Okay...here is a chapter that pretty much just explores Christine's thoughts. It kind of goes through the story that you all know. I tried to keep it brief so as not to bore anyone, but still go into what she has been thinking. It's more play based as far as time frame, for example she met him when she was older than seven. I know everyone's anxious to see a reunion between E/C, and I promise it will come in time.

Lying there quietly in the dim light, Christine slowly began the process of piecing together the events of the last year, hoping that in the end they would form a portrait of the epiphany that she sought. If she did not find clarity in the solitude of the little room, she would find it nowhere. Now, she had no fiancé tugging impatiently at her arm, attempting to convince her that the world existed in only shades of black and white. There was no unearthly voice inside her head that clearly belonged to a creature shadowed in shades of gray. Right then, there was only her and the dull pain that continued to remind her of her decision.

First there had been the ethereal voice in her little dressing room. As she had sat there weeping desperately for her deceased father, it had come to her, declaring itself to be an Angel of Music sent by Gustav Daae himself. So dire was her need to believe in the old fairy tale that she had accepted its proclamation without question. Over the next few months, the voice had soothed the emptiness and pain that had consumed her heart for so long, and what little doubt she may have had was clouded by the comfort that it brought. Her beliefs only became firmer as the Angel carried her voice to new heights, doing as her father claimed it would. During each lesson, the rest of the world seemed to fade away as she was swept up in the magnificent music.

Yet perhaps in a very deep part of herself where common sense still resided, Christine always sensed a more earthly presence near her. Though every aspect of the voice seemed surreal, there was always that slight tinge to it that hinted of something not quite from heaven.

All had been revealed the night after her untimely performance in Hannibal-the night Raoul, her childhood sweetheart, had appeared at her door with a bouquet of flowers...and the night her precious illusion was shattered. "Sweet Raoul," she thought fondly for a moment. "Thinking that everything was the same. Thinking I was the little girl from the sea he had adored so well." Vaguely she remembered being happy to see him, but really her mind had been elsewhere that night. He had wanted her to join him for dinner, but, somehow she knew that it would displease her Angel. And if the Angel left, all of the joy in her life would be swept away, and the last connection to her father would be severed.

When Raoul had departed, the voice had come to her as it so often did after performances. There was a fury in its tone as it berated her for having the young man within her dressing room. Perhaps that worldly jealousy should have proved to her that the Angel was not all it seemed, but still she clung to the fantasy and apologized to the voice for her mortal weakness.

That night, sitting there in her solitude, hearing the voice of her Angel was suddenly not enough. She had desired to see him in all of his glorious splendor, and, to her utmost delight, he had obliged. Looking back, she realized, the sound of her voice had not been satisfying enough for him either. Through the mirror, he had taken her down the winding stone stares and across the vast lake to his dark paradise. Dressed in black from head to toe, with the exception of the white mask that obscured half of his face, her Angel had stared into her soul with his golden eyes. He had sung to her-talked of the beauty that lay in the night, and she had allowed him to caress her with both his slender hands and his soothing voice. But though he possessed the body of a man and his soft touches were not those of a spirit, she had still believed him to be an Angel.

It was only after the white mask came off, that the Angel plunged from the heavens. Oh, how horribly he had yelled at her when she had looked upon his mangled features. He had cursed her furiously before falling to his knees in pure anguish. "Is this what you wanted to see, Christine?" he had rasped. "Feast your eyes on the demon! Can you even bare to look at me? This gargoyle! This corpse that adores you!"

There was no doubt that she had been shocked by the skeletal image before her, yellowish skin tightly pulled toward the skull revealing blue veins, his golden eye sunk deeply within the void of a socket, and his nose nearly non-existent. But more than anything, she was shocked that it was a man who lay sobbing before her and not an Angel. The last months had been nothing but deception-yet she could feel nothing but pity for the man who knelt at her feet.

After recovering her voice, she had apologized profusely and told him somewhat unconvincingly that his face held no fear for her, but he had immediately taken her back up to the surface. In his last words to her, he told her that she would learn to love the man and see past the hideous monster, to which she had no response. Looking back, she regretted never asking him his name, for all men had names.

Once above ground and in the light again, she had dwelt on the new found knowledge. A part of her was afraid now that she knew a mortal man had been watching her for so long. And yet another part of her was slightly excited at the thought of being able to physically touch the creature who had such a wondrous voice, who had enthralled her for so long. One could not, after all, grab onto an Angel.

Then came the whir of events in which all became uncertain.

She remembered the horror of Il Muto-the gruesome murder of Joseph Buquet and fleeing upon to the rooftop of the opera house with Raoul. There was such safety in her sweetheart's arms as he held her that night, giving her promises of peace and an escape from the darkness. Wrapped in the warmth of his tender words, she had allowed Raoul to guide her into the daylight over the next few months. When he had asked her hand in marriage, she had immediately said yes. Well, why wouldn't she? The Vicomte would provide her with love, security, and stability-a normal life.

Her Angel had vanished over those months, and in his place, an emptiness began to fill her soul. Even with Raoul constantly at her side, she felt alone, and she convinced herself that she longed for something that had never existed. And that was it, wasn't it? She missed her belief in an Angel-a false dream from her childhood. What else could give her such heartache? But there was something else. She missed...

"Annette?"

She missed...

"Annette?"

Why couldn't she place her mind on it?

"Mademoiselle Valerius!" Finally Christine realized that it was she who was being called, and her face flushed bright red. Ripping herself from her thoughts, she looked up to see Doctor Murrell staring curiously at her. Next to him stood a plump, grey haired woman, dressed in a nurse's uniform and holding a small blue basin of water.

"Oh, I am sorry Doctor Murrell," she apologized, propping herself up slightly. "My mind was in another place." Inside she berated herself for making such a stupid mistake. They would either realize she had been lying to them or think her insane.

"It is fine, Annette. I am glad that you are able to take your mind away from your injury. Some patients come in here and do nothing but moan for hours on end." He smiled a little as he walked to the bed and pulled back the wool blanket to reveal her ravaged foot. The swelling had receded some, but the ankle had begun to turn a sickly purplish color.

He looked back up at her. "This is Nurse Cecile, and we are here to begin bandaging your ankle. We shall be using Plaster of Paris, the newest wrapping technique, and it will heal as fast as it possibly could otherwise. Now, as we proceed, there is going to be great discomfort in the beginning. If I were you, I would grit my teeth and go right back into those deep thoughts. Do you have any questions?"

Christine shook her head and shut her eyes as she felt the cool air hit her leg, ignoring the slight twinge as the nurse carefully propped the swollen foot up. Vaguely she heard them talking quietly to one another but ignored their voices as she reentered the past. Where was she? The Masquerade Ball. That was the next time she had seen him-the night she had slowly approached him in front of an entire room of people, including Raoul. To this day, she did not know why she had been drawn to him, but she remembered the thrill that had rushed through her at the sight of him in the elaborate red costume, staring at her through the giant death's head…beckoning her with his very presence.

Devastation and fear had overtaken her again, though, as he had ripped the engagement ring from her neck, screaming in her face that she still belonged to him. Looking back, she regretted wearing the expensive jewel that night, but Raoul had insisted.

A sharp pain rocked her leg at that moment, as they twisted the cracked bone enough to lay the first wet cotton bandage on, causing her to release a tiny yelp. She tried to concentrate again.

Then there was the graveyard in Perros. As she was visiting her father, he had once again come to her, and she found herself floating toward him in the haze of winter. Despite all the pain he had brought her, she was still as drawn to him as when she thought he was her Angel. Had Raoul not appeared on his horse, she was sure that she would have let him take her back to his dark world that very day. Christine smiled wryly as she remembered that Raoul had thought she believed it was her father speaking to her from beyond the grave. Perhaps she was naive, but she had known it was her Angel, and she had known it was a man that she was approaching. Once again, though, she was whisked away, unable to think...unable to decide.

After that incident, Raoul had finally come up with the dreadful plan to capture her Angel at his own opera. She was to be used as a sort of bait, and she would be forced to betray the man who had inspired her so...and who she was still drawn to.

But she wasn't able to go through with it...

Another twinge shot through her leg like fire, causing her to see a flash of hot blue light. Her body flinched in agony as she tried to hold back another cry.

"Hold on Mademoiselle," said the doctor kindly, as she let out a shaky sigh. "The hard part is almost over. You have done very well." She nodded tiredly, wishing desperately for everything to be over. But what did she want to come of this terrible situation? She would go with Raoul. She would convince her fiancé that they would be able to live in peace, even with the Phantom free and alive. Would her Angel really follow her across Paris...across France? She didn't think so...

Another jab of pain, as the bone was finally settled into its place. She sucked in her breath.

"Almost done," the doctor said softly.

Then why did she not feel resolved with such a decision? Because there was something else...something she would not admit to herself. She was not worried about him following her. It was not that which made her heart race in frantic anticipation right now, nor was it the ache in her foot. All of these months without his voice, without his presence...all of these times she had tried to approach him...wanting him to come to her...desiring him...yearning for his touch...

But no! She couldn't think such thoughts; it didn't make any sense. She couldn't! It wasn't right. She loved Raoul. He was warm and protective...her savior from the darkness...

Pain enveloped her again as the last layer of bandages was pressed on, chasing the last thought from her mind, causing her to see flashes of crimson colors...driving her to near blissful unconsciousness. She gasped as the anguish began to fade, tears of hurt and confusion flowing freely down her flushed cheeks. But though she wished it to, the epiphany did not fade.

"It is over now," the doctor said with an apologetic smile, giving her a reassuring pat on her uninjured foot. "No more pain for a while." The nurse also gave her a small smile and placed a warm cloth to her perspiring forehead. Christine continued to sob softly for a moment, trying to compose herself.

"No," she said softly as she recovered. "No, it is not over. I do not know what to do." The doctor and nurse exchanged glances of confusion at the cryptic words before standing up.

"Well, Mademoiselle," said the doctor uncertainly, "I am sure you will figure it out soon. Right now, though, it is time for you to heal." He turned to the nurse. "Perhaps you should bring me sleeping serum."

"No," whispered Christine suddenly, looking at him in a slight daze, the gaslight reflecting off of her worn face. They both stared down at her. "I do not wish to sleep yet. I need to think."

The doctor started to protest but quickly closed his mouth. Whatever burden the girl carried, perhaps she knew best how to handle it right now. "Very well, Mademoiselle. You have done well tonight." Still, as he studied her, Doctor Murrell wondered silently to himself. "Just what exactly are you hiding from?"