Chapter four

"Charles," She attempted softly, putting a hand to his arm that held the gun, gently pulling it downwards. "Charles," As she said his name over and over again, the resistance in his arm became less and less. Once his hand was completely down, he finally looked at her. Their eyes met in a solemn gaze.

"Please." The girl whispered, and with that took his arm. They turned their back on the older man in the distance and began to walk away.

The man in the distance finally spoke, "Ah! I smell fear! You know I cant shoot a man with his back turned, Moreau, You seem to know my weakness," he called out into the bitter air. "but don't forget, I also know yours."

Before the girl could even feel the shiver that would have ran down her spine at these words, she was shoved aside into the snow, and a deafening crack filled the deserted square. She watched as the younger man fell onto the snow covered ground. Dead.

Manon's eyes flew open. She gasped and bolted up. In an unexpected rush excruciating pain shot up her side. She gritted her teeth in attempt to keep from crying aloud. Cursing, she slowly lay back down. She closed her eyes and gathered her wits. Manon opened her eyes again. She was in a dark room softly lit by a candle lantern that was set upon on a bedside table. She lay on a soft bed in the corner of the dusty room. A grimy vanity and a large mirror were the only furnishings in the dim room.

It was just then that Manon noticed under a woolen blanket that covered her, her bodice lay wide open to expose bandages wrapped around her waist. Eyes furrowed, she propped herself up on her elbows, and reached out to touch the dressing.

"They must be changed tonight," said a voice in the shadows.

Instinctively, Manon vaulted out of the bed, groping of a knife that wasn't there. Immense pain suddenly shot through her side, and with a whimper she collapsed onto the floor.

She felt a firm hand clasp her arm and with an unexpected gentleness set her down upon the bed. Momentarily blinded in the pain, she barley cared whose arm it was. As the throbbing subsided, Manon opened her eyes. This time she was barley surprised to see the man, the phantom, or whatever he was – of the opera, towering beside her bed. Could he be the one that dressed her wound?

In the dim light of the room, she noticed his sunken, yet firm features. A strong jaw and sculpted cheekbones. He was not old, certainly not 'old' but etched in his face were lines made by years of rejections and suffering. She would have never expected to feel sorry for a man she did not know, or a man who had tried to kill her…

Reluctant to ask the common question of 'who are you?' and 'Where am I?' she stayed silent. She looked down at the bandages and with great surprise saw that her chemise still lay wide open. For modesties sake she quickly drew it closed, biting her lip. She was more vulnerable now then she had ever been in a long time, and as always, Manon hated it. She was wounded, weak, in bed, and before a man that had wanted to kill her, yet spared and saved her life. She was once again known to the Police after many years; they were after her as if that night was yesterday. She could barley move without a throbbing pain erupting from her side and nausea filling her stomach. Manon was heavily overwhelmed.

She looked up at this 'Phantom of the Opera' conscious of his piercing gaze. He was looking at her blankly, yet, she couldn't help wonder if he knew what she was thinking.

Their eyes met. She lost her self in the pooling darkness of his left eye and the stormy gray of his right eye.

All her life, if Manon had one fear, it would be to look another being in the eye, to hold their gaze, fearing that they would see her pitiful past in her eyes. Yet for the first time, as she gazed into his eyes, she felt no fear. Wonder and apprehension perhaps, but not fear. At that moment the good he had done to her, outweighed the bad. Now she owed him her life; Manon knew she was in his debt.

He pulled a wooded chair from the near vanity and sat down stealthily, swinging his dark black cloak around the chair, white mask glowing.

"What is your name?" The phantom ordered. His voice was cold, melodious and deep.

To her horror, Manon didn't hesitate but answered like a subservient child.

"Manon Moreau."

The phantom raised his brow, seeing surprised as well that she responded so quickly. But he ever so slightly looked amused.

"I must inform you, Mademoiselle, that the bullet which struck your side is imbedded deeply, and it has not been extracted it, yet. Tonight we must resort to the gruesome task of removing it or else the wound will become infected." He said in a doctoral manner.

Manon closed her eyes. This was the snarling man that had held her by the throat not a week ago, the man who had called her an "insolent harlot". She was perplexed and distrustful but kept her suspicions to herself.

"Are you a surgeon?" Manon asked brows furrowed.

The phantom smiled deviously, the corner of his mouth upturned.

"No, I am not a surgeon, but I am capable."

I AM SO SORRY! I know this is not the long chapter I promised you, but…I shouldn't give you any excuses but here is one: I cant write! I know this sounds ridicules but I can't! I was sitting at my computer for three hours trying to write a long chapter but my muse is not coming to me. I feel that if I go on I might just write something that I doesn't belong (if I haven't already). I'm sorry. I broke my promise but here is a chapter anyway. I have this voice in that back of my head saying that I did something wrong about Erik's character in this chapter. If I did I apologize and if you have suggestions Please tell me! I'll rewrite this chapter if I have to. I am having a really hard time keeping Erik in character. PLEASE HELP ME! Thanks.