-Christine-
The funny thing with marriage is that the only visible sign of it is the golden ring which graces a finger on your left hand. That, and the widening stomach so many new wives see themselves graced with when they are with child. I unfortunately did not have the latter. As hard as Raoul and I try, my womb still remains barren. While the inability to have children may drive a wedge in many marriages, it brought Raoul and I closer. Ever since that fateful day in the undergrounds of the Paris Opera house three years ago, Raoul has always been by my side. He is the most caring and compassionate husband a woman could ever hope for. When he had promised on the roof of the Opera House to guard and guide me, he meant it. He is by my side whenever possible, whispering sweet nothings into my ear. Even after three years of marriage, we are still giddy as childhood sweethearts around each other. Of course, we started out as childhood sweethearts, so I suppose it is only fitting that we retain that level of joy and contentment. He provided me a beautiful home in London with a lovely rose garden in the back of the house. Our home overlooks a busy cobblestone street. Often I sit outside and just watch the passerbys, wondering where they were going and if they lived a happy life. Our marriage is everything a marriage could ever hope to be. There is, however, a dark cloud. Oh we can shove it in a closet, lock the door, and pretend we don't know it exists. In fact, we are able to conceal it so well that to an outsider looking in on our marriage, everything seems perfect. That ominous presence which casts its shadow is, of course, the past. Ever since I left Erik, I have felt the deepest of regret. I left him standing there alone while his Christine left with another man. I had turned my back on his pleading eyes. Those gorgeous eyes which begged me not to leave like everyone else had in his life. I was no better than the rest of the human race. I left him. But do I only feel regret? I know regret isn't the only feeling that consumes me. I am filled with longing. While Raoul is the perfect "Prince Charming", I know a part of my heart will always belong to my dark angel. My angel of music. Whenever I pass by a mirror, I often catch myself gazing past my reflection in hopes I will see him. Of course, he is never there. Whenever I sing, I sing for him. I am happy in my marriage. I mean, with a man like Raoul, who wouldn't be? But whenever I have a quiet moment to sit down and reflect upon my "picture perfect" marriage, I realize that happiness doesn't equal absolute bliss. While I am happy with Raoul, I will never be as content as I could be had I chosen differently three years ago. My angel not only has my voice, he has my heart.
Raoul told me earlier in the day that we were to go out later in the evening to another one of his social parties where I could be shown off to his upper class friends. Of course he never said that's why we went. I know we go to further his social standing. Regardless, I always feel like a porcelain doll whose sole purpose is to be admired. Like a porcelain doll, I wear a smile painted on my face the entire evening. I sighed. I don't entirely mind these social obligations. Rather, I find myself enjoying them after I have a glass of wine. The only consistent problem is the repetition. Raoul and I attend these parties at least twice a week. I enjoy getting dressed up and making small talk with the socialites, however, you can only discuss the latest Parisian fashion for so long. I walk to my closet to find a gown which I can wear. Of course, it couldn't be light blue, for I wore the color to the last party two days ago. Midnight blue perhaps. No violet! Violet was even better. But then my eyes fall on a gown which I didn't even know I had in my possession. Made out of silk in the most stunning shade of deep red, the dress has a slight train and a top that is meant to sit gracefully on the very end of my shoulders. The dress is simply stunning. I slowly remove the dress from my closet. As I do, a black satin ribbon falls to the floor. I warily stare at it for a moment, almost as though it is a cobra ready to strike. Such a simple thing really, a ribbon, yet it still renders me speechless for a few moments. The last time I saw a ribbon this shade of black was after my first performance. The ribbon had been tied to a rose; a rose from him. Holding the dress to myself, I bend down to pick it up. While still bent over on the floor, I hear a voice behind me. A voice which I have not heard for 3 years, yet could remember like I heard it yesterday. That sweet angelic voice which had memorized me throughout my years in the Opera House and was suddenly silenced three years ago.
"Christine."
I didn't need to look up to know who it belonged to. Slowly rising and pushing some unruly curls out of my face, I looked in the mirror which sat poised on the inside of my closet door. Behind me, a black figure stood in the middle of the room. What caught my eye, however, was the piercing white of a mask which stared back at me. My voice caught in my throat. I could scarcely breathe, let alone utter a sound. Miraculously, I was able to croak out a single word.
"Erik."
-To be continued-
