Disclaimer : I own nothing of the original storyline/music/characters . . . only the made up characters are mine :)
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2. Those eyes that burn . . .
"In sleep he sang to me . . . in dreams he came . . .
. . . that voice which calls to me . . . and speak my name . . . "
Christine stood in the middle of the stage with hundreds of eyes watching her every move. But these were not the admiring eyes that she had once been used to seeing in the audience before her . . . these eyes were cold and unfeeling. They were judging her.
She was surrounded by impenetrable darkness and flames that seemed to gently lick at her bare skin and, through them, all she could see was those hard, judging eyes in their thousands it seemed.
"Past the point of no return . . . the final threshold – what warm unspoken secrets will we learn . . . beyond the point of no return . . . "
Christine turned to the voice only to see a dark figure emerging from the flames, a passion so deep radiating from them that Christine could feel it, hot, against her skin. She could feel a smile, unwillingly, cross her face as she recognised the figure – the deep burgundy colour he wore and the black mask that covered both of his eyes instead of one - and to her own horror she could not stop herself from answering him, her own voice as rich with passion and longing as his.
"You have brought me to that moment where words run dry . . . to that moment where speech disa-"
"For pity's sake, Christine, say no!"
Christine swung round, irritated at being interrupted, to see Raoul fighting desperately towards her through the flames. Christine watched in horror, as the flames seemed to burn him, while everyone else was untouched by them.
"I fought so hard to free you . . . " She began to hurry towards his pleading voice . . . towards her husband that needed her . . .
"You've passed the point of no return . . . "
Christine stopped once more and turned slowly towards the figure who was dressed as Don Juan . . . her Angel . . . she couldn't leave him either . . . but Raoul needed her . . . she had to choose.
She turned wildly to face the audience, longing for some guidance, a friendly one among the pitiless faces. But they just stared as she felt the flames move closer to her and grow more furious. She turned to look for the Phantom or Raoul but all she could see were the flames dancing around her and the audience before her . . . but they weren't emotionless anymore . . . they were laughing
The cruel, merciless laughter echoed all around her and she felt her pale skin start to burn. She tried to run but all around her were flames and cruel, mocking faces. She tried to lunge at them and tear at their jeering faces but all she could feel beneath her fingers was the excruciating pain of the flames. They were burning before her very eyes.
As she felt the darkness and flames close in around her she whispered a pitiful, pleading cry:
"Why do you curse mercy?"
Christine stood silently by the window. The sun just risen and a pale, cold light lit the room, hurting Christine's weak eyes. The streets below were practically empty, apart from the lonesome road sweeper going about his business, and an unsettling silence seemed to settle over the entire of the city.
Christine had barely slept at all during the night – her sleep was to riddled with dreams for her to bear laying her head upon the pillow. And the dreams had only got worse since Raoul had left for Paris. When she had fallen asleep the previous evening, images of flames and darkness had filled her slumbering mind. It had been so vivid that she had woken, tearing wildly at the bed curtains as if they suffocated her. She had sobbed for hours, never daring to go back to sleep in case they made her choose again . . . those faces that had danced before her in the flames, laughing at her, jeering at her . . . those merciless faces.
Christine felt that familiar warmth fill her tired eyes as tears slowly emerged in them. She couldn't live like this – to scared to go to sleep in case she face his face again – it was too much. Why wouldn't he just leave her alone? She had made that decision once, long ago, and he was still haunting her because of it . . . but it was done and it could not be undone . . . she had to forget. She knew that was what she had to do and she would do all she could to make sure that it was done.
Despite her immense exhaustion, Christine slowly left the room and headed towards the top of the stairs. If she spent all her time in bed, with nothing else to think about, then how could she forget? She had to be up and about, getting on with her life. Raoul had already been gone a fortnight and his letters made it clear that he would not be returning for at least another two weeks . . . his father was still alive, but barely. He had to stay with his mother. Christine knew what he was going through so she did not mind that was to be gone much longer than he had said – she knew what it was like to lose a father.
She slowly made her way down the stairs into the hall, careful not to stumble, and went straight into the kitchen to show Lucy and the cook, Martha, that she was up. Christine smiled – a rare occurrence – when she saw Martha dozing in her chair by the fire and quietly turned to leave so as not to wake the sleeping woman. She was going to find Lucy, who was probably in one of the parlours, but something she saw out of the corner of her eye made her stop in her tracks. She felt her breath quicken as she turned towards it . . . no, she thought desperately . . . this is not happening. But it was – she saw it before her as clear as she saw the loaf of bread beside it.
A rose.
She took a clumsy step backward, her hand raised to her mouth in horror.
"No . . ."
The flower was deep red in colour and around the stem was a sleek black ribbon. She merely stared at it, a desperate sob rising in her throat.
"No . . . not again . . ." she pleaded to herself, louder this time.
Martha stirred in her chair and slowly opened her eyes. She smiled when she saw her mistress up, instead of in bed, but soon deep concern etched her face as she saw what a state the young woman was in.
"Ma'am?" She quickly rose to her feet and took Christine's hand firmly, trying to get a response, but Christine was simply staring at the rose with an expression that Martha could only describe as fear and . . . longing.
"Ma'am? Madame! Christine, what is it? Lucy! Lucy, get in here now!" Her hands were now firmly placed upon Christine's shoulders. Lucy quickly came in from wherever she had last been and stared in confusion at the scene in the kitchen
Christine suddenly became aware of their presence, as if waking from some kind of trance. She turned her frightened eyes up to Martha's warm ones and began to choke out questions.
"That rose . . . where . . . who . . . the rose . . . that red rose. . . God, why?" she sobbed wildly, not knowing what to do.
Martha and Lucy looked at each other in utter confusion. Lucy slowly stepped towards the rose and picked it up. Christine turned away from it and hid her face in her hands.
"I don't want to see it! Don't make me see it!" Martha quickly placed her sturdy arms around the hysterical girl.
"Hush ma'am . . . it's just a rose that young Lucy got this morning," she whispered, and added with a lighter tone, "it seems she's got an admirer."
Christine continued to sob in Martha's arms. She could hear Lucy take a step towards them.
"It's true, ma'am . . . Tom – the milk boy – left it for me when he left the milk . . . I didn't think you'd mind, ma'am, otherwise I would never have . . . " Lucy was whimpering, terrified of losing her position in the household, "only, he must have spent a lot of money on it for me . . . and it's such a pretty pink colour . . . "
Pink? Christine registered the word in her head with disbelief and slowly untangled herself from Martha's embrace and turned to face the maid. She hadn't been lying . . . the rose was light pink . . . and the ribbon was white.
"But . . . it was red . . . red . . . and the ribbon wasn't white – it was black . . . like the ones he used to leave for me . . .he . . . " She broke off into heavy sobs and fell heavily into a chair by the table.
She was losing her mind. The rose had been red when she had walked into the room, but now it was pink. And it wasn't from who she had thought it was from . . . it was from the milk boy.
She placed her head in her hands and steadied her weeping. She had to control herself otherwise Lucy and Martha would have her committed. She laughed to herself shortly – perhaps that would be best for everyone, no one would have to worry about me and I'd be left all alone . . . to nothing but my endless dreams.
No, she screamed mentally at herself. She had told herself earlier that she couldn't live like this but now she knew that she could never forget, no matter how hard she tried. The only way for her to continue living in peace was to face her dreams . . . to face what was in her dreams. She would die if she continued like this and he would always be there . . . singing songs in her head . . .
She quickly raised her head and stared seriously at the two women by her side. They looked terrified for their mistress and she could tell that they wished that Raoul were there to help them. But Raoul wasn't there . . . he was in Paris.
"Lucy, Martha . . . I need your help . . . I need you both to do something for me."
"Of course, ma'am, say the word and we'll do it," Lucy replied immediately. Christine could see that she had been crying too. She smiled and slowly stood up to face them.
"As you have known for a while now, I am not well and I don't see myself getting better any time soon." Neither said anything to this. "Whether I die or recover is not up to me, but I know that there is something I can do to end all this . . . "
Martha looked concerned and confused. What on earth could she want of them?
"I need for you to tell my husband, when he returns, that I am much better."
She did not listen to their cries of protest but instead continued firmly. "I am asking you to do this as friends. I will do my very best to appear healthy to him and you must make sure he believes that I am recovered from my illness following Matilde's birth. It's the-"
"But why, ma'am? What good will it do?" Martha interrupted, shaking her head.
Christine sighed.
"I need to go to Paris. There's someone I must see."
He sat in front of the music box, tears streaming down his face as he watched the symbols banging together with childlike wonder.
"Masquerade . . . paper faces on parade . . . Masquerade . . . hid your face, so the world will never find you . . . "
He knew that she was next to him. Was she going to stay with him? Had she decided not to leave with the boy? He turned to look at her, a mixture of love and doubtful hope across his half-deformed, half-beautiful face.
"Christine . . . I love you . . . "
She smiled, and took a step towards him, her hand outstretched. He noted, with such joy that he thought his heart would burst, that she was still wearing the ring that he had given her.
"Erik, I love you too."
Tears continued to drench his face as he stood. He couldn't believe she had just said those words . . . those words that he had longed to hear . . . she had finally said them.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment . . . but when he opened them, preparing to pull her into his embrace . . . she was gone.
Erik woke up and glanced frantically around him . . . he was in the same place that the dream had taken place but he knew that it had not been real. He picked up the empty spirits bottle beside him and hurled it at the rock wall, screaming with rage as he did so.
He stood and furiously went out to stand by the lake. He stared at the destruction around him. Part of his home had been damaged by the fire three years ago but most of it had been spared. Everything else had been destroyed by his own hand, when he had returned after he was sure that the opera house was deserted. Drapes hung in tatters, where he had ripped them apart . . . his organ stood smashed and lonely . . . and all the pictures of Christine that he had ever painted lay shredded, her perfect face now deformed like his. Those had been the first thing that he had destroyed . . . he couldn't bare to look at them.
But you wouldn't just get rid of them, would you?
He scolded himself for thinking of her and tried to push the dream out of his mind. He had dreamed of her often since she had left him – abandoned you – but the one he had just woke from was particularly vivid. He had been able to smell her sweet scent and almost feel her breath against his skin . . . if she had not disappeared he would have been able to reach out and touch her pale skin, caress it . . . her lips, her arms, her-
Stop it! Stop tormenting yourself! You hate her - the dreams only remind you of what she did . . .
He was right – he did hate her. He hated her with every fibre of his being.
But in the dream she had said that she loved him . . . didn't that mean something?
No. She doesn't love you . . . just as you don't love her.
In the dream she had said his name – his real name – it had sounded so strange . . . so right . . .
She doesn't know your name. She didn't even think to ask, remember that . . .
He picked up a discarded candlestick and flung it at the pile of paintings that lay in an alcove.
Why couldn't he just forget?
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