tw: canon-compliant, non-graphic character death
For Erik's POV and a quick refresher, go back and re-read chapter 4.
Why is she here?
Box 5 yawns open before her, a pulsating, disorienting crimson cavern of temptation. Someone brushes by her, bumping up behind her, muttering an insult she can vaguely hear and she automatically acquiesces, moving deeper in, scooching away from the entrance she's been blocking in her indecision. A pass of the strobe lights and she's blinded, but only for a moment – the lights are programmed differently tonight, casting fragments of glittering gold and silver rather than the blue, pink, violet neon of last night; they fall like rich, dazzling rain upon a sea of velvet red ornamented with clubbers, dancing and drinking and laughing, no names and no inhibitions. It's a delectable, sultry, now familiar madness and Christine is paralyzed, suddenly distinctively out of place in her tattered T-shirt and jeans.
What is she doing here, on this night of all nights, and without Meg – all alone?
A riot of memories descends and with them, the slight urge to throw up.
"I miss her too, Dad! You can't keep her from me like this!"
"Christine! It's not like that, you have to understand – "
"I'm going to the library. I'll be back late."
"…Okay, sweetheart, just – bring your phone."
"Sure. Whatever."
A slam of the door, a brisk walk down the street, hot, angry, guilty, furious tears rushing up as she sits silently on the F line – and she's suddenly in front of Box 5, flashing her fake ID – no line, it's almost eleven p.m. – and handing over her debit card for the cover without a second thought.
She knows why she's here.
A day of uncharacteristic quietness; a dinner of her father's favorite foods; sitting side by side on the couch, him with a novel and her with her homework; a snap decision later, over ice cream and brownies, to get up and play one of the CDs from her mother's box, telling herself that she just wants to lighten the mood, knowing she wants far, far more than that –
- a reaction from her father, but not the one she craves. He's all shocked, angry eyes… outraged, offended bluster. He tells her to turn it off right now, shut it down, stop that "infernal racket" – and Christine cries out, indignant, spoiling for a fight she didn't know she wanted.
"Why won't you listen to it? Why don't you like her music – my music? What's wrong with it?"
"I don't have to answer that, young lady."
"You never answer anything! I'm not a little girl anymore, I can take it! I miss her too, Dad!…"
No one knows she's here, not even Meg. She can hardly believe herself.
This is so irresponsible, this is dangerous, this is just plain dumb…
She grasps at the red scarf she'd mindlessly grabbed in her escape from home, twisting the ends around her fingers, pulling it taut, half-strangling herself in search of some release from this awful frustration bubbling up inside, boiling under her skin –
Her eyes land on the stage and on Charlotte, and the band, and the blond in a black sequined dress and sky-high pumps belting out P!nk to the cheers of the crowd below.
Christine breathes in deep and releases it on a whoosh, savoring the now familiar scent of alcohol, perfume and sweat; she suddenly remembers the bouncer's words at the door – "Saturday special, karaoke all night long" – and she straightens.
That's right, she'd come here to sing.
Squaring her shoulders with shaky, newfound determination – you've got this, Christine, one song, one release, one rebellious triumph and you're out – she starts walking, navigating the maze of people, not stopping until she's in the queue and she's no longer in danger of being bowled over or yelled at… free to let her mind wander.
"Christine, stop that music right now. Stop it." Harsh, offended; the lilting strains of Nirvana continue on, background music for her father's anger. "I will not listen to that infernal racket."
His words sting like a slap to her skin and she breaks. "And why not?"
"Excuse me?"
"Why not!"
"Christine -"
"You loved her, didn't you? You used to listen to this stuff, I know you did!"
"Of course I loved your mother! I loved her more than you will ever know!"
"Yeah, I don't know, because you won't talk to me."
"Christine, don't be ridiculous."
"You're being ridiculous! Why can I play your music and not hers? Why won't you listen to it? Why don't you like her music – my music?…"
A different voice. "…Miss, your song?…"
Why is she here? What is she doing?
Oh God, did I really run away? Did I lie to his face and – oh, Dad…
"Christine, girl, do you know what you want to sing?" It's not the guitarist this time but Charlotte, sounding kind and concerned and confused, speaking softly from behind her.
What?
She lifts her eyes and sees a multitude of eyes staring back. The crowd – Box 5, the clubgoers, her audience. Curious… judgmental. She feels like she's seeing them for first time.
My audience!
Oh. She hasn't even thought about what to sing… but it comes to her now as she locks eyes with the guitarist, brows furrowed in clear bewilderment, waiting for her to name her choice.
It's a song she's never dared sing with or in front of Meg. It's a terribly sad song, melancholy to the extent that Christine's never been able to even listen to it without crying by the end of the second verse; of all his songs it's perhaps one of her least favorites, and for some reason she wants to sing it tonight.
She absolutely has to.
Here's to you, Mom.
"I want to sing 'Wilderness'," she tells the guitarist, quiet but sure, sending up a silent prayer as she turns back to face the expectant crowd.
It hurts, her father's rejection of the music on that CD, the only thing Christine has left of Karolina Daae. It twists itself into an angry ball of frustration and sorrow and anger, a lump deep in her gut - and she must be some sort of masochist because she revels in it, she wants this pain, this pressure crushing her from the inside out.
The first plaintive notes are upon her - Christine takes a breath and sings, and the pressure begins to float away.
Child of the wilderness…
XXXXXX
She doesn't realize she's crying until the tears are pooling in her eyes, a burning low in her throat; she closes her eyes and sings on, on, on, bowing under the weight of an awful sorrow so intense she barely has the breath for the winding syllables of The Phantom's song.
XXXXXX
The last note comes quickly, dying on a rasp, and heavy silence presses in around her.
The instrumentalists have ended their part, and Christine keeps her eyes shut tight, guarding herself – against what exactly, she doesn't know. Dimly a noisy roar enters her ears – a whistle cuts through her daze, loud and piercing, a wolf whistle? Applause…
She opens her eyes.
Oh God oh God oh God -
She is crying on stage - vulnerable, stripped down, far too exposed, naked under the scrutiny of a million eyes –
NO!
She needs to get out of there.
She runs, flying off the stage - knocking into someone's side, bashing her shoulder into someone's stocky chest; she can't see for the tears brimming in her eyes -
Christine's never, ever cried for her mother before.
She runs.
She runs out onto the sidewalk, people brushing by, some shooting her weird looks that she barely registers through the blur of tears. Halting on the very edge of the curb she flags down a taxi, flailing her arms like she's insane, feeling indescribable relief when one of the yellow cabs stops for her almost immediately.
She flings herself inside, shutting the car door on a hitched sob.
"Where to, miss?" says the taxi driver, and she pulls herself together long enough to rattle off her address before slumping in the seat, turning her head against the cool glass of the window to stare out of it, watching cars and lights and people pass by in that wondrous, illuminated blur that usually never fails to bring her peace.
No peace, not right now, not tonight.
"Hey, you okay?" The driver is looking at her in the rearview mirror curiously, a modicum of concern in his eyes, and she nods mutely, unable to open her mouth for fear the inexplicable torrent of emotion will come spilling out.
The only thing she wants in the world right now is to be home with her father's arms around her.
She can barely comprehend it – the sudden power of that music on her, digging deep inside, making her feel things she didn't think she could even feel.
How can she mourn a mother she's never really even known?
She and Meg have surmised before that the person behind The Phantom can't have had an easy life, unless he is some sort of genius method actor, and she's certain of it now. How could he have, with the raw, turbulent emotion of his music, the thing right now that's threatening to claw out her insides and rip the air from her lungs with the magnitude of its grief, even miles away from that stage?
What kind of life had he known, whoever he was, whoever he is?
As the taxi weaves its way down Manhattan and rolls across Triborough Bridge and into Queens, the landscape changing, the crowds fading away, she leans her forehead against the window – regulating her breathing, feeling that frantic, nervous energy seep out of her with every passing block. The strange sorrow lingers, potent and heavy, and the conviction that it will be there forever now – permanently branded on her mind, a piece of her – isn't so much frightening as it is just a given, something she knows with complete assurance, and suddenly she wonders what she'll tell her dad.
Everything, of course. The answer is everything.
She's going to apologize, and she's going to confess. She'll explain the club, making sure to leave the blame off Meg's shoulders. Surely he'll understand. He might be disappointed in her, in their fight and in this unprecedented betrayal of his trust, and it's that disappointment that she's worried about more than anything - but he'll get over it. She'll practice extra hard, she'll master that Sibelius he's been pushing her on, she'll make his favorite meals for a month. She'll regain her dad's trust - but she'll also ask about Karolina, about the mother she never really knew, because dammit it's been twelve years and she wants to know.
She pays the taxi driver quietly, waiting for the card transaction to go through - knowing that it'll be another blight on her character, a hefty charge on their monthly bill – but it's okay, she's going to come clean, it'll be alright.
It will be.
It has to be.
It's with a small sense of relief, a looming sense of guilt, and a blossoming measure of resigned determination that Christine enters the brick apartment building and steps into the empty elevator, pressing the opaque button with the "7" half worn off, listening to the tinny chime of each passing floor ring loud in her ears.
XXXXXX
The knowledge that she's about to tell on herself nips at her heels with every slow step she takes down the hallway, delaying the inevitable, willing her heart to stop hammering in her chest.
It won't be that bad, she knows, it won't; it'll simply be a matter of expressing her remorse in such a way that it leads naturally to a conversation long overdue. She wants more than a single memory, a name, a box of CDs – she wants to know, to understand, to be with her father in his grief and in his memories, to actually know the mother she'd grieved over tonight in front of a clubful of strangers, under the hot spotlights of a stage.
A turn of the key in the lock and she's pushing the door open, cursing the telltale creak, slipping inside the warm-lit apartment with the sudden desperate hope that she can get to her room without seeing her father first, hoping she'll have time to pull herself together before they talk –
That hope withers away as soon as she catches sight of the figure lying on the couch. Her father, asleep.
The guilt roars up, threatening to swamp her entirely – he'd stayed up for her, yet again, and this time she doesn't have the excuse of the library to hide behind. She won't. She shuts the front door softly behind her and glances toward the bedroom hallway – she could go and shower, get dressed for bed, wash the evidence of her breakdown off her face, end the night as she'd originally meant to, as she's done these past two nights – but no.
No more excuses.
Dropping her phone on the table, she walks into the living room area and kneels gently by his side, hand on his shoulder. "Dad, I'm home."
Upon the lack of reaction, she huffs and grips his shoulder a bit more firmly, shaking him. He'd always been a deep sleeper. "Dad, wake up, I have to talk to you."
A few hearty shakes – no reaction, nothing at all, and she goes cold all over.
"Dad?"
A frisson of panic lancing through her insides, she grabs his hand – warm to the touch, as calloused as ever, and she squeezes it, willing his eyes to open.
"Dad? Hello? Dad, wake up!"
His head is lolled to the side, and suddenly she realizes just how still he is, his face utterly slack, eyes closed, not a flicker.
A scream lodges in her throat.
"Dad - oh my God, please wake up! Dad! Please be okay, please wake up … I'm sorry! Please, I'm so sorry! Daddy, please be okay, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!…"
She's clutching his shoulders, screaming in his face, and he's not moving, and Christine cannot breathe.
Next up, a time jump...