Chapter 10

The Diary of Little Belle

"Oh, Belle! There you are!" My eyes snapped open. I sat up with a start, but immediately fell back after a wave of dizziness washed over me.

A very worried looking Mary-Ann (she was the one who had given me this diary) had discarded her bags. She was at my bedside in an instant. "Are you all right, dear?" She did not wait for my response. Instead, she decided to plop herself down on my bed and feel my forehead as though I was ill.

I groaned and pushed her hand away. I shut my eyes. I do not remember going to sleep, nor walking to the dormitory. I do not even remember lying down in my bed for that matter. I would remember such a trivial thing…would I not? I would—

"Belle, I am so sorry I had not been here. If I would have known I would have dropped everything." She tried at that point to embrace me like some long lost friend that she had not seen in years. I moved away from her arms. Well, as far I could move back on my bed, which was rather small. I did not want her comfort or concern. I just wanted to figure out why I cannot remember…

"You must be so tired! Oh, you look horrible…"

Quiet! I must think. Who does Mary-Ann think she is? She comes in here and acts like I am a great friend o her. She is no friend of mine. No one can be a friend of a crazy woman.

I close my eyes to escape Mary-Ann's words and the gloomy dormitory. I inhale deeply. I can smell a faint scent of sandalwood and spices…and then I remembered.

Garret.

Falling.

A glimpse of white.

And then…I fainted.

But who had brought me back here? And to my bed? If someone or something had not caught me, I would not have survived the fall…

I recalled Garret's face filled of both terror and regret as I dangled from his grip. He cried out as I fell. I had fallen and invisible arms had caught me?

But I remember a glint of white so well!

Then nothing…perhaps I had fainted? That would only make sense.

"Your face is pale." Mary-Ann grasped my hands in hers. She stared at me with her forever annoying concern and affection reflecting in her blue eyes. "And your face is pale, dear."

I pulled away from her and stood. I dare not trust my legs yet. I felt the dizziness again. She rose next to me as she pushed her blonde hair out of her face. She smiled at me. A sad, sad smile.

"We have searched all over this theater for you for a good time now, Belle…" We? Everyone must know of this mad woman who disappeared after taking a great fall from the catwalks and never hitting the stage bellow. "That Scotsmen—what is his name—is a complete mess. He goes on about how he let you fall...and it is his fault. Oh, Belle, the poor man is mad," Mary-Ann sighed.

"Garret?" My voice was weak. I had nearly forgotten him.

"I believe so, but I'm not one who spends time with those of his kind." She paused. "You know what I mean, Belle. He is a stage hand after all and they are not the most clean and sober men…" Here she goes; lecturing me like I am a child when she is only a few months older than me.

"I know," I reply. "It is nothing. Don't worry." These words are forced.

"It's not that I do not trust your judgment. I just do not trust him," she admitted. "He had everyone looking for you and you are here!" She hugged me. This time I let her and even managed to return it halfheartedly. "Who would have thought you were sleeping in the dormitory!"

"I don't know anymore," I mumbled more to myself. She released me. She looked at me sadly.

"Nor do I," she agreed. "I just don't understand either. I mean how, if what the Scots fellow—Garret said is true, how did you not—I mean—you didn't fall or maybe you did, but you did not hit the stage…" Her voice drifted off as confusion took on her girlish features.

"Mary-Ann…" She looked at me for a long minute as I found my voice again. "I don't know how I got here nor do I remember."

"I know, dear. I was hoping you could tell me." She looked truly sympathetic for this crazy woman.

"I don't remember," I lied. How could I tell her?

"It does not matter anyways," she exclaimed. "You are whole and well and that is enough!"

Little Belle is well? No, my dear Mary-Ann. Little Belle who has slept with her dead man, wished with death, and listens and pleads with a ghost of whom only she can hear is not mad. No, she is far from mad! If only she knew…

"I can only imagine what you've been through." she looked genuinely sad. "I am truly sorry, my dear, about Julien. I know he was dear to you."

Upon hearing her mention his name, I grew very angry at Mary-Ann. She has no right to speak of something that she does not understand. Oh, my Julien, how I wish for you now!

Mary-Ann must have sensed my annoyance because she backed away from me. Without another word, she picked up her discarded bags, placed them on her bed. She glanced at me with a most sorrowful expression on her face.

"I am truly sorry, Belle," she said. Then she left me there in the dormitory. Alone. Again.

***

I remained there, in the dormitory, pondering my near clash with death. I cursed my ghost for interfering. I had wanted to die. I cursed him with any and every name I knew and some I did not.

It was him. It could have been only him. I felt his ghostly arms and I saw his phantom mask. I can even smell him now. He infuriates me so! I hate him!

At least I have been spared from his music. That cursed music that sobs and cries. That same music which sometimes sympathizes and is kind. That music is pure torture, an addiction to your ears if they hear it once.

It must be the end of holiday if Mary-Ann had returned! Oh, God in heaven!

They must know by now. They know. They all know. They know of little Belle and her dead fiancé, Julien, who were to wed, but the cancer claimed him, and she kept him even as his corpse began to rot, she kept him. She kept him all to herself and even slept with his dead body!

And they must think her crazy after somehow surviving the fall.

I suppose I should be grateful that my ghost had saved my retched soul from death, but how can I be when I long so much to be with my Julien?

I wish I was back with my Julien. I ask the impossible. One more night with my living Julien, that is all I ask.

I pray to God and he ignores my pleas. I do not blame him. He frowns down on Little Belle and her madness.

"Oh, Julien, my dead husband to be, how I wish you were here!" I had cried that aloud as I sat on my bed, wallowing in the sorrows of my life. The sorrow and grief finally came and I cried and cried. "Julien, my love…"

***

I thought of my Julien one last time as he was when he was alive.

My big and strong Julien... He was indeed the most beautiful man that I had ever met. Not just because of his features, but also of his heart.

I remember…he was somewhat built and tall. He had dark hair and kind eyes. Anyone could just look at him and melt. He was my savior.

My love.

Julien gave me everything in the world, not because I asked, but rather because he could. He was a gentle and smart man…a literary genius, if there was ever one. He adored me and I him.

Oh, I miss him so. I miss his touch…I miss the sound of his voice…I miss his kiss.

When my world would crumble from all angles, he would be there to hold me and console me and wipe my tears away. But that cannot be. Not now. Not ever again will I lay eyes on my Julien. Never again am I to neither hear his soothing voice nor will I ever feel his tender touch.

Too much pain.

I cannot think of this now.

I cannot imagine my dead Julien as he was when he was living.

Let it wait.

***

I am forever grateful that I have been able to hide here. I have eluded the shameful gaze of those who even dare look at this mad woman. And so here I stand on the cold rooftop of the grand opera house, once again in the snow. Large snowflakes fall so slowly to the earth and land on the ground with such grace that it reminds me of my dancing…and his music.

I wish to forget him and his music…

Even now as the silence of the chilly wintry night devours the last remnants of daylight, I can feel a presence—rather the lack of a certain presence, if that makes sense. I feel a peculiar emptiness or a sort of vacant void…I tell myself that that missing piece is my dead Julien, but reason knows better.

I shudder as a cold gust of wind slices into my body. My auburn hair goes flying behind me as I wrap my arms around myself in a futile effort to shield myself from the wind. How foolish I was to make the long trek to the roof without even considering the donning of my cloak!

Snow is a pretty thing really. I watch as the snowflakes continue to descend leisurely. They remind me of the waves from my dream…the green and foamy dancers of the sea.

I think of my ghost. I stiffen. I feel the hair on the back of my neck prickle up at the very thought of his ghostly silhouette looming off in the gloom—and that colorless mask that mimics that of phantom—

I inhaled sharply. I heard the sound of snow cracking under feet from behind me. I closed my eyes tightly.

"Not, my phantom. Not, my phantom," I mumbled that over and over to myself. I do not believe it! He even stalks me now as I try to escape from the land of the living. How dare he decide to come and go as he pleases and torture me with his sweet music's sound?

The footsteps are quiet. My eyes are still closed. I refuse to look at my ghost. There is a moment of silence where only the wind is heard. There is no music. He clears his throat somewhere behind me. And to think I once thought that he was a sympathetic phantom…

"You leave me be! You are a most horrid ghost! I wish to never see you again nor do I wish for your music," I yelled these angry words. Perhaps all of Paris could hear this mad woman, but I cared not. I was angry and it was all his fault. Imprudent ghost! "Go and leave me now."

A long silence.

No music.

I heard the movement of footsteps in the crunching snow again. They were nearing me. How I hate him!

"Just go and leave me, please?" I asked this of the silent ghost whose voice I have never actually heard. Only his whispers in my ears, his dark words…those words in my head…and his music. Perhaps music is his voice?

The footsteps stopped and I felt a presence right behind me. "I ain't be leavin' ya, lass. Not after you disappear like that…"

These words were heavy with sorrow and the voice was not too sure of itself. This voice did not speak cruel words nor was it sinister like that of my ghost. Oh, how relieved I was to recognize Garret's voice instead of my ghost's.

I turned around slowly to see Garret staring at me. He looked as though he had aged many years during the short time of my absence. His eyes were reddened and his curly brown hair was unkempt.

"Garret," I mumbled his name because for a lack of anything else to say.

"Do ya really want me to leave ya alone, lass?" He looked so pathetic. "I don't know what I did, but I didn't mean any harm to come to ya." He pulled his brown cloak around himself and dusted the snow off of his arm.

"I thought you were…someone else," I managed. "I am sorry."

"Who, lass?" He frowned.

"Forget it, Garret." I turned my back on him. I stared out across the dark city of Paris. I did not want to talk with Garret, but he was better company than my ghost. He did not haunt me with his painful music and he actually tried and tried to hard to be kind to me.

"Oh, my lass, I'm sorry," he said. His voice was full of disappointment. "I shouldn't have promised that you wouldn't fall. I shouldn't have asked you up there—"

"Oh, stop it Garret!" I turned on him and stared him directly in those blue eyes of his. He stared back at me with his saddened expression. "Quit blaming yourself! It was I who went and it was I who caused my own fall. Now stop apologizing."

I had not realized how worked up I had become. My face felt warm and I could feel tears streaming down my cheeks. But I really did not care anymore. Let Garret see this crazy woman as she is. Let him see and maybe he will run. I do not care.

"Oh, lass…" He closed the short distance between us and I let him pull me into an embrace. I lost all control I had left and I sobbed into his chest once again. His body was warm and I felt safe—actually safe in the arms of this near stranger.

"You must think me mad, Garret," I cried into him. "You must."

"No, no, lass. Don't think such a thing." His voice was kind and gentle. He hugged me tighter to him still. I could smell that familiar tobacco and bourbon on him.

I sobbed and sobbed as Garret held me and whispered kind things in my ear. And we stood there, like that for an eternity.

And my ghost was forgotten.

Reviews, eh?

~ E.O.L.

"This is madness! Madness, I tell you!"