So, I know I currently have a few WIP and I probably shouldn't be starting anything new, but I've been having a bit of writers block lately and it usually helps me to get other ideas down. This will be a short story, probably only a few chapters. Hopefully it will help me and I'll be able to continue my other works. Now on with it!
I shall never be able to forget today. Not as long as I live. I shall never be able to purge these memories from my brain. When I am old and frail and on my deathbed, when I have even forgotten the name of my friends, siblings, nieces, and nephews, I shall always remember this. The funeral. I shall remember the pallbearers walking up the aisle, their faces masks of grim determination. He hardly knew any of them. I imagined the stories they would tell their friends, "Yes, I was at his funeral. I got to carry the coffin. He wasn't as heavy as he looked, you know. Most of the weight came from the coffin."
"But why on Earth did they decide to use you? You barely knew the old man." The friend would ask with morbid fascination. The young man would smile and light a cigarette.
"Heard he didn't really have any friends… except for the persian and he's too old to do anything… I suspect it's because we played bridge together once. He beat me, of course, the man was a damn good bridge player… damn good. Heard he was even better at poker, though I never got a chance to play with him. Only played with him once, that bridge game. Funny, he didn't seem to like me much."
"I bet it was his young bride," The friend would reason. "She's a tiny thing. A bit plain. I heard it was an arranged marriage. And she can't have gotten much from him, can she? He was almost 20 years older. And you're good looking, I bet she fancied you. Tell me, did she make any advances towards you after the service?"
"No," he would sigh. "Nothing of the kind. She kept to herself, mostly. Seemed very distraught. Poor girl probably fancied herself in love with the old man. A pity. I heard he never got over…" He would trail off, unwilling to say the name of the girl who had caused my husband's death. But the friend would know exactly who he was talking about and nod knowingly.
"He must've had your name down on a list of acquaintances. She probably just picked six at random."
"Five at random. His footman was with us too… poor young boy. He was terribly distraught. Almost dropped the coffin on me and John."
"I wouldn't've minded if the coffin had been dropped on John."
"No, I don't think I would've either." That was how their conversation would go. Men must gossip in the same way as ladies, or else their lives would be dreadfully boring. I had glanced over at Nadir at that point at the service, and I think his face shocked me more than anything else. The usually stoic Nadir was sobbing, like a child without it's favorite toy. And I suppose he now was, in a way. "Buck up Nadir," I whispered. "It's almost over… I'm sure of it. And you can't just sit here crying. It's a show of weakness. I'm sure there's at least one member of the press here… think of your reputation." That last remark of mine almost made me laugh. Since when had I cared about "reputation"?
The service was dreadfully boring and I knew he would've hated it. He would've hated the false eulogies, people who barely knew him getting up in front of the congregation and delivering a speech about how he was "such a nice man" and how they should know, seeing as they were "such close friends". At that he would've laughed.
"Anyone who says I'm a nice man is either a colossal liar or suffering from delusions." I had laughed at him, even though it wasn't really funny. I would've called him a nice man, because he was- to me at least. I wondered which one that made me: a colossal liar or a sufferer of delusions. Perhaps both.
Soon, it was my turn to speak. Gracefully, I exited my pew and began to ascend towards the pulpit, where I was meant to talk. He would've hated this, I thought, gazing out at the sea of mourners. An assortment of black stared back at me, women dressed in their lacey black dress and fancy hats, carrying gloves of black satin. The men were all dressed in their finest suits, cravats pressed and dress shoes shined. When had funerals become fashion contests- all the mourners trying to outshine each other. I swallowed my disgust and glanced down at my own dress. It was simply black thing with a "v" collar and buttons running down the front and stopping at my waist, though they were just for show. The skirt went down to my ankles, where it was met by my tan stockings. The outfit was completed by my shoes, simple black heels. With it, I wore only one accessory, my diamond wedding ring. As I stood, staring at the passage I had been assigned to read, I fiddled with it, turning it back and forth on my finger. I shifted, feeling my cheeks flush. I felt painfully undressed to my own husband's funeral.
I finished the passage and sighed with relief, scampering down the steps and back towards my pew, dabbing at my eyes as I went. They were my first tears of the day and they would not be my last. I returned to my pew and sat back down next to Nadir. I took out my handkerchief and wiped my eyes.
"Come, come," Nadir hissed. "What about "reputation." I clenched my fists. The rest of the funeral passed quickly. Some more strangers came up and spoke, the chaplin said some more prayers, we broke bread. Nadir was silent for most of the service. I didn't blame him.
I found myself glancing back towards the back of the church, at the staff. I saw Meg, poor Meg, her face buried in her handkerchief. Her mother sat next to her, looking very pale and tragic. Next to them sat Giles, the footman. He was very pale, paler than Mrs. Giry, and looked as if he was going to throw up. I turned back towards the front.
When it was all over, Nadir and I left with the coffin. It was raining now. I cursed myself. I had become too French, letting myself get caught in the rain without an umbrella. This never would have happened back in England. Nadir and I ran towards the car, ready to follow the hearse to the cemetery.
"I'll drive," I said, climbing into the driver's seat. "You're too emotional for the road." Nadir sighed and I began busing myself with the gears and such. I looked up at the sound of my name.
"Yes?"
"You've changed. Changed a lot- since he brought you here. We all thought you would be good for him… and kind of…"
"Rebound?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you meant it." He shrugged absentmindedly.
"We thought you would help him forget. But you didn't. You seemed to make it worse. I guess you were too much like-"
"Don't say her name." He said it.
"To really be of any help." I gripped the steering wheel.
"I helped him more than you ever could." I hissed.
"When you first came to Montague, you were still so young. Childish. You were innocent. But now… you've lost that innocence." The hearse had started to move. I pressed down on the accelerator and began to follow it.
"I suppose that comes when your husband is shot in the chest by a deranged lunatic." Nadir chuckled.
"I never really pegged the Vicomte as a lunatic… grieving, sure. But I never thought he'd take it this far. I never thought he would kill anyone." He exhaled, heavily. "But then again, I may be biased. I've known the Vicomte for…" I slapped the dashboard angrily.
"Could everyone just SHUT UP about the Vicomte!" Nadir stopped talking. We spent the rest of the ride in silence. You know, I remembered these roads. We used to drive them together- he and I. My husband… he was an architect, musical genius, inventor… he was the smartest person I ever knew and ever will. "He could've been great, Nadir. The greatest man to ever live," I said sadly.
"Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps."
"It's all because of that damn face-"
"No, not his face." Nadir turned to me. "People's reactions to it." I sped up. "You know, I never thought anyone would be able to love him with that face. That especially proved true with-"
"Don't say it." He didn't.
"-her. But then you came along. And you loved him. It was obvious, we all saw the way you looked at him. Erik loved you very much, I think. In his own way." I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. Lies.
"I did love him. I do love him." Not lies. I loved more than I ever thought a person would be able to love another. Erik Devereux. My hideously beautiful, tormented, dreamer of a husband. But for as much love as I had for him, he had twice as much for her. Christine Daae. Or should I say the Vicomtesse de Chagny. And for as much love as he had for her, I had twice as much hatred. She was a back-stabbing, conniving, snake-in-the-grass. She was a b-, a w-. She was the reason that Erik was dead.