Next Year
Christmas of 1871
They always told me that next year would be better. They always said that things would look up. They always assured me that no longer would I be poor, orphaned dancer Christine Daaè. Well, they were all wrong.
Maybe those things would come true if I was like the other girls. The other girls went home for the holidays, went home to families that loved them. Even Madame Giry and Meg left to spend time with close friends. "Next year, little Christine," Madame had told me before she left for the holidays my first year at the Opera Populaire. "Next year I'll take you with us."
That was not true. The next year there had been a terrible blizzard on our last day before the holidays and all of the girls had been forced to stay at the opera. They cried for their homesickness. I didn't. I sat there like I always did, writing in my journal or singing quietly to myself.
Two years ago, just as Madame and Meg were ready to depart, Madame came to me. "I want to go with you, Madame."
"No, Christine. Maybe next year."
"No! I'm sick of 'next years!' I want something to happen this year!"
"Someday you'll get what you want 'this year,' Christine, but not now."
Next year. I thought about that every day for the whole year. By 'next year,' I was engaged to le Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. I was prey to the Phantom of the Opera's predator. I wasn't happy. I thought about her words. Maybe this was the year I'd end up happy. But it couldn't have been, not with the constant threat of the Phantom, my trusted Angel of Music. Maybe next year.
Now it is next year. I am sitting by a fire in the mansion I share with Raoul. Touching my pregnant stomach lightly, I know that next year will be better. I suppose I'll have to wait another year for things to turn up. I wonder where my Phantom is. I've sworn myself to finding him one day, sworn myself to the notion that he is out there and waiting for me to find him. Next year, Christine. Next year.