(A/N: Finally, we are gonna get into some action in this chapter! Enjoy!)
Over the next few days there was much discussion about the untimely death of Pierre, the stagehand. Naturally, after finding the body, L'Opera Populaire's managers informed the authorities, and an investigation had commenced. They had questioned the entire staff at the Opera, including Charlotte and myself. I managed to conjure up a convincing alibi and Charlotte seemed completely oblivious to the fact that she had found me only a few hallways down from where the body lay that night. Most of the staff hadn't been familiar with Pierre, but the few that were tried to convince the police that he couldn't have possibly taken his own life. When asking for what particular person they suspected of killing Pierre, most silenced their efforts. Some muttered allusions to a 'ghost', luckily the authorities merely laughed at this suggestion. Due to lack of evidence, Pierre's death was ultimately found to be of suicide.
I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking this entire ordeal was to be put behind me. After the investigation settled, I imagined that life would return to normal at the Opera House.
Sitting at the vanity in my room, I critiqued my appearance. I managed to pull my thick hair into a taught bun at the base of my head. I dipped my brush into the powdered rouge that lay in a small metal container on the table, swirling it about. I brought it up to my face. I hesitated, and finally set the brush back down. I was now more determined than ever to hide my beauty. I laughed aloud through my silent thoughts, Wouldn't it just be easier to wear a mask, Alessandra? My wide, toothy smile suddenly turned to a frown. That was wrong of me to think. I knew of His deformity, the horrible monstrosity that was lurking under the austere mask. He had been suffering His whole life because of what lie under that mask. Taunted, ridiculed, hated, despised because of his appearance. How can people be so cruel? This man had saved my life, not even knowing me, not asking for anything in return. He had saved me, putting Himself at risk for a complete stranger. He truly was a compassionate man, deserving of everything wonderful life had to offer. But he would never know what 'life' truly meant. Never really feel 'alive'.
All this because of his image. What a horrible thing beauty is! Completely overrated! Here I was, generally attractive in every aspect, wasting my life away. Destroyed, dejected, violated because of my attractiveness. I didn't know what 'life' meant, and I realized that I had never truly felt 'alive' either.
I glanced at the clock ticking away on my dresser. Nine o'clock. I was needed in the dressing rooms. I left my room and started my journey to the stage, turning my thoughts to tonight's performance.
"Alessandra!" Charlotte's face beamed at me upon entering the room.
I smiled at her, motioning for her to be seated so I could begin applying powder.
"We have not spoken for days, how have you been?" I asked, hoping to be bombarded with some flighty story that would distract me from my own mind.
"Very well considering everything. You know, I was rather worried about you."
"Mm, why ever were you fretting over me?"
"After Pierre's death, you seemed withdrawn. Frightened. Even now you are not yourself, is something wrong, Alessandra?" Her wide blue eyes turned around to meet mine.
I shied away, turning around to grab some hair pins. Composing my face, I turned back to her once more, a much too eager smile forged upon my lips.
"Wrong? No, of course not! I'm fine, everything's fine!" Even her naïvety could see right through my fabricated words.
"Alessandra, it's all right. I like to think we are friends now, you can tell me what really happened that night."
I stopped fidgeting with the pins in my hand, but continued to stare at my feet. She knew! I did not understand how she suspected that something went disastrously wrong that night, but she knew. Tears stung at my eyes, threatening to rush over the brims of my lower lashes. I was taken aback by my reaction, I was not one to display emotion so easily.
"Oh, Alessandra! It's all right!" Throwing her arms around my shaking figure, my tears finally streaming down my face, I cried. I cried for the first time in my adult life. All those years of agony and anguish finally rose to the surface.
I cried for my family, I cried for myself. I cried at the injustice that life was.
We stood there, in the middle of her dressing room, for moments that passed slowly. I struggled to compose myself, drawing in shaky breaths. Finally, she released me, wiping my tears away with her sleeve. I looked up at her, and finally decided to confide in someone. What I had gone through was too much to put upon myself, I could carry the secrets no longer.
I told her about my life as a courtesan. She stood there, mouth agape, as I told her of the horrors that I had been succumbed to. I told her of my escape from that life. I told her of the stagehand's advances on me that night, how he had intended to rape me. I stopped there. Unsure of my next move.
Could I tell her of the Phantom? I decided against it, I knew of her opinion of Him and I did not want her to form more erroneous thoughts of Him. Instead, I mentioned that I had blacked out and had awoken next to Pierre's dead body.
"You poor thing! Oh, Alessandra!" she lamented, her own eyes growing teary.
"Please. Please, tell no one of this," I begged. "I have never told anyone of this before."
"Of course. Your secret is safe with me."
I nodded, turning my focus back upon her appearance. I finished preparing her mechanically, my mind vacant, my body drained from the emotional release I had just experienced. She had to have noticed my perfunctory movements, but said nothing of it. After I had finished, I wished her good luck and sent her off to the stage.
My body was spent. I dragged myself back to my room, locking the door, and throwing myself upon my bed. I clutched the blankets between my fingers, feeling a strange thing washing over my core. My knuckles began to turn white from the force in which my hands grasped at the sheets. My heart rate increased, I could literally feel it stab against my ribs with every beat. A knot formed at the pit of my stomach, for a moment I thought I was going to be sick. I could feel the blood weaving it's way throughout my veins, pulsing in my temples. Every sense I possessed seemed irrelevant. I could see nothing, hear nothing. Feel nothing. I tilt my head back and let out a thunderous cry. I screamed until my lungs burned, clamoring for oxygen. Still I screamed. I tore myself from my bed, ripping the sheets off of me. I rushed to my vanity, scorching drops of tears scalding my smooth cheeks. I ceased my cries when I saw my reflection.
I look crazed. My hair disheveled, my eyes red and swollen. Panting, like some sort of an animal. Still, I saw myself in those foreign expressions on my face. I saw a young girl, wanting nothing more out of life than to live a happy one. Wanting, in vain. Wishing, in vain. Hoping, in vain. All the repressed pain, all the subdued memories, flooded my brain. Blinding my thoughts with rage. I hated myself. I hated my face. I picked up my perfume bottle that rested on my nightstand and flung it at the vanity, shattering the small mirror into thousands of tiny shards. It was not enough.
I darted over to the floor length mirror, the mirror whose intricacies I once admired. My hands formed into crude fists. Glaring at myself, staring myself down. I felt I was going mad! Still, she stared at me, yet I did not know who this person was! I struck the mirror's surface. Clawing and kicking at the glass as it burst out of its frame. Fragments flew at me, piercing the soft flesh of my hands and arms. I did not care. I could feel no pain.
When there was no glass left to break, no reflection left to destroy, I sunk to the floor. My small frame shaking with adrenaline. I buried my head in my hands and sobbed. I cried, blurring my vision with stinging, salty tears. I lifted my head in a feeble attempt to fill my lungs with precious air. I stifled a scream at the sight that laid before me. It was not an angry sound, but rather a frightened one. I scrambled to my feet, backing away from the mirror frame. I stopped when my back hit the wall, my palms pressed flat on the sides of me. My mouth hung open, wanting to make any sort of noise, but none came.
Where the glass stood only moments before was replaced by a dark hallway. Nothing else visible except for a luminous mask.