This pleases me! All this concrit is bad for the ego, but healthy for the writer's mind! I beg pardon for Erik's weird changes. I even said Christine hated it. I'll try to make him regain some of his morbid hotness. Sorry if that last comment was uncalled for.
Ch 3: A Second Strike
Meg Giry rushed through the halls of the backstage world as fast as her garter-clad legs would carry her. The place was deserted by those who worked by day, inhabited only by stragglers and those too drunk to remember their names. The girl shook her head. What was becoming of such a fine art? She quickly banished the thought from her mind as her destination called to her.
Meg held a small package that she clutched tightly to her bosom. It contained a gift for one of her fellow chorus girls. Michelle Pojek, which her lover had been too shy to deliver himself. The disheveled man had caught her by the elbow after practice, begging her to give his beau the gift. The dancer had been kind to Meg, so she agreed. The event had completely slipped her mind until she had been lying in her bed.
The young Giry counted off the doors impatiently. Why did the woman's dressing room have to be so far away? And with that murderer abroad, the nighttime was just about as welcoming as a quarantined hospital. Against her stubborn will to be brave, her heart pounded loudly against her frail ribs.
At last, the door reading Michelle's name was before her, and she knocked. No answer.
Meg feverishly knocked again, this time more loudly. Still no answer. Meg felt fear welling up inside her. Oh, why had she refused Christine's offer for companionship? Though a ninety-pound soprano could do next to nothing for protection, the moral support would have been invaluable. " Michelle?" She hissed into the keyhole, " It is I, Meg Giry. I- I have a delivery for you, from Henry." Michelle did not answer, though her gas lamp shone brightly from the crack under the door. Cautiously, Meg tested the handle's resilience. The door creaked open.
" Michelle?" Meg was now covered with a cold sweat, her blonde hair clinging to the fibers of her nightcap. All was silent, disregarding the hiss of the lamp and Meg's drum-like heartbeat. She called the name again into the illuminated gloom. A faint dripping sound startled her. It seemed to be coming from the closet. With a trembling hand, Meg opened the closet. Her eyes grew wide with horror, a silent scream escaping her lips. Michelle Pojek hung dead in the closet, her throat slit and the Punjab lasso entwined round her neck. Meg dropped her lamp in terror, the shards lacerating her bare feet. Tucked in the front of Michelle's nightdress, a red rose, tied neatly with a black ribbon, lay. The flower glistened with blood, monstrously. Finally regaining her voice, Meg screamed so loudly, that one lying awake beneath the attics jumped with surprise.
Christine stroked her pillow gently, thoughts of her life troubling her mind. She was waiting for Meg to return, her friend having left over five minutes ago. She sighed. This was one of those restless nights when there never seemed to be enough air and the sheets too warm. She longed to be in Raoul's arms, for he would comfort her as one would comfort a lethargic child. A/N: I'll try to explain their separate living as best as I can! Her husband, she knew, was slumbering peacefully in a magnificent flat in the midst of Paris. Since she had returned to the opera, he had tried tirelessly to convince the managers that he should set up a room of their own somewhere in the monolithic building. Firmin and Andre, who would ass around for days on the silliest of things, had still not gotten back to him on this. Nevertheless, the couple had discovered a deserted dressing room in the quieter east wing of the opera house. Together, they had already tidied it up and made it as their own little nest. Raoul, though accustomed to much fancier dwellings, would have lived in a crate had his beloved wife asked him to. All he had to get was a note with fond agreements, and they could once again sleep in each other's arms. Raoul had been more feverish in his attempt to receive permission over the past two weeks, after the murder of Fonasille. Was a husband's duty not to protect his betrothed?
As these hopeful thoughts of togetherness eased her restlessness, a loud shriek shattered her state of mind. All of her fellow chorus girls sat bolt upright, lights flying to illumination. They huddled together in a passel of thin white muslin and frightened cries. Christine forced her black robe over her head and sprinted down the halls. Lights came to life all around her as she ran, searching for Meg's anguished cries. Suppose her best friend was in some sort of mortal peril? Christine would never forgive herself for letting the ballerina go alone.
Among the confusion, she heard Carlotta yelling and cursing; her loud screeches a cross between fear and fury. The lousy drunks that were slumped over began to stir back to life, their bleary eyes lazily surveying the pandemonium. Suddenly, an arm grabbed hers and led her forcefully to a secret staircase. She cried out, but fell silent when she recognized the figure under the dark green cloak. " Erik!" she whispered, " We must find Meg!" He forced her around, fire burning in his green eyes. " Christine, there has been a murder, and once more, I am the one to blame." Christine felt unnatural force in his grip, which she tried to shake herself from, failing. She had never seen him this angry before. His teeth were bared in a menacing frown and his brow was furrowed with hatred.
" Go flee! Find you fop! I am going to try to track down this murderer. Michelle Pojek has been strangled. I will send Meg to you. Now go!" He roared, jamming his thumb behind him. " Go now! Get out of here! Find safety!" Without a word, she was released fro his iron grip and Erik vanished into the churning crowd.