Temper, Temper

"Damned bloody stairs!" Aminta cursed as she tripped for the third time. She had yet to actually fall, but tripping was annoying enough. She gripped the railing and continued more carefully. She forced herself to continue going slowly even after she reached the end of the stairs. Eventually she reached the dining room, but she heard raised voices behind the door. Another side effect of her blindness was that it heightened her remaining senses. Thus, she was able to hear what her parents-for that was who it was-were saying.

"Just let her be, Raoul!" protested Christine.

"Christine, she's nearly sixteen! It's time she started acting like the young lady she's growing into!"

"But she's happy as she is. Isn't that what's more important? So much was taken from her that night. Let her be happy."

"Darling, you know I want her to be happy. But I also want her to act like a lady. She'll have no prospects for a good marriage if she continues like this-"

"Marriage, Raoul? What are you thinking? She's not yet sixteen! Just let her come out of this when she's ready to."

"I'm just afraid that she'll never be ready to, or never want to. You know how she is."

"Yes, I do. Give her time."

"She's had ten years! If that's not time enough, then what good do you think more time will do her?"

Having long since heard enough, Aminta opened the door and slipped inside. She knew that if she just stood there she would go unnoticed until someone turned in her direction or she spoke. She chose the latter.

"Good evening," she said politely, but she was unable to keep the ice from her voice. She could hear her parents start at the sound of her voice and turn towards her. She made her way to them, running her hand along the backs of the chairs until she reached the end where her parents stood. "Having a rousing dinner conversation, are we?"

"Aminta, please watch your tone," Christine reproved her gently. "Your father and I were just discussing-"

"Me," Aminta completed for her. Christine did not deny it. "Father?"

"I'm right here, cherie," he said. She turned to him.

"Mother's right, you know," she said. "I'm perfectly content as I am, and I am not thinking about marriage yet, nor will I until I'm at least twenty." Raoul sighed.

"I know, but you really should be starting to act like a young lady. You are a young lady."

"I always considered myself more of a rogue, personally," Aminta said conversationally. Raoul sighed again, and Aminta considered asking if he had sprung a leak, but decided against it.

"It's just that-" he began, leaning back against the breakfront behind him. "Ouch!" he cried in surprise.

"What happened?" asked Aminta, her eyes narrowing.

"I rested my hand on my penknife," said Raoul. "The one I lost last week. The cut's not bad, though. I was more surprised than anything."

"Kind of like when your dressing-room mirror melted away, Mother, and you beheld the enigmatic figure behind it?" Aminta commented.

"Aminta!" said Christine with a sharpness that wasn't like her. "You know your father and I dislike this kind of talk."

"I still wish you'd tell me the whole story," Aminta said. "Not your faerie-tale, sugar-coated version. I'm old enough now to know the truth."

"We don't like to talk about it," said Raoul firmly. But Aminta was tired of being silenced.

"Why not?" she persisted. "What happened? Meg told me that you pursued the Phantom and Mother when they disappeared off the stage. What happened then? She told me that, after the gala, Mother went through the mirror with the Ghost. What did his lair look like? You performed his opera-what was that like? Why won't you tell me!"

"Stop her, Christine," said Raoul tightly.

"Did you really nearly defeat the Phantom in a duel in the cemetery? Or was that another of your grand fabrications designed to fool a childish mind into thinking you're greater than you truly are, taking advantage of my blindness to paint a pretty picture of you, glorious Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, who fought and would have murdered the Opera Ghost because he could offer Mother more wondrous things than you could ever even imagine-"

"STOP IT!" roared Raoul, striking her across the cheek. Unfortunately, he had forgotten that he was still holding his penknife. The result was a nasty gash diagonally across Aminta's right cheek. She gasped in shock and pain, holding her face, feeling the blood drip between her fingers like tears. She couldn't see, but she was staring at him in open-mouthed shock. Christine was doing the same, she knew.

"Aminta-" said Raoul, and she heard the knife drop to the floor as her father came towards her, trying to embrace her. "Aminta-" She pushed his hand away.

"Don't touch me!" she hissed. "Don't you ever touch me again, you bastard!" Wild with anger, hurt, fear, and confusion, she ran. She raced, stumbling, out of the manor, out into the storm, out into the streets. There she stopped and felt the wind on her face. She had long since taught herself to figure out where she was and where she was going by judging the direction she was facing. She turned left and ran for all she was worth. The Opéra Populaire wasn't too far.

She stumbled up the stone stairs, breathless and cold, she fell against the great doors. They were unlocked, as there was a performance later that night. The managers were too lazy to be bothered locking the doors when they were coming back again, which was what she had been counting on. She entered, dripping and winded. She could not see, but she had been to the Opera sufficient times to know the layout well enough to find her way blind. She knew where she was going. She stumbled on the stairs, but held the railing so she wouldn't fall. Eventually she found her way to the theatre. Instinctively, she started to turn for the stairs to the boxes on the right side (from the perspective of the audience) of the stage, but stopped. Smiling grimly she turned left instead and made her way up to the boxes on the left. She found her way by running her hands over the plaques that numbered the boxes until she had found the one she wanted. Box 5. She intended to be gone from the theatre by the time the performance started, so she figured the Ghost wouldn't mind her using his box for a short while. She stood facing the stage for a time, her hands on the low wall in front of her, trying to imagine seeing her mother onstage singing, turning her face towards her and her father up in their box right across from Box 5. She could imagine it all: the costumes, the lights, the music, the scenery. She turned away sharply, realizing that she didn't want to think about her parents. For the first time in a long time, she began to cry. She immediately wished she hadn't, as the salt from her tears burned in her cut, but she couldn't stop. She found herself sinking to the floor as she fought to control her emotions. When she finally did, she realized that she was suddenly exhausted. Before she even knew what she was doing, she had lain down on the floor and fallen asleep. Little did she realize that she was not alone.

A dark shadow fell over her, though she did not know it. She shivered in her sleep from the cold; her clothes were still wet. The black-clad figure standing over her regarded her thoughtfully, laying his cloak over her.

"Well, well," he mused softly. "What's this?"