A/N Thanks for all the reviews! I truly appreciate them! This chapter isn't very eventful or long, but bear with me. The next one should be better.
SOLITUDE
The warm glow of a candle was dim, high up, out of reach. The colors that caused her head to spin were melting together, the lines indiscernible, pinpoints of light shining in the distance. Echoing mumbles rang in her ears, much like the buzzing of insects swarming around her head.
"…evidence of head trauma, sprained wrist, bruised ribs. Nothing that won't heal with time, Vicomte. She needs her rest."
"Did he hit her? Is that how she got this way?" The new voice was sharp and direct, slicing the stillness like a knife through bread.
"You said she had been found on the riverbank near the theater? My own personal guess, not on the record, is that she was hurt during a fall, most likely into a sewer of some sort. Perhaps she was trying to escape." The footsteps drew closer to her, the sounds increasingly louder in her ears. "These injuries do not appear to be from any form of abuse."
"Was she raped?"
There was a hesitant, momentary silence. "You really think that is an issue, monsieur?"
"Yes. Yes, I do."
Her body was numb. She could not feel the doctor's hard, callused hands pull her legs apart, but she was aware of something…something cold…
A tired, rueful sigh. "I don't understand how you knew, sir, but yes…there is evidence of sexual activity, from what I can see. I cannot be sure if it was consensual or…"
"Of course it wasn't consensual…the man is a monster, a demon…. Damn the bastard to Hell, where he belongs…" The voices grew faint, and she felt herself slip away…
-
She was dead.
No, not dead. Flying. Flying over her town, watching…waiting… A building was burning in the night, the columns of smoke rising into the air, thick and ugly. She turned her face away, towards the clouds…
Everything was white. Heaven was her first thought, but when her eyes adjusted to the brightness, she saw she was in a bed. A curtain had been pulled around her, and she recognized the overly elaborate décor of the headboard. Home. 'No,' she told herself sharply, angrily. 'Raoul's home…'
Christine opened her mouth to speak, but the words would not come out. Just a low hiss escaped her lips, low and rasping. Terrified, she tried again.
"Ugh…"
"Vicomtess?" a light and airy voice sounded from behind the drapes. A hand reached in and pulled the cloth away, and a round and wrinkled face smiled down on her from above. "It was you I heard, Madame! Oh, the Master shall be so delighted to know you're awake…" The woman clapped her hands together excitedly before disappearing in a flutter of twirling aprons.
Christine sat back on the bed, bringing her knees to her chest and hugging her legs tightly to herself. Her memory was blurred, as if she looked at it through someone else's glasses.
"The life of a fugitive is not suited for a Vicomtess…" Lips brushing past her skin, turquoise eyes brimming with tears…
"Oh God…Erik!" she screamed, pressing her fist to her mouth and biting down fiercely. Footsteps pounded down the hall outside her room.
"Christine?"
She sank down into the comfort of the blankets. 'Lord in Heaven…'
-
The mail had arrived at daybreak, earlier than normal. Raoul had been browsing through the letters absently when Ellen burst into his study, her cheeks red and shining. "She's awake, Monsieur! She's awake, praise God! Now we can finally know what happened to her!"
Raoul leapt up, the morning paper clutched in his hand. He wanted to see her desperately, but not for the same reason as the maid. In his mind, he had already formulated his own account of what happened. The monster had found the lovely Christine in the hospital, taken her under the cover of darkness, and left her wedding band in hopes of making her forget about her former life, her former husband. A simpering smile crossed Raoul's lips. 'Forget her husband…' he thought, chuckling at the true idiocy of the notion. 'What utter lunacy…'
"Erik!"
Raoul stopped in the middle of the hallway. Christine's shriek still echoed through the walls. Who was this Erik…?
"Christine?"
He drew back the drapes and saw her lying upon the mattress, her eyes hard and grief-stricken. The paleness of her skin was a mirror shade of the sheets that covered the bed. She turned away from him, pulling the covers over herself.
'She feels unclean…' Raoul thought to himself. He tossed the paper to the floor and placed his hand on her arm, showing her that she was not to blame for what that creature did to her. Trailing his fingers over her skin delicately, he felt her stiffen under his touch. He waited for her to relax.
She didn't.
"Oh Christine, my darling…" he murmured, almost inaudibly. "What did he do to you?"
Christine turned back to him, her eyes cold. "Leave me, Raoul. Please."
He watched her for a moment. "As you wish, dear." He retrieved the newspaper from the floor before turning one last time to her. Christine's gaze followed him, and she caught a glimpse of the headline of the paper he held in his hand.
Mayhem at the Opera Populaire Following Raid.
Raoul met her stare, her eyes curious yet accusing, before he swept out the door in a flutter of his cloak.
-
Perhaps it was only hours, maybe as much as a few days. When she got out of bed, the sunlight that poured through the bay window was blood red…either sunrise or twilight. Her legs were unstable, and it took her a few attempts before she managed to stand without the aid of the bed stand. Releasing her grip on the table, she made her way gingerly over to the mirror that was located in the corner of the room, its ornate wooden carvings reaching up to the high vaulted ceilings. Christine looked at herself, her face ashen and gaunt. Running her hand over the foreign material that covered her body, she realized someone had changed her clothes.
She prayed it hadn't been Raoul.
Placing her palm flat on the glass, she felt her gaze being pulled up to a point above her reflection, an empty space in the mirror that should have been occupied by a white porcelain mask…as it had been six years prior…
"Come to me, Angel of Music…"
Christine pressed her cheek against mirror, the glass becoming smeared with her tears.
"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…
Lead me, save me from my solitude…
Say you want me…with you…here, beside you…"
Her throat was choked with emotion, and she felt her voice crack beneath the weight of the moans that escaped her lips.
"Anywhere you go…let me go too…
Love me…that's all…I ask…of…"
She collapsed at the base of the mirror, clutching herself, covering her face with her hands. "Erik…" The whisper flew past her lips in a breath of torment. "Raoul, I need you!" she called in despair, screaming in anguish. "Please…"
-
When he heard her beckoning, his name this time, Raoul smiled to himself and got up and stepped out of the library with nimble ease, whistling to himself quietly. 'About bloody time…' he thought, the grin deepening.
The door to her room was shut tightly, but he heard her deep breathing through the wooden paneling. Turning the knob, Raoul peered inside and saw her lying on the ground near the mirror. The smile on his lips remained the same, but the cheerfulness in his eyes faltered. "My dear Christine…" He strode over to her and grasped her shoulders.
She turned her gleaming eyes upon him. "Please, Raoul…would you please help me?"
"It's alright, darling. I'm here, with you, beside you…" She felt his hand creep down her back…
Christine pulled away sharply. "No!" she cried, turning her face from him.
"Darling, you must realize that I could never blame you for anything that fiend did …"
Her gaze snapped back to him, fire burning in the iciness of her eyes. "How dare you… How dare you!" she shrieked. She buried her face in her hands. "The only thing Erik did wrong was loving me too much! He was full of forgiveness even though I denied him, betrayed him…" Raoul's face paled, and he got to his feet quickly. "God…what have I done?" Christine turned her tear-streaked face to him. "Please, Raoul, if you ever loved me…help me find him."
Raoul turned to her abruptly. "If I ever loved you?" he repeated faintly. "Everything I possess has become yours…my affection, my money, my house, my name! Everything! And you question the tenderness I feel for you?" he shouted bitterly.
Christine stared at him. "No, Raoul. Your love is for the idea of me. The idea of having a woman you can call your own, a woman you can dress up in pretty gowns and show off to the other men of this town." She wiped a finger under her eye. "You don't need me. Not like he does." Standing, she walked past him to the door, grabbing her coat from the chair beside the door. "I will do this with or without your assistance. I just ask for your help."
"I can't," he replied. She looked down at the floor and nodded, stepping out into the hallway. "Wait…" he called, following her and caught her by the arm. "You misinterpret me. I truly cannot help you." Raoul reached into his pocket and pulled out the morning's newspaper. Tracing his fingers over the words on the front page, he pointed to a line beneath the headline.
"…a body was recovered in the vaults of the theater…"
He watched her, his lips parted slightly. "He's dead, Christine. I cannot help you."
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and glassy. Slowly, she stepped back inside her room and shut the door. As soon as she heard his footsteps disappear down the hall, she ran to the bed and threw herself upon it, screaming into the pillows.
-
He stepped back into the library, his eyes shining brilliantly in the candlelight. Ellen was finishing her dusting of the fireplace, the feather duster dancing across the mantle with the grace of a swirling gown. When he entered, she turned to him and studied his expression critically. "She did not take the news so well, then?"
Raoul shook his head, his mouth twisted into an ugly scowl.
Ellen shrugged and returned to work. "Of course she wouldn't. To know her kidnapper is still out there somewhere, hiding in the shadows…"
The Vicomte did not answer. Instead, he removed the gate from over the blazing fire and tossed the newspaper in, watching the pages curl and blacken in the heat of the flames. But the words under the headline had been permanently burned into his memory…
"…a body was recovered in the vaults of the theater, but the legendary Phantom of the Opera was not located. It seems once again he has vanished from the Opera Populaire…"
