Chapter Two

Waving a last goodbye to the disappearing figure of her husband, Christine sighed and turned around. Sitting alone in the carriage, she gazed out of the window, waiting for Paris to come into view. She decided to go back and say a final farewell, bidding her shame goodbye forever. Then she could put her teenage years behind and focus on her new, structured and simple life.

Of course, Raoul was oblivious to her plan. Christine told him that she was visiting an old friend that invited her. Ecstatic to see her get together with the outside world out of her own will, he agreed readily to the proposal, his approval evident in every word. Now, as his form faded with the front door of his house, person and wood blending with the aid of increasing distance, Christine felt a faint pang of betrayal. Yet, she was aware that if he knew her true destination, he would be cautious with her departure, probably accompanying her or even forbidding the ridiculous request. His philosophy was that wounds healed best when the memory of their birth was forgotten, buried underneath layers of blind ignorance.

Deciding that this would be the last untruthful act to her husband, she brought her mind back to the purpose of her journey. Her wandering thoughts were broken by the abrupt halt of her transportation.

Inviting her senses to the present, Christine glanced out of the window. She frowned, unable to recognize her surroundings.

"My whole-hearted apologies, Vicomtesse de Chagny," came the voice of the driver. "One of the horses made an unexpected stop. I assure you that it will not happen again."

Acknowledging the apology with a curt word of acceptance, Christine settled back against her seat. However, this time she kept her focus on the increasingly crowded streets that made up the many mazes of Paris. Several turns later, a particular structure earned Christine's full attention. The elaborate curves in the silhouette seemed oddly familiar.

The memory hit Christine like lightning. La Boulangerie De Bounet! Granted a day to simply relax at the opera house, Christine and Meg decided to venture outside; wearing their lightest clothing for it was an extremely warm August day. Giggling energetically and eyes shining with whole-heated freedom, the girls walked along the streets, stopping at many different windows, eyes greedily examining the various goods that sparkled in the sunlight.

Finally, they reached a bakery. Not eating anything since the light breakfast that seemed ages ago, they easily surrendered to the aroma of fresh bread that wafted boldly through the air. Falling in love with the pleasant atmosphere and delicious assortment of sweets and rolls that were constantly available, it soon became a tradition to visit La Boulangerie De Bounet whenever granted permission and time.

Now with the presence of the building a few step away from Christine, a renewed wave of uneasiness flooded through her. The shop meant that it was no more than a few minutes' walk to the Opera Populaire. Behind every turn, new architecture was recognized by the Vicomtesse, fresh recollections resurfacing in her mind. The post office, the barber's shop, the opera grounds. The opera grounds…

"We have arrived, madam," the driver's voice came again, voicing Christine's thoughts.

Taking a deep breath, as though to fill up on courage, she stepped out of the carriage.

The Opera Populaire towered above her. The fire's feast was evident; corners were crumbled, wood was burned away, windows lay shattered, and the entrance sign was in pieces, chipped and no longer readable, yet the building was still bathed in glory. Broken statues still raised their arms toward the heavens; the roof still thrust itself closer to the Lord.

"Madam, are you alright?"

Christine turned around and nodded. Handing the uneasy man the required amount of francs, she stated her thanks and dismissed the carriage.

Moving automatically, Christine glided toward the main doors, her feet functioning with their own will. As more memories flooded her shaking body and new signs of destruction became apparent, clouds of doubt settled in her mind. Was this really such a good idea?

Before her warning thoughts took advantage of her, Christine placed both hands on the cold brass handles and pulled the wooden doors open.

No one paid any attention to the lone figure that ventured into the Opera Populaire.

The sight that greeted her brought paralyzed tears close to the surface of her eyes. Inside, the opera house lay crumbled in evident submission. The fresh colors that once covered the walls were now monochromatic shades of fire's death. The magnificent ceilings no longer featured angels and hope, but random holes that allowed cloaked rays of sunlight to trespass into the building. Dust danced freely through the thick air, while a lone pigeon fluttered somewhere high above the Vicomtesse, moving to a new perch in what appeared to nowadays be its new home. The opera house was no longer a shrine that represented Paris's rich artistic life, but a grave that revealed France's past. A grave…

Christine de Chagny made her way toward the grand staircase, her mind unable to absorb the destruction. When she left with Raoul seven months ago- was it only seven months? God, it felt like an eternity-, they exited the building through some tunnel that eventually led to a dark alley behind the burning opera house. She had been spared of seeing the fire's cost. Until now.

Christine placed her foot on the first step. She made up her mind to bid this haunted place good-bye in a correct manner, and she was determined to complete her mission. She wanted to say good-bye from the box seats, looking down for the last time at the stage like any audience member would before leaving. It's only proper to loose something in the same place that one first gained it.

She reached the second step. Where had it all gone wrong? It seemed that her life had been crumbling ever since the death of her father. At the time, she greeted the voice of her angel with open arms, desiring any thread that would link her to her dear father. Why did the phantom have to appear? She would have ultimately mingled with the other girls after her grief was washed away. She would have been an average ballet dancer, living to perform and dancing to be seen.

The third step brought a bundle of fresh memories. The first time that Erik led her to his lair. The terror that was present in her body, along with the want for comfort and a natural woman's curiosity that proved to be victorious. His first touch- so cold, yet it brought warm shivers over her entire body.

Fourth step. The complete outrage as she removed his mask for the first time. Damn her curiosity. The desperate longing in his voice afterwards, calling silently for her forgiveness. She had given it to him, pain wrapping its icy fingers tightly around her heart.

The fifth step now supported Christine's weight. Don Juan. Don Juan Triumphant. When he appeared, she was helpless to do anything other than once again loose herself to his raw words. The feeling of his hands around her neck- hands that were for the first time ungloved. She had indeed abandoned all of her senses, playing along perhaps a bit too well, for by her second verse, she was completely unsure of the song's meaning. Completely succumbed was she.

Sixth step. Candlelight. Seventh. Masks. Another rise. Gondolas. Another. Cloaks and the fragrance of his aura. One more step. Love. Trust. Hope. Betrayal.

Christine's mind was swarming by the time she reached the top of the staircase. Every limb was shaking as the passed the entrance to the performance hall, subconsciously stepping around any holes that dwelled in the floor. She entered the nearest box. More destruction greeted her sore eyes. The curtains were gone, a ghastly shadow of ash in its place. Moths and other critters now inhabited the broken chairs.

Making her way toward the edge of the balcony, Christine peered at the scene underneath. The stage.

Too many years fighting back tears… Why can't the past just die?

Christine dropped to her knees, finally surrendering to the tears. They flowed steadily down her face, each drop of her soul containing an infinity of sorrow. A sob escaped her lips, echoing throughout the room, mocking her grief. Her body shook, feverish prayers asking for forgiveness sliding out of her mouth.

Help me say goodbye…

It's over. This is the end. I have made a wicked choice, but how could I become a prisoner to the dungeons of his black mind? Of course I desired him, I craved for him- how could I not? I crumbled every time his body made contact with mine. But I was scared- his power was overwhelming. His love so strong. If I chose Raoul… how could I go wrong by burrowing my head into safety's embrace? Oh God, stop torturing me like this. Help me forget. Help me leave this behind. Help me stop remembering the devil's angel.

The tears were now rushing steadily, retracing their path along her cheeks. Christine released a moan, wishing it all to end. "Please stop…" she muttered between sobs.

"Would you kindly stop the racket and retreat out of my box?" a deep voice slithered through the air.

Christine stiffened, a sob disappearing somewhere halfway between her throat and mouth, as horror flooded her body.