I flopped down onto the cold, cotton sheets. My face buried into a pillow, I sighed heartily, my body racked with exhaustion. For nearly two weeks now I had worked non-stop developing concepts for the stage makeup of the Opera Populaire's latest production of Faust. Days were spent hunched over sketches and practicing the application on the cast, many of whom were very impatient of having to remain solitary in a chair for hours. Rolling over on my back and stretching out my compressed spinal muscles, my body relaxed, and my mind began to drift, my eyes curiously scanning over my room. What an odd place this theater is! Nearly all the suites I had visited were adorned with a large, full-length mirror often placed in the middle of the room. At first I thought this was due to, in part, the actors' vanities, but I soon began to realize these mirrors were everywhere! At the end of hallways, dressing rooms, there was not a place in the Opera House in which you could visit without seeing your reflection gazing back at you.
Staring at this oddity, I stood up and hesitantly walked to it. I shivered. Not because of the draft which seemed to becoming from this direction, but because….no. Alessandra, you are being ridiculous! There is no such thing as The Opera Ghost!
Working at L'Opera Populaire also meant divulging yourself into its dark history. This Phantom was on the tips of everyone's tongues. Rumors, scandals, and gossip were on the top of the ballerinas' favorites list of discussion topics. In my two weeks, I had learned more than I ever cared to know about The Phantom of the Opera. How he had murdered a stagehand, stalked the hallways, kidnapped an aspiring talent, and set fire to the theater, nearly destroying it. But what intrigued me, no frightened me the most was how he had seemed to know everything that occurred under this roof. Under my roof. For all I knew he could be there, standing in front of me behind the mirror. Staring. Prying. Plotting. I despised this character, that is, of course, if he really did exist. What kind of a man could do such horrible things? A disturbed man, a tragic man, a lonesome man.
Out of sheer curiosity, I offered my hand to the mirror, gently placing it atop the cold, reflective surface. I stared at it and tried to peer through it. A feeling of electricity washed over my tiny frame. My breathing increased, my palms becoming sweaty. I could almost feel a presence in the room, whether or not it was the infamous Opera Ghost, I would not know.
"Mademoiselle? Are you alright?" a strict voice broke through the tense silence. I whirled around and found Madame Giry glancing rather curiously at me.
"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you, Madame. Just admiring this beautiful mirror."
"Perhaps it is not wise to indulge into your curiosity, Alessandra, you might not like what you find," and with that, she slipped out of my room. Exiting as silently as she had entered.
I took her advice and backed away from the mirror, my eyes never leaving my reflection. Trying to push this ludicrous tale out of my mind, I found it difficult not to dig further into the story. What had happened to this poor man? What had led him to such insanity? And, for the first time, I began to feel sympathy for this man. I began to have empathy for this man. Clearly, he had been wronged in his life, severely damaged. He had, after all, lived his life in the bowels of the theater, shying away from human contact. Longing for, pining for something he could never have. Someone he could never hold. Denied what any human had the right to. A right to live, a right to love. To need and be needed. Oh, how tragic this story was! Now, there was no doubt in my mind that He did exist, for no one could imagine a story more woeful than His.
My eyes began to droop, and it became difficult to keep them open. I undressed from my day wear, releasing myself from the confines of my corset. I moaned and arched my back, running my hands over the tense muscles. I caught a glimpse of my bare body in the mirror, suddenly feeling shy and turned away from my reflection. Just in case, I told myself.
Only after I sat down at my vanity and began to brush the knots through my hair did a strange sound reach my ears. I froze, straining to listen. I was sure, absolutely sure that in my room, behind my walls, did I hear footsteps retreating. Soft, graceful footsteps, but heavy nonetheless. And a soft swishing, like that of a cape.