem, my phic wants to know if you're free on Thursday.
Kristiana Marie: Snerk... lets all throw popcorn at Raoul! No on second thought lets not. My Raoul would just eat it.
MindGame: AAAAAAACK! Your story made me laugh so hard! That's so FUNNY! Poor Bill... not that I actually feel sorry for him, but, y'know, must make some pretense at having a heart... oh my gosh. The whipped cream. Everybody go read MindGame's review of chapter six so you'll know what I'm talking about, its quite as entertaining as this chapter. No, I didn't say not to read this chapter! Come back here!
Songwind: Not many of the lyrics make sense anyway... and they're all so bloody repetitive... really, why do we like this thing anyway? (Gerik taps her on the shoulder) Oh, right...that...
EmailyGirl: Yess! Somebody got the Moulin Rouge references! Yeah I agree... nice long legs... tight black trousers... sorry, are we supposed to be this attracted to a murderer? I guess that's what counseling's for...
Fishy: Ha, thanks! Thank you veddy veddy much! I will quote your review till the day I die!
Artful Dodger: Dread Pirate Phantom... yeah. Totally random thought— like those people who were dancing during Point of No Return... what was up with them, anyway? That was a misguided decision.
Circe Rose: as far as the Terry vs. Erik competition (and feel free to weigh in on this, people) I'd have to say Erik, but here is the funny part... not Gerry's Erik. Somebody else's Erik. Because Gerry's Erik, while hot and everything, was just not— quite— the Erik I see in my mind when I picture Erik... sometimes it is, I guess... when I want to cheer myself up... :) And the Terry story is going very slow, and it is not very funny I admit, and I'm sorry about that... maybe it'll pick up again later...
YoukoElfMaiden: Thanks much for reviewing!
aries-chica56: I love how people are coming back for every chapter, pretty much, you all are very loyal and I love that... thanks!
Chapter Seven: In Which Erik Lies To Me A Bit
When I got back up to the surface, the so-called real world, I was greeted with some news.
"We found out who desecrated your dressing room," said Raoul.
"Desi-what?"
"Desecrated. Vandalized. Spray-painted, in this case. It was the diva, Carlotta di Pissi."
"Ah." I paused. "I did not know that was her last name."
"Um— it might not be."
"I see," I said, though I didn't. "Anything else, beloved?"
"No, no, I don't think so— oh, wait. Yes. Joseph Buquet is dead."
"That's Bucket," I said automatically.
"Is it?" he asked, frowning at me puzzledly.
"I think so— hmm— wait, dead?"
"Yes, found dead, found hanged."
"Hung."
"Is it?"
"I don't know. Hung? Hanged? Hunged? Dead? Strangled?"
"Um— yes."
Quietly I said a word that a respectable young lady wasn't supposed to know ("Oh, coitus!") and ran back down to Erik's underground lair immediately.
"Erik!" I said. "Erik, something dreadful has happened!"
"I was asleep," he moaned. "Cannot you leave me be?"
"But Erik—"
He composed himself and faced me. "Very well, Christine, I can see that you are disturbed. What is it?"
"Bucket is dead!"
"That's Buquet," he corrected me.
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"Oh. But, oh, Erik, he's dead, strangled, hunged— and they say it is murder!"
"I should think so," said Erik with deep satisfaction. "I cannot think that Buquet ever had enough courage to end things himself."
"But Erik— you didn't do it, did you? Tell me you didn't."
"Why, my lady! You suspect me?" he laughed, and bowed.
"Erik," I said firmly, "tell me you did not kill that man."
"Alright, my dear," he said indulgently. "I did not kill that man."
Instantly I sagged with relief, for I knew Erik wouldn't lie to me. Except about being an angel. And what he looked like under the mask. And Raoul. And how well I sang. And how he instructed me to sing. And when he was born. And his past. And his part in building the Opera house. And whether he was in love with me or not. And his shoe size. And his favourite color.
Oh dear.
However, it was not to be helped. How do you ascertain whether a nominal ghost is telling you the truth or not? I settled for fixing him with a steely eye. He looked back at me, all innocence.
"You must go and rehearse, my dear. Tonight is the big performance, and we wouldn't want you to be— tired. I am sure the fop would agree."
"Erik, why do you call him the fop?"
"Because, my dear," he said genially, "that is what he is."
There was no arguing there.
"It is merely an amusing insult, nothing more," Erik went on gently. "And he really isn't the only one— there are several, I am sure— in fact there's probably even some sort of gentleman's club."
"Do you really think so, Erik?"
"Yes, I would imagine so." He smiled. "F.O.P.— the Fellowship Of Pansies."
"Erik!"
"I apologize if I have offended your maidenly sensibilities, my dear," he said, bowed deeply, and smiled on.
"Erik, are you sure about this opera thingie?"
"Yes, Christine," he said gravely, "I am very sure about this 'thingie' as you so quaintly and rather insultingly call it. Please leave me now so that I may indulge in my habitual vices."
"Scotch and dog biscuits, I suppose," I said resignedly, turning to go.
He looked genuinely startled. "How did you find out about the dog biscuits?" he exclaimed. I gave him a look and continued on my way.
There were rehearsals to attend to.
On the way up, as was my wont, I fell back into memory, this time replaying the moment I first saw Erik without his mask—
It was not more than a month ago when he first showed me the Extremely Scary Puppet Christine, which is how I always refer to it. I am not sure what drove him to display it to me, but it was full life-size, dressed in a white wedding dress, and frightened the living crap out of me at the time.
"Erik— what in God's name—"
"Fear not, my lady," he said gently. "It has no occult significance."
"Erik, it's a voodoo doll!"
"It isn't."
"It is!"
"It isn't."
"Then what, pray tell, is this?" I asked, pulling a long hat pin out of the ESPC's heart area.
Erik looked embarrassed. "Alright," he admitted, "I did do that when I was a bit mad—"
"Really?" I scoffed.
"But the mere fact that you didn't die of a heart attack proves that it isn't a voodoo doll."
"Then what is it?"
Erik blushed and said, "I hesitate to explain—"
At that point I fainted. If he hesitated to explain, I almost certainly didn't want to hear it. I don't recall what happened thereafter, because of being in a faint and all, but when I awoke I was in a sort of swan-bed with sumptuous red covers and gold gilding that didn't speak well of Erik's interior decorating skills.
I got out of it and noticed I heard music. It was coming from the room where Erik kept his organ. I went to the door, and there he was, long fingers dancing over the keyboards.
Gradually I ventured closer, lured by the beauty of the music he played. It called me and caressed me, and I responded to it rather drastically. My first impulse was to throw myself at him and try to rip off his clothes, but I realized in time that this action would probably distract him from the music, which I did not want to end. So I simply reached out and touched the smooth flesh of the unmasked side of his face. It was smooth. And, er, fleshy. Very smooth. Here was a man who used his moisturizers. Smooth.
Smooooooooooth.
I was seized by a sudden desire to see under the mask.
"Do you mind," I started, "if I—"
"Anything, anything," said Erik, who was leaning into the pressure of my hand with every appearance of serious enjoyment. I wondered if anyone had ever touched his face before. Probably not by choice. Wait a minute, I was doing it by choice. So maybe. But probably not. Maybe. Who knows?
"I just want to see—"
Erik made a vague groaning noise and pressed my hand to his face.
"Well, if you really don't care—"
Another anonymous noise escaped his lips.
"Well," I said, "alright."
I took off his mask.
The reaction was extraordinary. He leapt to his feet and began racing around the room, cursing at me and basically yelling his head off. "Christine, Christine, bugger you to Hades! How could you do this to meeeee—"
"It's not so bad," I said, sniffling bravely. "It looks like a sunburn."
"I wonder you do not die of fright!" he bellowed, leaping about acrobatically, one hand covering the altered side of his face. "Curse you! Curse you and your little dog too!"
"I don't have a dog, and I imagine if you put a steak on that eye it'd be alright in the morning."
"Now you can never ever ever never ever never ever never ever leave!"
"Did you run into a wall or something?"
Erik stopped quite suddenly. "Hang on a minute," he said suddenly, "maybe it won't be so bad. I mean, you could move in here— redecorate however you want, move furniture and whatnot— they'd call you Madam Phantom, which you must admit has a sort of ring to it— we can have all-night singing sessions and seriously frighten the other inhabitants of the Opera house— do each other's hair— confide secrets—"
The look in his eyes was so wistful and far away that I said, "Aw, Erik— all you really want is a friend— that's so sweet—"
He looked at me with contempt. "On second thought perhaps some time away from you would clear my head. Come, give me my mask back."
I put it behind my back. "I don't want to."
Erik scowled. "Give it back."
"I won't."
"Enough games, Christine. Give me my mask back right now or I'll—"
"Or you'll what?" I said, taunting him. "Take it from me?"
He frowned, glared, scowled, and nodded.
I squealed. "You'll have to catch me first," I said, post-squeal, and dashed off, hoping he'd chase me. I looked back over my shoulder to see what he'd do, which proved my undoing, for I immediately tripped over a carpet and fell to the ground, bruising my fibula, which has always been delicate.
Erik stalked up to me, bent and retrieved his mask, putting it on quickly and efficiently with the ease born of long practice. It wasn't difficult, it looked like he just sort of stuck it to his face. Then he said stiffly, "I have caught you. Now cease such childishness and let's go. I must return you to the world above, or people will think I've kidnapped you. And I do so loathe gossip."
Meekly I stood and allowed him to return me to the world above, so people wouldn't think he kidnapped me and he did so loathe gossip. But I will never forget what that face looked like. It looked like a— it had a kind of— it resembled a—
I can't remember.
