The Secret Beyond a Dark Soul - Silver Tears From Heaven
Summary: In Christine's point of view as and before and after she meets our famous Angel of the Opera...
Prologue: A Voice
"Did you know, Christine, that waterfalls are crystal tears that run until the earth stopped crying?" Somewhere in the distance, from the inner expansion of my sorrowful mind, beyond the constant cry of pain, distress, and agony, through the beating pressure of my burning thoughts, a voice, so secluded yet as pure as water, led me through the darkness. That influence was like a firecracker in the mist of a black night, as tender as the touch of still water, but as tough as a wave in an ocean- it was Father's innocent, sweet, and secure voice.
I longed to hear that energy blended with warmth and love. I yearned to reach out in the shadows one night and grasp that beauty, that secretive entrance to the serenity in my mind. But all of that peace had been torn away and now lay limp, as dead as Father.
Chapter 1: The End of the Beginning
As sweet as honey, yet as enchanting as a lit candle amongst a dark dungeon, my father would enlighten my day with some attractive quotes, riddles, poems, rhymes, and even songs. We would sit by the firelight on one gray and gloomy day when the distant clouds loomed above towering plenty of feet in the majestic sky. He would speak as I would sit and wonder living in half dream, half reality. It would seem as if the riddles themselves were speaking to me, as if the sea of imagination flowed straight from the depths of the banks of secrets, pouring with beauty and desire, flooding any evil creature, swimming directly into my mind. As tender as a gentle breeze, these sensations would grow and live within me, granting me strength, luring me deeper and deeper within the vast expanse of their fantasy.
"The shadow of an angel,
beneath my grasp.
Positioning of the phoenix,
breathing strength at last.
Pits of sorrow;
those eyes,
glistening heavenly,
burning with lies.
Each rung is beauty,
on the latter to love,
he guides me there,
high up above.
The angel sees,
The angel knows,
The angel looms above; beyond,
The angel rises and grows.
Growing with love, with hope,
despair,
Intoxicated of determination, beauty,
Malevolence beware."
I remember he would sit behind the crackles of the blazing fire in the dimness of that light, and stare back at me with vivid, reflecting eyes; blue and almost omniscient, like two oceans held within his marble eyes. Then, he would speak the tales and different stories passed down through family generations. As he would reveal the secret stories to me, there would be a deathly silence as if time had paused for his ingenious stories, letting him confront and entwine present with past. Slowly and gracefully, thoughts would dance in my mind and show me a passageway where the feelings in the legend took place. Only when he finished did other sounds return to my awaiting ears, and vision brighten once more. I cannot forget those endearing and elegant poems for they still speak to me over all this time.
More than five years ago, when I was about four, I brought myself to the back of the locked, wooden door and overheard my parents hollering, drumming hideous words at each other.
"If you keep telling Christine these ridiculous riddles and stories about useless topics, then she will begin to believe that they are true if she has not yet done so!" Mother's voice screeched with raw rage.
"I see nothing wrong with believing these stories. They bring her to different worlds, exposing her to diverse cultures and senses."
"But the problem is that those stories you tell her are fiction! Fake! I don't want her to live in a dreamy world with only you and your misleading rhymes to tend to her."
Everything after that chain of reprimands was forgotten, flowing like a dead leaf down a quiet river, swallowed amongst the deep and dark forests ahead. Yet the feeling of betrayal remained in my soul and protruded out of my fury like a nail that was not hammered in the correct spot. I believed in those stories. Nothing would change that…hopefully.
I wept silently as the warm, reassuring cushion of belief burned in my soul like an overcooked marshmallow scorching above a fire of lies.
Words are nocturnal to the outer world, but alive and breathing in my mind. Songs are tranquil creatures within my world of imagination. Familiar, yet distasteful, for I knew that cloaked behind a fake wall of deceit, the truth at last emerged telling me all of the beautiful stories Father had once spoken to me were fables. Fables are distrustful poisoning to the soul.
The garden beyond our home was quiet with a hint of sharp winds. I ascended the nearby hillside and looked deep into the moonlight above me. The leaves in the outstretched trees shined as if they were made of metal as I moved toward the familiar immense gate of the garden. Twelve stretches high, gargoyles poised viciously as I entered the vast gray entrance to this second world.
Silently, but beautifully, the flowers would flash their petals to the blinding moonlight, whisper in the breeze, and add life to the brumal ground. Father told me all living things have a mind of their own. "Everything alive had feelings and senses just like us humans," he had whispered. I believed in this sanctuary as a heaven full of different lives.
Around me, I could identify plenty of plants: orchids, tulips, roses, different berries, and bright purple lilies. Some flowers glowed luminously in the light of the moon while others stood noiselessly beneath the eerie shadows of the trees. I moved quietly around each bushel of flowers and recalled that they could sense my presence. As I squatted down to gently brush the side of a petal, a call came from behind the corner of the house.
"Christine!"
I squinted my eyes well enough to make out the tall, slender figure of my father's shadow nearing the bend. He sounded calm, but had an edge to his voice.
As swift as the chilly wind, another dark shadow darted across the yard area where Mother and I would sit with the campfire blazing throughout the black air. The shadow strayed from my view, but a strange sensation aroused in my fingers. Suddenly the skinny tips of my fingers began to numb and I held my breath as I could clearly hear an eccentric reverberation and I thought my heart had stopped. Father was screaming, "Run away, Christine!"
As I brought my shivering body around the side of our wooden cabin to peek at the trouble, a pair of thick hands in red silk gloves grabbed my shoulders rather roughly. I kicked and struggled for my life, but I was only ten years old and this man wrapped in red royal silk seemed to be older than Father. The white hawk upon his shoulder soared and glided out of sight as I yelled with all my might.
At the sound of my squeaks, Father sprang directly to his feet. First I heard the click of a pistol and next the thunderous crack of its bullet. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground and I could see the shining black raven-colored hair on top of Father's head near me. His hair shined like a slick, alive gem under the moonlight. He, however, lay as still as the sky.
After a while of staring at his motionless figure with tears flowing from my eyes, I strenuously heaved his amazingly light body into the rock grave next to Mother's coffin. With wet rivers of tears racing down my face, I took my last look at my father before closing the lid of the smooth granite coffin.
Inside the house on the left wall was the alluring blue bow in which Mother had stolen from a on her mission to the metropolis in Germany. The sharp edge of the long and skinny arrow had been propped neatly on the wall beside it. I grabbed the two pieces and darted out the front door.
Quietly, I hovered over his new grave and shut my eyes tightly as I wept alone with only the moon's shadow to observe me, guide me, and be my companion. Clouds hung above me and blocked the moonlight as if they chose to help the murderer escape unnoticed by anyone. As if there were anyone to notice him...
