Disclaimer: All credit and inspiration comes from Gaston Leroux and Susan Kay. I don't own it. I don't own it! –runs off wailing-
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I had contemplated the idea for weeks. Considered it in every detail. Despite all of this, I was overcome by passion, which detracted from any sense of logic I had once prided myself on having a complete mastery of. Christine Daae. Her presence. Her voice. Her face. Her soul. Christine Daae robbed me of my senses.
I rubbed my thumbs over the aged engraving on the large trunk in the Louis-Philippe Room. Madeleine Etenoux . It had been my Mother's since she was a very small girl, one of the many lavish gifts given to her by her Father. I opened it with proper care and respect for an antique, and pulled out the delicate silk garment that laid on the top.
The wedding gown was simple, yet elegant all at once. An off-white crème, it had simple embroidery at the hem – white roses. The sign of innocence and purity, as every bride is. It had a full skirt, and what would be a tight, form-fitting bustle and frame. For being only a dress it seemed to whisper angelic quips and sing softly. Though, perhaps my ears were deceived by what I hoped to hear from the woman…. From Christine.
My God, that woman tortured my mind – and she had no idea. I know that nothing I can ever say or do will ever fully explain to her the entire capacity of my love for her. Love; such a frivolous word. Completely under-appreciated. I envy all of those who say love so easily, as if it was any other word. Yes. I could never even hope to explain a third of my devotion to her…but I will never cease in my discreet attempts.
I next pulled out the aged and yellowed veil. I walked over to Christine's wardrobe. I spent… - I don't know how much time – pressing out the creases in the material, straightening it on it's hanger. The dress had to be nearly as close to perfection as my angel was. Draping the veil gently over the dress' shoulders I closed the wardrobe door with a soft click.
It was quite late. I looked up at the ceiling of my home, if you could even call it that! I could see her, six floors above my head…sleeping pleasant dreams of angels and complete security and comfort.
Rest well, Christine. For tomorrow we begin Aida.