Part 6
After a while Christine slowly drifted out of her drug-induced sleep, despite the soothing music that seemed to say sleep…..have no fear…..sleep…
She blinked, her eyes feeling heavy and there was a funny taste in her mouth. [Where was she?] she thought groggily. Then her last memory blazed in her mind – the hissed words, the pungent cloth held to her mouth and nose. The fog cleared from her mind at the remembrance, her eyes opening wide in terror. [where..]
She was sitting in a large, comfortable black leather chair with a red blanket tucked tightly around her. Nearby there was a stone fireplace where a fire burned merrily. The air was pleasantly warm and there was an exotic spicy smell to it. The walls of the opulent room she was in were panelled with bright Oriental red silk, the floor covered with luxurious Persian carpets with odd pink spots on them.
Against the far wall - a huge pipe organ stood there and seated at it was a man in a black opera cloak. From her vantage point she could see that he wore a gleaming white mask. A chill ran through her. The Phantom of the Opera had indeed kidnapped her, and she did not want to know why he wore a mask. 'A face from hell' was what one of the stories had said about him – was there truth to that story?
Something about the carpets seemed wrong. She peered at them. Yes, it was the pink spots on them that seemed out of place. Wait, they weren't pink spots, they were….dried rose petals. From pink roses. Cold sweat pooled at the nape of her neck. Surely they weren't from the missing bouquet of pink roses that Raoul had given her, on the day that everything had changed?
Yet, after returning to her old room yesterday the bouquet had vanished from where she had left it. Raoul would not have taken it back of course – but one who saw the flowers as something from a hated rival would have taken them, to rip them apart and scatter them where they could be crushed under shoes.
[Raoul!] she screamed silently. [Please come and help me!]
But he could not. How could he, when she did not even know where she was. The only person who could get her out of here was…her. She took a deep breath.
"Where am I?" she inquired in a steady voice that only shook a little. The Phantom paused playing.
"Ah, you have woken."
He stood up and in a graceful motion walked over to where she was sitting. He was dressed in elegant evening clothes under his cloak and was a tall, broad shouldered man without an ounce of fat on him. His thick sleek hair was black and his eyes, gleaming through eyeholes in the white mask that covered the upper half of his face were a dazzling blue. Even with the mask, he could be taken for a member of Parisian high society. He gave her an elegant bow tinged with mockery.
"You are here in my house on the Opera lake, built where no prying eyes can see."
"The lake?" she repeated dully. Of course. Why did that not surprise her? The others would be frantic with worry – but how many people would think to look on the lake for her?
"Let me go, please!" she whispered.
The Phantom looked down at her in surprise. "Go? Go where? Back to the cruel upper world where you are not treated like the angel you are?"
"I am no angel and nor are you!" Christine retorted.
His eyes narrowed. "I see you are continuing to be….difficult. Very well. I have business elsewhere for now. I hope that your attitude has improved when I return. There is tea and biscuits over there." A gloved hand casually indicated a small table nearby with an elegant white china teapot with cups and a plate of biscuits beside it.
Her stomach rumbled in unladylike anticipation and he laughed, his dark mood vanishing in an instant. "I see the biscuits will not be wasted! Your room is through that door" indicating a white door on the left wall. There was a red door to either side of his organ, and it was to the left of these that he walked over to. "Farewell my dear – for now" he said cheerfully as he opened the door, walked through it and locked the door behind him.
Shaking off with difficultly the blanket that held her fast to the leather chair like a prison, she staggered to her feet and ran over to the door he had departed through. Even though she knew it was a futile gesture, she tried the door handle, tears filling her eyes when it failed to open. She tried the other red door but that too, was locked. In frustration she gave the door a kick, but only succeeded in hurting her foot.
Was she destined to stay here always, a prisoner in a gilded cage? There had to be another way out. Ignoring her hunger, she cautiously tried the handle of the white door. It opened easily and she gasped in amazement when she stared inside the room.
It was a bedroom fit for a noblewoman, decorated completely in white. The walls were draped in white silk and the floor was covered with soft white rugs. There was a four poster bed draped with lacy curtains and a thick white bedspread. There was a dresser and an elegant writing desk painted white, while a lit china lantern hung from the ceiling.
She was this close to hating the colour white for the rest of her life.
The effect was supposed to be pleasant, but all Christine felt in this room was a sense of sterility. She eyed the huge wardrobe (white of course) warily. Walking slowly over to it, her footsteps never making a sound, she threw open the wardrobe doors and winced. It was full of the same kind of white dresses as she had in the world above, like the same white dress she was wearing now.
There was a door just by the wardrobe which she found led to a bathroom (decorated in white) with a decadent white marble bathtub with veins of red running through it and a white table with a china washstand on it. A china lantern was in here as well. There was a porthole window and she rushed eagerly to it. Once she opened it surely she would be able to squeeze through it, it appeared to be big enough…but her heart sank when she got to it.
Through the window she could see the lake stretching out apparently into infinity - who knew how far under the Opera it extended. The message was clear – she might be able to squeeze out of the window, jump into the lake and swim, but without a clear direction she would falter and eventually drown.
Dispirited she left the bathroom, walked through the bedroom and back into the main room which she perversely decided to call 'La Dungeon' in her mind, for the red colouring of the silk walls reminded her of blood. Her stomach growled plaintively, reminding her again that she had not eaten for a while. She sighed and poured herself a cup of tea and after taking a biscuit sat down cautiously in the leather chair. The scent of the tea was not one she could identify, but it had an exquisite taste and she drank it down quickly. The biscuit though was a bit stale and she tossed in into the fire where it quickly flamed and turned into glowing ash.
After a few minutes she yawned. She must be still tired from whatever the Phantom had drugged her with in the cloth. She put down her cup on a little side table beside the chair and leaned back, sighing. Within seconds she was asleep…she awoke later to find the Phantom had returned and was staring down at her with an odd smile on his wide mouth.
"It has been too long since we have had a music lesson, my dear" and he held out a hand to her. She thought about this, though it seemed her mind was a bit dreamy, and realised his statement made perfect sense.
"Yes." She nodded. There was no point in escaping, for how could she? She reached out for his hand and took it.
Will Christine be rescued? Or will she find a way out? Or is there no escape at all? Stay tuned to this screen for more!
After a while Christine slowly drifted out of her drug-induced sleep, despite the soothing music that seemed to say sleep…..have no fear…..sleep…
She blinked, her eyes feeling heavy and there was a funny taste in her mouth. [Where was she?] she thought groggily. Then her last memory blazed in her mind – the hissed words, the pungent cloth held to her mouth and nose. The fog cleared from her mind at the remembrance, her eyes opening wide in terror. [where..]
She was sitting in a large, comfortable black leather chair with a red blanket tucked tightly around her. Nearby there was a stone fireplace where a fire burned merrily. The air was pleasantly warm and there was an exotic spicy smell to it. The walls of the opulent room she was in were panelled with bright Oriental red silk, the floor covered with luxurious Persian carpets with odd pink spots on them.
Against the far wall - a huge pipe organ stood there and seated at it was a man in a black opera cloak. From her vantage point she could see that he wore a gleaming white mask. A chill ran through her. The Phantom of the Opera had indeed kidnapped her, and she did not want to know why he wore a mask. 'A face from hell' was what one of the stories had said about him – was there truth to that story?
Something about the carpets seemed wrong. She peered at them. Yes, it was the pink spots on them that seemed out of place. Wait, they weren't pink spots, they were….dried rose petals. From pink roses. Cold sweat pooled at the nape of her neck. Surely they weren't from the missing bouquet of pink roses that Raoul had given her, on the day that everything had changed?
Yet, after returning to her old room yesterday the bouquet had vanished from where she had left it. Raoul would not have taken it back of course – but one who saw the flowers as something from a hated rival would have taken them, to rip them apart and scatter them where they could be crushed under shoes.
[Raoul!] she screamed silently. [Please come and help me!]
But he could not. How could he, when she did not even know where she was. The only person who could get her out of here was…her. She took a deep breath.
"Where am I?" she inquired in a steady voice that only shook a little. The Phantom paused playing.
"Ah, you have woken."
He stood up and in a graceful motion walked over to where she was sitting. He was dressed in elegant evening clothes under his cloak and was a tall, broad shouldered man without an ounce of fat on him. His thick sleek hair was black and his eyes, gleaming through eyeholes in the white mask that covered the upper half of his face were a dazzling blue. Even with the mask, he could be taken for a member of Parisian high society. He gave her an elegant bow tinged with mockery.
"You are here in my house on the Opera lake, built where no prying eyes can see."
"The lake?" she repeated dully. Of course. Why did that not surprise her? The others would be frantic with worry – but how many people would think to look on the lake for her?
"Let me go, please!" she whispered.
The Phantom looked down at her in surprise. "Go? Go where? Back to the cruel upper world where you are not treated like the angel you are?"
"I am no angel and nor are you!" Christine retorted.
His eyes narrowed. "I see you are continuing to be….difficult. Very well. I have business elsewhere for now. I hope that your attitude has improved when I return. There is tea and biscuits over there." A gloved hand casually indicated a small table nearby with an elegant white china teapot with cups and a plate of biscuits beside it.
Her stomach rumbled in unladylike anticipation and he laughed, his dark mood vanishing in an instant. "I see the biscuits will not be wasted! Your room is through that door" indicating a white door on the left wall. There was a red door to either side of his organ, and it was to the left of these that he walked over to. "Farewell my dear – for now" he said cheerfully as he opened the door, walked through it and locked the door behind him.
Shaking off with difficultly the blanket that held her fast to the leather chair like a prison, she staggered to her feet and ran over to the door he had departed through. Even though she knew it was a futile gesture, she tried the door handle, tears filling her eyes when it failed to open. She tried the other red door but that too, was locked. In frustration she gave the door a kick, but only succeeded in hurting her foot.
Was she destined to stay here always, a prisoner in a gilded cage? There had to be another way out. Ignoring her hunger, she cautiously tried the handle of the white door. It opened easily and she gasped in amazement when she stared inside the room.
It was a bedroom fit for a noblewoman, decorated completely in white. The walls were draped in white silk and the floor was covered with soft white rugs. There was a four poster bed draped with lacy curtains and a thick white bedspread. There was a dresser and an elegant writing desk painted white, while a lit china lantern hung from the ceiling.
She was this close to hating the colour white for the rest of her life.
The effect was supposed to be pleasant, but all Christine felt in this room was a sense of sterility. She eyed the huge wardrobe (white of course) warily. Walking slowly over to it, her footsteps never making a sound, she threw open the wardrobe doors and winced. It was full of the same kind of white dresses as she had in the world above, like the same white dress she was wearing now.
There was a door just by the wardrobe which she found led to a bathroom (decorated in white) with a decadent white marble bathtub with veins of red running through it and a white table with a china washstand on it. A china lantern was in here as well. There was a porthole window and she rushed eagerly to it. Once she opened it surely she would be able to squeeze through it, it appeared to be big enough…but her heart sank when she got to it.
Through the window she could see the lake stretching out apparently into infinity - who knew how far under the Opera it extended. The message was clear – she might be able to squeeze out of the window, jump into the lake and swim, but without a clear direction she would falter and eventually drown.
Dispirited she left the bathroom, walked through the bedroom and back into the main room which she perversely decided to call 'La Dungeon' in her mind, for the red colouring of the silk walls reminded her of blood. Her stomach growled plaintively, reminding her again that she had not eaten for a while. She sighed and poured herself a cup of tea and after taking a biscuit sat down cautiously in the leather chair. The scent of the tea was not one she could identify, but it had an exquisite taste and she drank it down quickly. The biscuit though was a bit stale and she tossed in into the fire where it quickly flamed and turned into glowing ash.
After a few minutes she yawned. She must be still tired from whatever the Phantom had drugged her with in the cloth. She put down her cup on a little side table beside the chair and leaned back, sighing. Within seconds she was asleep…she awoke later to find the Phantom had returned and was staring down at her with an odd smile on his wide mouth.
"It has been too long since we have had a music lesson, my dear" and he held out a hand to her. She thought about this, though it seemed her mind was a bit dreamy, and realised his statement made perfect sense.
"Yes." She nodded. There was no point in escaping, for how could she? She reached out for his hand and took it.
Will Christine be rescued? Or will she find a way out? Or is there no escape at all? Stay tuned to this screen for more!