I KNEW the question of cosmetic surgery for Erik would come up…why does he still wear the mask? Because…it's all he knows. He's a recluse. He self-punishes. And the mask is his identity. Erik would not be Erik without the mask…at this point anyway…
Also…I should point out that, for this story, we're going to assume that no reproduction of the Phantom of the Opera exists. No movie, no play, no novel.
Nico
Mimi's world was spinning. Her tear filled eyes blurred her view of the audience, who were on their feet applauding her performance.
Flowers pelted her, landing at her feet…in her hair. She curtseyed again and again, overwhelmed by the response her performance had elicited.
As the heavy curtain fell down before her, muffling the cheering crowd only slightly, Mimi fell to her knees amongst the ruby roses and stark white tulips, completely overwhelmed by her happiness…her satisfaction.
After tonight, she would be a star.
Erik had remained standing in Box Five well after the second encore, his eyes filled with the sight of Christine. It was as if he had been transported back in time…she looked nearly the same as she had more than a hundred years ago…her soft eyes shining with pride and happiness as the audience demanded more.
Erik had not been able to move.
How was it possible? How had she returned to him?
His eyes remained on her until the curtains fell before her, shielding her from his sight. A twinge of panic coursed through his body for a moment. Silently, he calmed himself. You will not lose her again. He told himself. She is here; she is alive…
Mimi's dressing room was nearly filled with flowers from adoring fans. The knocks at her door continued well past midnight…she had admitted one star-struck fan after another, graciously accepting their words of praise, their gifts, their admiration.
It was unlike anything she had ever experienced before.
Finally, just before two o'clock in the morning, silence began to filter through the Paris Opera House. Most of the cast had long since retired to their respective homes, yet Mimi remained, standing in her room soaking in her success.
A chill moved through her body as she gazed upon the namesake atop the main doors of her dressing room.
DE CHANGY.
The bronze lettering had been affixed to the top of the door more than 60 years ago, right after her great-grandmother, Christine, had passed away. Christine De Changy, formerly Christine Daae, daughter of the famous violinist Charles Daae, was more than a legend within the walls of the Paris Opera House.
Mimi had long swooned over the romantic stories that revolved around her great-grandparents. Although they had both passed before she was born, Mimi felt an unbelievable connection to the couple. Not simply because Mimi had been told countless times by family members that she was the spitting image of Christine, but because their dedication to music and the arts lived on through both Mimi and the De Changy name.
Mimi had heard many variations of her great-grandparents' romance…how Raoul De Changy had become the youngest patron of the Opera Populaire, as it used to be known. How he had immediately recognized young Christine Daae as his childhood sweetheart as she performed for the first time on stage.
Shehad also heard about the infamous Phantom of the Opera…a story that she chalked up to lore rather than reality. She had heard that this supposed phantom had fallen in love with Christine…a bitter, lonely love that had not been reciprocated by Christine.
Mimi smiled as she thought of the tale of a disfigured man in love with a beautiful young protégé. It seemed that people involved in the arts, no matter what time period, possessed incredibly overactive imaginations.
As she walked over to her vanity, the same vanity Christine had surely sat at night after night, applying and removing the greasy stage paints from her face, she noticed something.
A single red rose…complete with a black satin sash tied between the thorns of the stem.
She picked up the flower and brought it to her nose, impressed by its perfect quality.
It was nowhere near as lavish as the hundreds of other blooms that were all about her…but something about it overwhelmed her. Something about the softness of the petals…the ferocity of the thorns.
She pulled at the sash, running its silky fabric between her thumb and index finger.
Another chill coursed down Mimi's spine as she placed the rose in a vase containing several other less impressive flowers.
At the same moment, the lights flickered in the dressing room, dimming and rising several times before settling on a decidedly lower intensity.
The loud knock at the door caused Mimi to jump.
"Get a hold of yourself," Mimi muttered to herself as she pulled the door open.
Standing there, in a matching pink terrycloth sweat suit was Emily, one of the lead dancers.
"Hi, can I come in?" Emily asked in a rough New York accident, her perky blond pigtails bouncing along with her chipper voice.
"Sure," Mimi replied, somewhat shocked by the presence of the girl. No one from the Opera's cast had ever visited her room…let alone invite themselves inside.
Emily swished inside, her perfume nearly overpowering the fragrant blooms in Mimi's room.
She helped herself to one of the candies someone had left for Mimi. Mimi watched as this American made herself comfortable.
"Do you mind?" she asked Mimi, gesturing to the chocolate she held in her hand.
"Not at all, help yourself," Mimi replied. Emily offered a smile and popped the sweet into her mouth.
"You were really great tonight," Emily informed Mimi, her mouth full with a second piece of chocolate.
Mimi smiled. "Thank you," she replied sincerely. "I can't tell you how much that means to me."
Emily shrugged. "Don't mention it," she said, tucking her thin legs underneath her body. "I know it's been rough for you. Whenever the Opera gets a new diva it takes a little while before everyone warms up."
Mimi nodded silently.
"Not that I'm calling you a diva," Emily clarified. "It's just that everyone knows how good you are; we can't help but be a little jealous."
Mimi sat down across from the seat Emily had chosen. "I'm not that good," she muttered.
"Oh please, don't give me that crap," Emily retorted, catching Mimi off guard. "You were amazing. Come on, look at this room," she gestured to the gifts and flowers. "You knocked them dead."
Mimi smiled, liking this woman immediately. "I guess I did," she finally relented.
"Damn straight you did," Emily agreed. "So," she said. "You're wondering why I'm here."
Mimi nodded.
"Well, think of me as a metaphorical olive branch," Emily said, pulling a daisy from a nearby vase and tucking it behind her small ear. "I've decided to be the first to officially welcome you to the Paris Opera House, and to let you know that things will get easier."
Mimi lowered her eyes against tears of happiness. "You don't know how long I've been waiting to actually talk to someone else here besides Bernard," she admitted.
"Sure I do," Emily countered. "It's been three months. You're lucky…no one spoke to me for six months. I nearly went insane from the conversations I was having with myself."
Emily stretched her long legs out and stood into a full body stretch, yawning dramatically. "I gotta head back to my place," she announced suddenly. "Dance rehearsal starts at 8 tomorrow…I'm already gonna feel like shit. Are you leaving soon? You wanna share a cab?"
Mimi considered the offer and then shook her head. "I think I'm going to stay for a bit…you know…let it all sink in…"
Emily yawned again. "I gotcha. It's overwhelming, isn't it?"
"Oh yes," Mimi agreed emphatically. "But it's what I've been waiting for my whole life."
"Careful," Emily warned, moving towards the door. "Once you have everything you want in life, you get very, very bored."
Mimi laughed. "I could never tire of performing."
Emily scoffed. "Talk to me in a few years…we'll see just how tired you are."
As Emily walked out of the dressing room, Mimi stopped her by placing a hand softly on the dancer's arm.
"Emily, thank you," she said.
Emily winked and pulled Mimi into a hug. "Congratulations, Mimi."
Mimi watched as Emily made her way down the long hallway outside of her dressing room.
How strange how one's life could change in one evening! Mimi's entire view of the Paris Opera House had changed…the establishment which had, up until this evening's performance, seemed hostile and lonely now seemed warm and accepting.
For the first time in a very long time, Mimi felt like she was home.
She moved back into her dressing room, closing the door silently.
Smiling, she turned around to face her room.
And gasped.
There, standing as if he had been there all along, was a man.
A man dressed nearly completely in black.
A man of impressive height and obvious physical strength.
A man whose face was halfway covered with a strange white mask.
