Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the Phantom of the Opera, Warner Brothers (since they'll probably start buckling down on this), or anything else. In summation, I'm a starving artist who owns nothing at all!
Summary: Christine contemplates her life after Erik. One-shot.
Morrigan's Note (A/N): Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, perhaps it was midterms, perhaps it was the stress, perhaps it was the rain. I don't know what it was that compelled me to write this, but it was fun, although it's horribly depressing. Enjoy! Don't forget to review.
"Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage which we did not take, towards the door we never opened Into the rosegarden." -T.S. Elliot
Snow fell from the pale sky, tumbling wearily from a blanket of clouds, searching for respite. She had not seen the sun for days, and all of Paris seemed to finally empathize with her silent misery. Christine pulled her tattered cloak tighter, trying to warm the chill in her heart. The frayed edges of her skirt dragged through the muddy snow, her raw hands stained the course fabric with pinpoints of blood. Her hands were calloused from hard work she had been unaccustomed to until recently. Once bright eyes now hallow and empty. Her dull brown hair fell lifelessly behind her, framing a face with a permanent frown etched as she trudged wearily through the streets of Paris.
She had aged fifty years in the past five. The harsh realities of life had tumbled down upon her faster than she'd ever expected. Through it all she'd remained strong, unwilling to show a cruel world just how much her heart broke. The man who brought color to her dull life, upon leaving it, had plunged her back into the grey despair from which she had fought years to escape. Blinking back tears, Christine fought to keep her emotions in check. Stumbling into a flower girl, Christine watched with morbid fascination as the red rose pricked the young girl's hand. The flower tumbling to the snow, drops of red blood raining down. Roses in winter. Red and white. The red rose from the white rose. Christine felt ill.
Gasping out apologies to the stunned child, Christine stumbled along the road, feeling the gaze of the flower girl burning into her back. Would she ever be free from someone's stare? Even now Erik's eyes followed her, though she knew he watched from no place on earth. She continued her journey, passing the Château de Changy. Again she felt the eyes, watching as they often did as she wandered home. Raoul had been kind, but she couldn't bear his well intentioned gestures. Her gaze traveled up to the window, observing the form, scarcely visible behind the grey glass. A tired nod of acknowledgement, and she began her trek anew. Two pairs of eyes now followed. One, an old friend, eyes full of compassion, incapable of understanding how one night could alter a girl so fully. The second, ignorant as to why her husband would worry after a common seamstress who walked wearily through the winter snow each evening.
She raised her red fingertips to her chapped lips, trying to recall the fell of those warm, deformed lips against her own. Tears filling her eyes at the realization that the memory had all but left her. Stopping her journey, Christine let out an anguished sigh. Erik had so ingrained himself in the fabric of her being, now that he had left, she could think of nothing else to live for. No reason to smile. No reason to sing. No reason to live...
She crushed the thought like the snow beneath her feet. Thinking such thoughts were as futile as imagining what might have been. If only she had been bolder, if only she had been smarter, if only he had been younger, healthier. If only he had lived. The winter was the only time of year she felt anything. Feeling the cold on her skin was a welcome companion to the cold in her heart. Spring sickened her as life returned to the world, reminding her all the more of the life she had lost. Summer burned with its eternal cheer and warmth. Autumn gave joy to all with the cool breeze and the world alive with reds, yellows, and browns. Winter only truly empathized with her broken heart. Winter shrouded the world in grey, dulling reality beneath the harsh cold, numbing the senses and the heart. In the winter months, everything slowed and the rapid pace at which the years were speeding by slowed, allowing her to contemplate her past and the man she could never be at peace without.
Reaching her flat, she shed her tattered cloak, lighting a single lamp to light her way. No fire to warm her. Another day had finally ended, leaving her precious hours to fall into her dreams of a life that never was. Another day over, and on to the next, the weary cycle of her life trudged steadily on to infinity. Tumbling into bed she shut her eyes to the outside world, preparing herself to descend once more to the Opera House she had long abandoned, to the arms of the man she never loved well enough until his passing. Watching the smoke from the extinguished flame curl heavenword, she heard the distant strains of a violin and cried herself to sleep.
fin.