I So Want To Be You?
?y Deep Roller
A/N: Believe it or not, I got the inspiration for this from Spongebob Squarepants. It's one of my favorite shows, and Plankton's my favorite character and well....It'll be cool. Ever wonder what it's like to be someone else? Did you ever wonder why Erik let Raoul go? And why Christine pulled the mask off? Was it really because he felt compassion? Was it really because she was insensibly curious? This story is set before that whole nasty torture chamber incident, when Christine is still torn between the two men and Erik is feeling jealous. Which is not that unusual, really.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I don't own them, I don't own them.
The wind was howling outside the Opera House, screaming, really. It tore insistently on the gargoyles and flirted with the windows. The only person who could conceivably want to climb the stairs to the roof was a poor fellow hell bent on suicide, for they were a rocking, swaying, creaking nightmare. Papers and hats were whipped and batted about in the wind, tossed up for the approval of the heavens.
The underground felt none of the harrying wind, only its usual, empty silence. The dark velvet was cut only by the soft sounds of the organ dancing across the water. Erik was dreary again, it had been three days since Christine's last visit, and he was beginning to wonder if she'd ever be back. Not that she could come in this wind, mind. It just got his guard up so much when she left. She was probably with that damn boy again, she always was. It made his blood rise to think of the vicomte, that dashing young man who always seemed so easy and confident around everyone.
A small mrrowr from Ayesha brought him back to himself, and he petted her gently, smiling with a far off tenderness. Sensing she was not receiving his full attention, the cat leaped into his lap and began furiously kneading his knee, her claws making marks on the flesh beneath the fabric. "Ow! Okay, okay, I'm sorry, majesty." Erik said laughingly, gently itching her behind the ears with his fingertips. This gained approval, and the cat began to wash his fingers, softening them the way she softened her mice and rats. However loving her intentions were, they could not replace Erik's thoughts on the matter of the vicomte.
"He gets all the attention, doesn't he darling?" Erik asked the cat, receiving a sable tail lashed through the air in answer. "He gets everything, everything he wants. Even Christine." Ayesha sat and stared up at Erik as though informing him that she could care less about what happened to that stupid girl. "Yes, I know you don't much like her, but I do. And I don't think she likes me very much. True, she came to see me, but she could be doing it out of pity, and I hate that!" The cat jumped down and marched away, as though bored with this discussion of love and hate. Erik sighed and returned to his music.
That night he lay in bed thinking. Thinking about everything all at once, which put it all into a big swirling scope for him. What he wouldn't give to walk the streets without a barrier between the wind and his face, between the sun and his eyes. But what could he do? He could sit and stir in his own juices and just moan and complain about it for the rest of his life. Which might not be too long. Great, just great. He'd spend the rest of his time wishing he were someplace else. No, not someplace. For the first time in his long life, Erik actually wished he was someone he despised. He wished he were the vicomte de Chagny, more than anything in the world he wished that. Just for a day, he might be able to enjoy all the pleasures of normal men, and he could see Christine face to face, and be near her without feeling an inner part of her turning away or tensing with fear. "Just one day, and then I could be myself again, then I could die happy." He whispered into the dark, before he fell into an uneasy, dreamless sleep. The wind picked up outside, and began an almost unending tirade against the streets of Paris.
When Erik woke the next morning, he had an inner sense of displacement. Something was very, very wrong. What could it be? There was light! So much light in his room. He'd have to see what the matter was. Still groggy, he didn't seem to comprehend very well, sleepily wondering if he was having a dream as he shook his head. Rolling onto his side, he felt for his mask, the first thing he did every waking day of his life. It wasn't there. Furthermore, he wasn't in his coffin, in the Opera House. Where was he? What was going on here? His heart beating furiously, Erik got up and jumped out of the bed, not bothering to look down. Windows! Windows were open, and he didn't have his mask. He began tearing around the unfamiliar room, his mind fixated on finding his most direly needed possession. Something else was different, he wasn't moving the way he usually did, he was somehow lighter...quicker. Perhaps he needed to wash, a splash of cold water would do him nicely, very nicely. And then, he noticed a mirror on one wall. Inexorable curiosity pulled him to look at himself in the mirror, something he hadn't done since the age of five or so. What met his eyes nearly made him double over. He reached out a hand, the person on the other side did the same. He opened his mouth, and so did they.
"My God," he whispered in a voice that was definitely not his own. "My God what have I done? This...this is all wrong, this is HORRIBLE. I must be dreaming." He muttered, and then a little louder, "I AM dreaming. You can't be real, I am dreaming." He continued to move in front of the mirror, watching for the slip in the other side, the missed gesture. It didn't happen, what was before him copied him exactly. "You don't bleed in dreams," he said giddily, "you don't feel pain in dreams. I'll just...I'll just...aha!" Picking up a pair of small scissors from a nearby desk, he stabbed one finger, and the blood began to course down his arm and onto his nightclothes. "Damn." He muttered, sucking on his finger irately. Whatever this was, he was definitely awake. And whatever deity was playing this cruel trick on him sure had his full attention. He met the eyes of the person in the mirror and sucked in a deep, long breath. He couldn't believe what had happened, not yet. If he really, really wasn't dreaming, and he was pretty sure now that he wasn't, he had somehow turned into Christine Daae overnight.
?y Deep Roller
A/N: Believe it or not, I got the inspiration for this from Spongebob Squarepants. It's one of my favorite shows, and Plankton's my favorite character and well....It'll be cool. Ever wonder what it's like to be someone else? Did you ever wonder why Erik let Raoul go? And why Christine pulled the mask off? Was it really because he felt compassion? Was it really because she was insensibly curious? This story is set before that whole nasty torture chamber incident, when Christine is still torn between the two men and Erik is feeling jealous. Which is not that unusual, really.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I don't own them, I don't own them.
The wind was howling outside the Opera House, screaming, really. It tore insistently on the gargoyles and flirted with the windows. The only person who could conceivably want to climb the stairs to the roof was a poor fellow hell bent on suicide, for they were a rocking, swaying, creaking nightmare. Papers and hats were whipped and batted about in the wind, tossed up for the approval of the heavens.
The underground felt none of the harrying wind, only its usual, empty silence. The dark velvet was cut only by the soft sounds of the organ dancing across the water. Erik was dreary again, it had been three days since Christine's last visit, and he was beginning to wonder if she'd ever be back. Not that she could come in this wind, mind. It just got his guard up so much when she left. She was probably with that damn boy again, she always was. It made his blood rise to think of the vicomte, that dashing young man who always seemed so easy and confident around everyone.
A small mrrowr from Ayesha brought him back to himself, and he petted her gently, smiling with a far off tenderness. Sensing she was not receiving his full attention, the cat leaped into his lap and began furiously kneading his knee, her claws making marks on the flesh beneath the fabric. "Ow! Okay, okay, I'm sorry, majesty." Erik said laughingly, gently itching her behind the ears with his fingertips. This gained approval, and the cat began to wash his fingers, softening them the way she softened her mice and rats. However loving her intentions were, they could not replace Erik's thoughts on the matter of the vicomte.
"He gets all the attention, doesn't he darling?" Erik asked the cat, receiving a sable tail lashed through the air in answer. "He gets everything, everything he wants. Even Christine." Ayesha sat and stared up at Erik as though informing him that she could care less about what happened to that stupid girl. "Yes, I know you don't much like her, but I do. And I don't think she likes me very much. True, she came to see me, but she could be doing it out of pity, and I hate that!" The cat jumped down and marched away, as though bored with this discussion of love and hate. Erik sighed and returned to his music.
That night he lay in bed thinking. Thinking about everything all at once, which put it all into a big swirling scope for him. What he wouldn't give to walk the streets without a barrier between the wind and his face, between the sun and his eyes. But what could he do? He could sit and stir in his own juices and just moan and complain about it for the rest of his life. Which might not be too long. Great, just great. He'd spend the rest of his time wishing he were someplace else. No, not someplace. For the first time in his long life, Erik actually wished he was someone he despised. He wished he were the vicomte de Chagny, more than anything in the world he wished that. Just for a day, he might be able to enjoy all the pleasures of normal men, and he could see Christine face to face, and be near her without feeling an inner part of her turning away or tensing with fear. "Just one day, and then I could be myself again, then I could die happy." He whispered into the dark, before he fell into an uneasy, dreamless sleep. The wind picked up outside, and began an almost unending tirade against the streets of Paris.
When Erik woke the next morning, he had an inner sense of displacement. Something was very, very wrong. What could it be? There was light! So much light in his room. He'd have to see what the matter was. Still groggy, he didn't seem to comprehend very well, sleepily wondering if he was having a dream as he shook his head. Rolling onto his side, he felt for his mask, the first thing he did every waking day of his life. It wasn't there. Furthermore, he wasn't in his coffin, in the Opera House. Where was he? What was going on here? His heart beating furiously, Erik got up and jumped out of the bed, not bothering to look down. Windows! Windows were open, and he didn't have his mask. He began tearing around the unfamiliar room, his mind fixated on finding his most direly needed possession. Something else was different, he wasn't moving the way he usually did, he was somehow lighter...quicker. Perhaps he needed to wash, a splash of cold water would do him nicely, very nicely. And then, he noticed a mirror on one wall. Inexorable curiosity pulled him to look at himself in the mirror, something he hadn't done since the age of five or so. What met his eyes nearly made him double over. He reached out a hand, the person on the other side did the same. He opened his mouth, and so did they.
"My God," he whispered in a voice that was definitely not his own. "My God what have I done? This...this is all wrong, this is HORRIBLE. I must be dreaming." He muttered, and then a little louder, "I AM dreaming. You can't be real, I am dreaming." He continued to move in front of the mirror, watching for the slip in the other side, the missed gesture. It didn't happen, what was before him copied him exactly. "You don't bleed in dreams," he said giddily, "you don't feel pain in dreams. I'll just...I'll just...aha!" Picking up a pair of small scissors from a nearby desk, he stabbed one finger, and the blood began to course down his arm and onto his nightclothes. "Damn." He muttered, sucking on his finger irately. Whatever this was, he was definitely awake. And whatever deity was playing this cruel trick on him sure had his full attention. He met the eyes of the person in the mirror and sucked in a deep, long breath. He couldn't believe what had happened, not yet. If he really, really wasn't dreaming, and he was pretty sure now that he wasn't, he had somehow turned into Christine Daae overnight.
