Woo-hoo! Two chapters in as many days!! I'm on a roll!! I HATE THE GOLDEN GLOBES!! THEY SUCK!!!

By the way, when I decribed my OC's character to have "long dark curls", I don't mean to the extreme that the Joel Schumacher Christine did. I'm thinking moreso Elizabeth in Pirates of the Caribbean curly, not Emmy Rossum curly.

Here's a link for the three people in this site who haven't seen Pirates

Much love-

Pax

My mind was blank. I could not begin to fathom how I hated this feeling, this nothingness in my head. From the very beginning of my wretched existence on this earth, there had always been something to ponder, something to roll about in my repugnant skull. But now, in the dark and dankness of my underground tomb, I could think of naught.

This sickness had plagued me incessantly over the past two years. From the time when Christine Daaé left my home with her beloved Vicomte, I had suffered. Since that moment, when she left me to rot. I had written no music; scores, yes, but not music. I no longer lived. I only existed.

The harshness of reality closed in around me with every passing day. Darkness smothered my lungs and heart. Loneliness, anger, fear, and despair fought and twisted inside me, ripping my body apart. Nothing would, or could, appease.

Slowly, I was dying.

Never will I be able to explain what possessed me to return to her dressing room. I could not pin it to curiousity, because I was not curious. I could not pin it to love, because love no longer lived within me. I could not pin it to hate, for I did not hate her. It was purely an animal instinct. I held no control over my actions. I had to revisit the room where I had first seen her.

I drifted blindly through the long untraveled passages, my legs remembering the way. She had once followed me through these paths, her small hand in mine…

The mirror was at the end of this hall. I approached it as silently as ever, but now with a growing sense of dread building in my stomach. I could not do this. I could not face the past. It would kill me. It tear me apart like a wild thing. Yet even as these thoughts raced one another across the expanse of my brain, I reached what to me was a window. Standing before the glass, my eyes absorbed the sight offered to me.

The room was not empty. The door stood open, letting in rays of dull light. A woman was on the threshold. By God, this must have been Little Meg Giry, no longer a shivering ballet rat, but full grown and in her dancing attire. She was taking after her mother, I noticed, observing the similar brow line and firm mouth.

But it was not Meg Giry that held my attention. Standing beside the vanity, which was liberally covered with dust, was a frail young woman. In my befuddled and aging mind, I thought for a moment it was Christine. She has returned to me! The delusion was short lived, however, for I quickly realized this child was quite different and the only factor of resemblance between Mlle. Daaé and herself was the color of her hair. That glorious shade of deep russet…

"Should you need anything, you can find me in the ballet dormitories…"

It was young Giry who spoke, shrinking away from the entryway and taking her leave. I watched the now only occupant of the old dressing room. She stood perfectly still, like an delicate marble carving. Then she spoke, her voice soft and sad.

"Thank you, mademoiselle."

The door closed with a subdued click. Pure and complete silence reigned for many minutes. Neither the shadow hidden by a sheet of thick glass, nor the fragile creature who thought herself quite alone made any movement. I continued to examine the girl. Her eyes were too big for her starved, little face. But what drew me to them, despite their size, was the emotions that lay in their grey depths. Never had I seen such sorrow in the countenance of one so young. It wrenched and twisted my heart to the point where I almost forgot my own woe.

Almost.

Suddenly, she stepped across the room and placed her tattered carpetbag on the récamier and removed her cloak. Underneath she wore a very worn skirt and bodice with a pattern in faded brown. The dress was too short even for her small frame, and the hem failed to conceal her sturdy boots and thin black stockings. Clearly money was not an attribute she came by easily.

For hours I remained behind the mirror, watching this nameless child. She found some kindling in the wood crate and a tinder box beside the fireplace and soon cackling flames sent dancing shadows onto the walls. After digging through the drawers and closets, she came upon several moth-eaten rags which had perhaps in another lifetime been handkerchiefs. She used them to clean the filth which years of neglect had placed upon the room, her little hands polishing each surface diligently. My eyes followed her as she found an old hat box and crafted it into a trash bin, filling it with yellowed papers, dead flowers, and cleaning rags that she could use no more.

In time, the space had began to look more like a comfortable domicile than a cold, abandoned dressing room. The child stood in the middle of the floor and slowly turned, surveying her work with fatigue. Her great eyes paused when they came upon the vanity, now spotless. She hesitated, then went to it, her fingers sliding over the smooth mahogany to a very withered red rose with a black satin ribbon tied about the stem.

My heart stopped. Time seemed to lengthen as she picked up the wilted blossom and gently stroked the petals with the pads of her fingers. I lost the knowledge of who I was looking at. The past seized my mind; the child merged seamlessly with Christine. She grew taller and rosy cheeked, the curl of her hair increased; the illusion faded and then returned only to disappear once again. Oh, Christine…

I stumbled. Moreover, I suppose, my knees gave way, sending me into the cold stone wall with a thud. I cursed my weakening body and glanced back through the glass. Had she heard? It seemed she taken at least some notice to my racket, for she cast her large eyes upon the mirror, upon me, so it appeared. Placing the dead rose back on the table, the girl slowly came towards my hiding place still blissfully oblivious, of course, to what it concealed. She now stood directly before me; I marveled at her elegance, for one so small and slight. Carefully she rose one white hand to the glass, stroking its flawless surface delicately. An urge grew inside me. She would never know… no one would ever know…

Very cautiously, I lifted my own trembling, bony hand and placed it upon hers. I only felt the cool mirror beneath my fingers, but somehow I imagined I could feel the warmth of her dainty palm on mine. A shudder ran across my flesh. How long had it been since I had touched another human? Starting at her soft sigh, I felt a swell of disappointment when she drew back her hand and moved away. I suddenly longed to know her name. It would not be a difficult task to discover it, not, indeed, for the Opera Ghost. Perhaps I should take up my previous post in the theater…

Spreading an afghan over the récamier she sat and removed her boots, setting them neatly on the floor. Then, pulling a frayed and threadbare old quilt from her bag, she curled herself into a ball under it and closed her great eyes. Surely she did not mean to sleep in her dress?... I thought derisively, frowning. Think of the state of that gown in the morning! Just as I'd had the thought, however, my gaze returned to her carpetbag, which appeared quite empty.

A combination of pity and shame descended upon me. It now occurred to me that she may not even own a second frock, let alone a nightdress. As the candle burned down to the wick, I stood and watched the child sleep, the peaceful slumber of an angel. Indeed as she slept and the lines and shadows of exhaustion disappeared, I felt that I was God minding one of his little cherubs.

A thought began to materialize in some dark recess of my mind, and I hastily pushed it back. It can not be… I must not make the same mistake twice… Yet even as I fought, the notion refused to be ignored. She needs me… Casting my eyes away from the girl, I gripped the unmasked side of my face in a hand. I thought Christine needed me… I turned and took several steps down the lightless hall. Christine had her Vicomte. There is no one to take this girl away… I stopped, and slowly turned my head back in the direction of the mirror. She has no one… I moved silently back to the glass. She needs me?... Her face seemed to plead, to beg for my help. I thought of her large, unhappy eyes. I could make those eye shine with joy…

Making a soft sound in her throat, she turned towards me in her sleep and smiled lightly. My heart pounded and fluttered in my chest. And then I was gone, scuttling, like a spider, back to my lair.

Do you like how I made Erik go all Gollum/Smeagol?! SCHIZO SCENE!!!