Christine moped in her apartment for three days.
She knew she shouldn't. She hated women who couldn't never get over themselves and their petty relationships.
But Erik wasn't petty nor was their friendship.
He had been her friend, her confident. When they first met, he had become a wall for her to lean on, a steady and strong thing after her father had passed.
The memories had been worse then, she would be teaching her girls, and then suddenly the smoke was in the air and she was crawling and trying to find her father again.
Many questioned her sanity, her sudden 'fits' where she would shake and cough and cry, calling for her father. Even Madame Giry had looked scared off her at times until the memories faded.
Only Erik, wonderful understanding Erik, had been unjudging. When the memories came he would wait patiently, and when she conquered them his eyes would shine with an understanding that floored her.
Some would say that it was selfish, or cruel to do nothing. But he hadn't done nothing, he hadn't known what to do, Christine doubted he had ever comforted a human before.
But he had waited.
He had waited, and when he was more confident, he used to sing quietly until she had escaped the trap of her past.
When she struggled to understand the new world around her, the corsets, the bustles, the money and even the old french that she had struggled to master. He had been quiet, never mentioning her oddities.
Oh how she had struggled, how she had tried for years to be like everyone else, and tired and failed in this new world.
But music had been there, music was the same as it always had been. Notes flying from her throat, the vibrations in her bones, and the feeling of flight.
The nightly lessons had been a solid comfort under her feet, one that reminded her to keep going, keep moving, keep learning.
And now they were gone, swept under her feet like a rug. Now she was alone, and it hurt.
It hurt. And Christine wasn't afraid to admit it, it hurt and she wanted Erik back. If only to laugh and learn and debate with him again. There needn't be kisses, nor whispered words of love or romantic evenings, she only wanted his rich voice and clever mind and his passion for music.
Their passion for music.
It was all gone now.
Three days.
Christine allowed herself three days, to cry and moan and think over every memory with him.
Three days after New Years work began again. They were hurriedly finishing off Faust, the latest Opera, trying to make up for the days lost during the Holidays.
The pain was still there, a dull ache that threatened to overcome her at any moment. She buried it, tried to hide it in herself. But the others noticed, she had changed and they all wondered why. Many guessed, but few were right.
Then the performances began, a stunning success, with boxes sold out left and right.
It was said the Phantom was pleased, for he had asked for his stool for every night of the performance while it lasted. But the usual laughter at the jokes, the request for the program didn't come.
They preformed every night for a month, save Sundays.
Dinners on Sundays were a delight after a grey and dull week.
Nadir was a common sight at these dinners now, he and Madame Giry and Meg would chat. Christine forced herself to participate, it was good for herself.
One evening, Nadir had pulled her aside, and began questioning her.
"What is wrong?" He had so intently, with his eyes crinkling so very like her father's that Christine choked down a sob and a tear streamed down her cheek.
Then the man had hugged her, his beard smelled like smoke and his suit like must but she had dug her face into it anyways and though no more tears shed she clung to him like he was her beloved Erik.
"I once heard a story." Nadir murmured. "There was a fairy, who was said to dance in sunlight and laughter all day and through the night. It had a jewel that it treasured above all else. Every day she polished it and she held it up to the sun to see it sparkle. One day a human stole the gem, and the fairy never laughed nor danced again." His voice softened. "Who has stolen your jewel child?"
Christine shook her head, refusing to answer.
"Was it Erik?" Nadir's voice was cold, suddenly.
Christine pulled away, staring at him with large eyes.
"I've guessed you two know each other." He said wearily, giving a heavy sigh. "What jewel has he taken from you?"
Christine pursed her lips, her eyes falling to the floor. She heard a sigh, one that seemed to resonate how tired it's owner was.
"What he done?" Nadir said patiently. "Don't worry, I'll do my best to protect you."
Suddenly Christine laughed, he thought Erik had done something to her! Thought he had hurt her, stolen something.
Well he had, but Nadir wasn't thinking in the right road.
So she shook her head, gave him a small smile and shrugged. "You needn't worry, it's his right to take that jewel."
It was his right to not wish to be with her anymore.
Then she walked back into the dining room, her head held high.
Faust was finished, there was a small celebration among the cast, and then the anticipation for the next show.
What could it be? Who would lead? The questions were thrown around until finally the managers announced.
The next play was a secret, those who wanted parts would prepare a piece that they felt best reflect their skills. They would be assigned, before the play was revealed.
It was odd, and caused quite the stir. Christine herself wondered vaguely why, there were more rumors about how opposing Opera Houses were trying to copy theirs.
Joseph Bouquet was seen prowling around more and more, most of the ballet girls were afraid of him. He had always been a constant drunk, but he was never seen without a bottle in hand anymore.
He would constantly tell stories about the Opera Ghost's hideousness, and how he was controlling them all.
"I've got him under my thumb." He'd said, giving a lazy wink. "He'll fall to me yet."
It worried Christine, Bouquet was a drunk uneducated man, but he was not stupid as people assumed. He had worked with theaters for two decades, and knew the ins and out of the tricks and magic of the theater. Part of her worried that he would somehow find his way to Erik.
She began to watch him, especially when it was late and he at his drunkest.
At his bravest.
Two days later she found him, deep in the third cellar.
He had been kneeling over a crying half naked ballet girl, gagged so that no one would hear her cries. He glanced up at Christine's sharp gasp and reached up to lunge for her. He screamed that she wouldn't stop him from having his pleasures.
Christine stifled a scream and stumbled backwards, and felt the gun at her leg. This time, she had it. This time, he would not escape so easily.
Her hands trembled, but she swiftly drew it out, held it up with both hands, aimed and fired.
He choked, and collapsed, clutching his chest.
Christine raced over to the poor girl and began untying her arms. They were complicated knots, ones used in the rigging in the Opera House that were unfamiliar to her, she struggled and pulled while the girl silently weeped. Finally, they were undone, she turned back to Bouquet to bind him in her stead, but quickly realized there was no use in it.
She had shot him in the heart, he was already dead.
The poor silent girls sobs awoke Christine from the stupor this discovery had put her in, she turned round and gently helped her dress herself. She had been a quiet, but pretty thing, an easy target.
"This is not your fault." Christine murmured, holding her tightly to her chest and drying the girl's tears with her handkerchief. "Whatever anyone says, this is not your fault. No one wants this and heaven knows you never encouraged him. He's a terrible man and he can't hurt you anymore."
It was kept quiet, for the sake of propriety, Madame Giry and Christine arranged for the ballet girl to be taken to a nunnery. There she would be safe and respected, cared for a brought to the path of healing.
Bouqet was discreetly removed that night, his body was buried with no marker.
Her gun, which had long had six bullets, now had five. Technically, it should have been lighter. Now, in the hours that she stared at it in her apartment, it felt heavier than ever.
Once, Meg cornered her one day after rehearsal, her blue eyes tearing with worry. "Are you alright Christine?" She asked. "You've lost weight, and you never smile anymore, please." She grasped her hand. "Christine- you've got circles under your eyes, are you ill?"
Christine forced a smile and shrugged. "I haven't been sleeping well."
"Mother told me about Bouqet. You shouldn't feel guilty about Bouqet." Meg said severely. "He was a horrible man, and he would have done it again. I bet it wasn't the first time either." She added.
"I know." Christine shrugged. "I'm just- tired."
That night Madame Giry came to her house.
"I see you've indulged in your love of books." She remarked, staring at the two shelves that she had worked so hard to collect.
Christine looked up from her cup of tea. "I suppose, I never read them as often as I'd like."
There was an pregnant moment of silence.
Madame Giry stared at Christine for a time, then gave her a curt smile. "Someone's broken your heart." She finally said. "Someone you loved."
Christine sighed, her eyebrows pressed together, and she nodded.
"Well. That's your business, however, what is my business-" She pointed at Christine. "is how it's affected you, you're moping, you're sleep deprived and you're not taking care of yourself."
Christine nodded, and sipped more of her tea. "That's true." She admitted quietly.
"You need to pull yourself together." Madame Giry said, unsympathetically. "Stop tearing yourself apart."
"I'm not. I'm-" Christine said, setting her cup in her saucer. "I'm just missing him, he meant a lot to me." She pressed a hand to her chest. "I feel empty, like there's no emotion in my heart. I'm trying-" she admitted. "I'm trying to keep going but the emptiness just swallows my feelings." She set her tea down. "I don't know what to do." She admitted quietly.
Madame Giry watched her, tilted her head to the side. "Move in with us again. Staying in this box-" she gestured to her apartment. "is depressing. Move in with me and Meg again, she'll be glad to have you and so will I."
Christine bit her lip, looking at her tea. "I can't promise I'll be cheerful company. Being social at those dinners is taking all I have."
"That's not an issue." Madame Giry said. "I'm not doing this for myself."
So Christine packed her precious books, her lantern, the picture of her and the Giry's. Some of her furniture was sold, others were brought to the house. She'd sleep with Meg, in the attic in her own bed.
When they were finished moving, the apartment looked just as empty as she felt.
For a little while, she sat in it, seeing the dark room and remembering how excited she had been when she had first moved in, a year after she'd appeared in Paris. She had learned to sew in that year, and to cook and clean and crochet.
She'd been sad, her father's death had still hung over her, but she'd had Erik then, and the Giry's.
Now she sat, faintly remembering slowly saving to buy furniture, the feelings of excitment when she cleaned her own floor and shopped on her own, of having the pleasure of adding that one fine book to her collection every year.
The thought made her smile, and for the first time that emptiness didn't swallow it.
It had been a large chapter of her life, one that she had been proud to male.
Now she closed her eyes and forced herself to think forward. Now she had another chapter in her life beginning.
She stood and walked out of the door, leaving the empty room behind her.
Edit: In the next draft, I'm planning to rewrite the scene Bouquet is killed so that she kills him because he's attacking her, trying to get her to tell him where the Phantom is. Especially since he saw her with him. I think this makes more sense overall and is less sudden to the story. Thanks! (Reviewing is always appreciated.)
