Insane

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from "The Phantom of the Opera". They belong to Gaston Leroux/ Andrew Lloyd Webber. All other characters, however, belong to me.

Dedication: This story is for Vicky, my never-ending source of encouragement.

1

"You hear voices?" The penetrating look of the girl was cold as she went on: "That´s nothing extraordinary here. I can assure you: That alone won´t make people attentive for as much as five seconds. Who do you hear? Virgin Mary? Napoleon? The Angel of Music?" Maria stared at her, utterly bewildered. A self-satisfied smile appeared on the other girl´s face. "They didn´t tell you I was telepathic?" She shook her head, making the blonde curls fly. "I know everything that goes on in you head…"

"Sometimes I really wish I knew what´s going on in your head, Christine!" Meg sighed. She leant closer to me, her hair, damp with sweat, brushing over my shoulder. "You have to concentrate on the new steps or my mother won´t be pleased." "I´m trying, but it´s so complicated.", I gave back. My voice had dropped to a whisper as I saw Mme.Giry looking over to us while correcting another girl´s left arm.

Meg raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "You could do much better if you stopped singing under your breath. Did he give you another lesson yesterday?" My only answer was a dreamy smile. She took my hand, apparently oblivious to the fact that we were in the middle of a ballet class. "Christine, I thought I was your best friend. Why don´t you tell me who he is, that great teacher of yours?" "I don´t know it myself!", I tried to argue. "He only speaks to me. But his voice is so…" Mme.Giry interrupted me: "Meg, Christine! Up to now I was caught in the illusion that this was a ballet lesson and you were here because you want to be dancers. But if you want to train your conversational skills instead, I must ask you to leave this room." Hastily we went on practicing. "We´ll talk later.", Meg muttered.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

The middle-ages couple sitting in front of Dr.Monroe´s imposing mahogany desk seemed to be very nervous. The man´s gaze wandered restlessly from the framed diplomas on the wall to the bookshelf full of scientific literature, then to the window, through which a huge oak tree could be seen, and back to the wall. The woman played with the clasp of her handbag: open-close, open-close, open… Dr.Monroe shifted in his seat, painfully aware that his news won´t be able to calm down these people.

"Mr. and Mrs.Bailey, I am sorry to inform you that the situation of your daughter is very serious.", he said carefully. Alfred Bailey jumped up, and for a split-second the doctor thought he wanted to attack him. Instead he started pacing the room: up and down, up and down – a strange imitation of his wife´s action. "How can you know that?" His voice was a mirror of his suppressed anger. "She´s only here for a couple of hours. Have you even talked to her?" Katherine Bailey stirred in her seat. A sound escaped her throat, something between a laugh and a sob. When she spoke it was with the bitterness of a woman who had given up hope long ago. "Fred, you know as well as I do that Maria doesn´t talk to anyone. She hasn´t said a word for a month."

Dr.Monroe gave up his attempt to divide his attention equally between the Baileys and concentrated on the mother. Somehow he couldn´t bear this constant movement. It reminded him of some of his patients. "I tried to have a conversation with your daughter, and you´re right in assuming that she hardly reacted." Mrs.Bailey acknowledged it with a small nod. "However, I studied her file and because of my experience I can suggest a therapy. Well start with a well-supervised…" "I don´t want to hear any of this nonsense!", Alfred Bailey snapped impatiently. "Will you be able to cure her?"