Summery- What makes a monster and what makes a man? And who, if anyone, has the right to make the judgment? ((Sorry I know it's a crappy summery but I swear the story's good! rated pg13 for multiple reasons, PLEASE R&R!))
Disclaimer- The Phantom of the Opera belongs to ALW, Leroux, and…well some other ppl too I guess but unfortunately I am not one of them! As far as I know…hmm shakes herself out of it oh…yeah, well…carry on…
A.N. Sorry I'm making you wait so long between chapters, please accept my apologies and my thanks for being so patient with my index finger, you must forgive her… 'dexie is a perfectionist. Anyway here for your viewing pleasure is chapter three! Upon finishing my outline I've found that I left out some key elements in the first two chapters which will become very relevant later on but as I myself am impatient to get well into the story I'm pressing on, flaws and all… Sylvie will suddenly appear in this chapter as though she had been there all along because she should have been introduced in the first place to help Ange tend to Erik seeing as she is an ignorant stuck up ballerina and wouldn't know what the hell to do about a gun shot wound lol. I realized how obviously ridiculous that was only after I'd reread the chapter for like… the 10th time…I apologize shakes head in shame Anyway just pretend that the old French maid has been there all along ok? As I said I shall fix it all in good time. Also my editors aren't around right now, which is one of the reasons I haven't posted this yet, so there might be some errors… I'll update it later!
-Woodie
Of Monsters and Men
By: Woodstock
For Lulu, Squishy, Shibby, Tears, Dawn, S.B. Libbey-- oh geez it's for all the tarts!
My tartie little darlins… I adore you!
3
Ties That Bind
Sylvie surveyed the remnants of the man's clothes, his spoiled shirt held between one thumb and fore finger and his stained pants between the other pair, an expression of disgust on the old maid's face that made her look as though she had just sucked the juice from a lemon.
"Is there no hope of salvaging them?" Ange asked, more occupied with her reflection in the mirror before her than the task at hand.
"There is always hope when it comes to mending Mademoiselle, but it would be tedious and time consuming— I think I have something better."
"Such as?"
Sylvie left the sitting room without replying, and while this ought to have been considered unacceptable behavior from hired help, Ange thought nothing of it. In her Aunt's opinion Sylvie was more of a beloved sister who happened to wait upon them than an actual servant and the old fussy woman was used to being treated as such.
Having nothing better to do Ange resigned to a chair and a book, though she was much too preoccupied to actually read. He had been here three days already and she hadn't yet asked his name, there hadn't been an opportunity… The first day he had spent there he had drifted somewhere between the conscious world and the beyond and after that he had seemed to do nothing but sleep, deep heavy sleep that made Sylvie fretful. It had been only since that morning that he seemed to return even somewhat to reality, though it seemed unwillingly.
Now she had taken to avoiding him, afraid, though she wouldn't admit it, after that morning's outburst. Perhaps the infection was a new development… that must have been it, for it seemed he hadn't realized until that moment that there was anything odd about his face at all. When he did realize this he his clapped his hand over the offending features and screamed at them to get out, to leave him, calling them the foulest things Ange could ever remember hearing.
Her short fused temperament getting the better of her Ange had returned the act with equal wrath until she was red in the face. Never in her life had she gotten into a yelling match with anyone as inferior as that foul loathsome—she turned the page of her book so roughly that it tore. Neither had she ever lost… not that she had lost this one, but she couldn't very well call it a victory, had his voice not gone horse when it did he might have indeed bested her.
Why was she even putting up with it? After the way that piece of filth had spoken to her—she should have turned him out, no matter his state! It wasn't her fault nor her affair and she simply refused to allow such an insignificant wastrel to disconcert her so.
She rose quite suddenly, marching from the drawing room and down the corridor in such a fury that one would have thought she had gone quite mad. Then, just as she was about to push open his door she stopped and stood quite still, the heat of anger draining from her cheeks and her resolve with it. Instead she felt almost nervous, how was it that such a creature could have such an effect upon her? All at once she was quite intrigued.
Ange pushed the door open slowly, peaking her head in the dimly lit room, expecting to see the man asleep once again… he was however quite awake, eyes open, staring at the ceiling as though it were telling him a great secret. She pushed the door open the rest of the way, wincing as it creaked loudly on its hinges, yet the man seemed completely oblivious. Ange cleared her throat once, he didn't so much as blink, she knocked on the door and cleared her throat again but to no avail. At last she grew bold, crossing to the chair beside his bed and tapping him on the shoulder, saying rather loudly, "you ought to respond someone might walk in and suppose you had died."
He jolted as though stunned, and turned his eyes on her, so cold and hateful that it almost made the girl wince, "and you ought not to intrude where you are so clearly not wanted."
She returned his glare, "I'll go where I please and do what I please in my house thank you, and you would do well to remember that I am mistress of this household and as such my will and word is law." He scoffed but didn't reply, returning his gaze to the ceiling. "Who are you?" He glanced at her again, seeming somehow disgruntled. "It's a reasonable question to ask someone abiding in my household so don't look at me like that, I merely want to know your name."
"Erik," he responded at once, as if he was in a rush to be over and done with it.
"Erik," she sniffed and to his raised brow replied, "It doesn't suit you."
"Ange doesn't suit you." She glared at him, not willing to admit that this was indeed true.
Before their tempers could raise again Sylvie interrupted, accompanied by fresh clothes for the invalid. "Where did you get these?" Ange questioned, inspecting them almost as warily as Erik himself. All the scrutiny they were undergoing would suggest they were something far more sinister than an innocent white shirt and a pair of faded black trousers.
"My husband God rest him," Sylvie replied, speaking not to Ange but to Erik, "seemed about your size and I suppose you can put them to better use than he can."
Christine hurried up the walk toward the Giry residence; it was a site for sore eyes after a long walk in the unseasonably dismal rain, she stepped around a puddle, careful not to soak her shoes or the hem of her cloak. Meg had sent three notes to her already, begging her to come, and Raoul had been nothing but pleased that the opportunity had arisen for her to get out of the house. Yet Christine had found herself dreading and even avoiding it, and though she felt guilty she could not help the knots in her stomach as she went up the steps and pulled the door chain. She had been trying, unsuccessfully; to rid herself of any thoughts pertaining to the opera and all that had gone on therein, how could she possibly do so if she was constantly being presented with people and things that reminded her of it? Every person, every memory was like a cord that bound her to her past, and until she could forget, until she could let it go, she could not be free.
The door was opened by an ecstatic Meg who pulled her inside; hugging her with what Christine thought was far too much zealous considering the circumstances. "You came!"
"Of course!" Christine said putting on a wide smile, "how could I resist coming to see my dearest friend?"
Meg took Christine's soaking hood and hung it on the hook, "I assumed you'd be too busy or, well preoccupied after—"
"Never too preoccupied for you Meg," Christine said as the two headed into the parlor, "but where is Madame?"
"Oh, Mother's out, I wanted to speak to you alone anyway." She replied, sitting down in one of the large overstuffed wingback chairs, Christine sat opposite, running her hands absently over the worn upholstery.
Within minutes things were just as comfortable between them as always and Christine found herself marveling that she had ever doubted Meg as being her closest and dearest friend and confidant. They chattered away for hours, comforting and confiding in each other, but when the time for Christine's departure drew near, Meg grew suddenly quiet and something about her countenance became unsure. "Meg what's the matter?"
She shook her head, "I'm not sure I should… I didn't even tell Mother, I was so sure she would disapprove and take the matter into her own hands, but you see…" She rose suddenly, moving to the fireplace and took a small box from the mantle. Christine recognized it at once; it was an ornately carved wooden box about the size of a card box which she knew to contain Meg's precious things. "I have something which belonged to… that is, when I found it I knew at once that you must have it, that I should give it to no one else." She returned to her seat, took the little brass key from her pocket and opened the box, then passed it to Christine.
It was obvious at once which item was meant for Christine, on the very top of the pile of cards, trinkets, and little gifts, was a kerchief wrapped package. Glancing at her friend skeptically she lifted it from the box, surprised at how light and thin it was, and unwrapped it gingerly. There nestled within the layers of cloth was of all things, the phantom's white mask!
A loud gasp escaped from between Christine's lips and her hand flew quickly to cover them. Paling considerably, she stared at the mask as though staring into the face of the Phantom himself. "Erik…"
"Christine?" Meg was at her side in a second, squeezing her hand, "Christine are you alright?"
Christine's eyes lifted to Meg's, vague and far away, "I…" she shook herself mentally, "Meg where did you find this?"
"In the phantom's lair, after—oh Christine I'm sorry, I should have known it would upset you but I just thought…"
"No, I'm alright, really, thank you for keeping it safe for me I…but why didn't you turn it over to the police?"
Meg shrugged, "It didn't even cross my mind, I knew giving it to you was the only thing to do. I would have given it to you when we met outside the opera that night but you seemed so shaken and then Ange turned up and I couldn't give it to you in front of her."
"No of course not." Christine said vaguely as she stared at the mask.
Meg gave her hand an extra squeeze, her voice when she spoke next was so low and pained that it startled Christine, "Christine, you must forgive me."
She looked at her kindly, "whatever for?"
"For not believing you, it just seemed so outrageous—"
Christine smiled, "there were times I didn't even believe it myself…"
"I can't imagine what it must have been like," her eyes widened and she moved closer to Christine, looking eager, "what was it like Christine? What was he, the phantom, like?"
She blinked, a little stunned by her friend's curiosity, what was it like? It was like having someone inside your head, knowing all your thoughts, all your darkest desires and greatest fears, it was like the sweetest dream turning suddenly into a nightmare, it was like being held captive by your own fantasies. What was it like to wonder if you were insane? And then hope you were because you couldn't imagine life without the voice, without the guidance. What it was like to become dependant on something you were sure must be a figment of your imagination, but knew in your heart of hearts was real…? How could she explain to Meg what that was like? "He was… strange, dreadful, and," she smiled, "wonderful."
"Oh Christine, you must have been so frightened!"
"Yes… and no, he was powerful, demanding, quick to anger and jealousy, but there were times when he was as gentle as one could imagine, and kind in his own, peculiar sort of way…" He had wanted to give her everything, no matter what the cost; he would do anything for her, anything.
"I can't imagine what it must have been like to be in the hands of a murderer, a monster…"
Christine blinked, it wasn't like that! Wasn't she listening? He wasn't a monster; he just didn't understand... the way his mind worked was different from other people. "There were times when… I cannot even explain, he was so hungry for the smallest hint of human compassion…"
"It's not a wonder, who could love such a creature as that?"
The color rose in Christine's cheeks, how Meg could say such things about someone she knew nothing about was beyond Christine. Her friend had such a caring understanding demeanor, at times it had almost annoyed Christine, and now… "It's getting late, I must go," she said quickly.
"Oh, I haven't upset you have I? I knew I shouldn't have bothered you with questions—"
"No Meg, that's not it at all, I promised Raoul I wouldn't be gone long."
Meg nodded as if knowingly, "he dotes upon you so Christine."
Christine smiled, "you have no idea."
Some time later, nearly an hour, Raoul found Christine walking aimlessly through the rain as if her head was no longer attached to her shoulders. He scolded her for her foolishness but when he realized that it wasn't doing any good he simply lifted her into the carriage and hurried her home to a warm fire.
After the excitement had passed and Raoul had gone out for the evening, (Christine had insisted that he go without her), she sat alone by the fire, wrapped in as many blankets as Raoul could force upon her, she allowed her mind to wander. During all the hubbub of getting her inside, out of her wet things and fed (hot soup that the cook had tried to spoon her until Raoul had waved her away) no one had noticed her slip the mask into the pocket of her fresh dress.
Now that the house was empty and quiet she felt it was safe to remove it from its hiding place and have a better look at it, running her hands over the smooth clay surface almost lovingly, even at this close a distance Christine could hardly believe it hadn't been made from a mold, so flawless was the craftsmanship, if she closed her eyes and ran her hands over it she might have been able to swear it was a real cheek, except that it was too cold and stiff.
Doing so she found herself remembering what his skin had felt like beneath her hands, the one cheek soft, perfect, the other… but it hadn't mattered, in that moment it simply hadn't mattered. "Erik…" she thought, tears threatening, she would not cry, she would not cry… "My poor Erik." She longed to know of him, he had been so pale when she had left him, so very pale and cold almost… lifeless... She choked at the thought. "Well," she turned the mask over in her hands, "I must return this mustn't I?"
The voice of reason was screaming in her brain, begging her to think logically, to remember Raoul, to remember the danger, to think of what the consequences might be… but all she thought of was Erik's face that night. "One more time…" she thought, "just to be sure he's alright."
TBC...
A.N. I hope you like. I know you're probably getting annoyed with me jumping back and forth from Erik to Christine and wonder why the hell I even have Christine in the story but you'll just have to bare with me to find out won't you? P Three cheers for my awful editing skills in the absence of my editors! As for the thing where the spaces are like… magically gone… that keeps happening when I convert the files, sorry bout that! Please please please R&R I beg of you! -Woodie