Author's notes: Long wait, but here we go! Another Erik's POV chapter. Z., I've got it planned out, so don't worry. :-)
Enrinye – say hello to dark Erik! This chapter is the Buquet scene, so it's a bit violent! Just the way you like it! ;-p
longblacksatinlace – (bows)
starnat – Agreed!
X X X
Chapter 9 – Silent WishesX X X X
I was restless.
That might seem a trivial state to normal people, but I had good reason to be restless. Mere hours have passed since I had released Christine, allowing my angel to fly back up to the world of daylight. I despised myself for yelling at her, making myself seem even more of a monster than I already must have seemed to her.
It was my goal to reveal that inside, I was worthy of being called a good person, worthy of the title of her angel, perhaps. The chance for me to do so never came. I had no other choice but to let her go. I couldn't stand the sight of her teary face, the fear and pity in her eyes would crush me.
Instead of thinking of what had happened, I decided to spend time doing something productive. And running my theater counted as productive.
So far, the new managers had proven absolutely inept at anything concerning the Opera Populaire, if I wasn't counting seducing the chorus girls. And even then, the ballet rats had to be very drunk. That meant that O.G. would have to send a few more notes and remind them of their place.
Quite frankly, I didn't think they believed in my existence. Not yet. They dismissed it as a legend of the theater, a myth made up to scare the children. If they knew that the ghost existed in flesh and blood, I'm certain their laughter would freeze. And if they would continue being as impossibly stupid as they were now, I would have to take more drastic action.
Il Muto was the next production. Again, not my most favorite opera in the world, but it was a decent piece. It was humorous, which was a nice change, thus I had nothing against the management's choice. But their choice of cast was horrid, as I was certain that Carlotta had heard of Christine's triumph… not least of all because of my intervention… and, knowing the managers, the moment she would reappear in a pompous fluffy outfit, they would be groveling at their knees.
Carlotta, a toad of a woman when it came to singing and an official fashion disaster, was the first person I wanted out of the Opera. I had been training my own prima donna and I wouldn't let the shrieking disaster ruin Christine's career and torture my ears. If she had any brains underneath those silly hairdos and overdone wigs she wore, she would stay out of my theater now, attending only as an audience. And it was doubtful I would allow her in anyway.
The Vicomte de Chagny was another piece I needed off the chessboard. I also wrote to him, simply telling him that Christine would be fine and that he should leave her alone. How the boy would take the anonymous note, I wasn't sure, but hopefully he too had enough sense to see that his Little Lotte was now my angel… and I wasn't going to allow him to whisk her away.
If they would obey, we would be living in symbiosis again.
They didn't.
They had the nerve to give Carlotta the main role, which was meant to be Christine's! They had given the star that had saved their previous production the only silent role in the play – Serafimo, the lover of the Countess, the Pageboy! The Pageboy! That was the final insult! Not only to her, but to me as well! How dare they! And those fools, the managers – they sold Box 5!
My fury matched that of the previous night, if it didn't surpass it. This was the final straw. They wanted a war, they would get it. I would start with a warning shot. After this, they would see that they really didn't want me as an enemy.
They wanted a toad to sing the main role – they would get a toad.
I strode into the laboratory and spent hours creating the right concoction. Fortunately, Carlotta always paraded her throat spray around. While the bottle was expensive, I had no trouble creating a replica. And when someone would be taking it to Carlotta, I doubt they will waste time checking if it was the correct bottle.
A cold smile appeared on my face as I examined the perfection of my creation. Tonight, this would be for you, Christine. I would avenge us both and clear the path to the success of both of us. One barrier would be swept away from the road to perfection and tonight, at long last, I would be with you again and beg for your forgiveness.
I left my dark home that night – I didn't even need a clock to tell the time. Carlotta's shrieking was more than a precise chronometer. The performance was horrid. Carlotta was worse than usual and Christine, though charming, had a smile that resembled a nervous grimace when you looked close.
It was during the scene when Don Attilio leaves that I decided I couldn't take any more of this. Stepping out of my hiding place and emerging on the catwalk near the chandelier, I observed the audiences before announcing my presence.
"Did I not instruct that Box 5 was to be kept empty?" My voice bounced from the walls like a booming roar, showing contempt and irritation mixed with mild anger. Everything that had eyes turned to me.
The performers froze, only Christine seemed to be the almost on the edge of panic.
"It's him! I know it, it's him!" I saw her whisper to no one in particular.
But Carlotta heard her and immediately spat: "Your part is silent, little toad!" then returned her attention to the audience with a practiced smile that was highly repulsive.
Almost amused, I arched an eyebrow, observing the diva coolly. "A toad, madam? Perhaps it is you who are the toad." After that, I left. The events of the night had been set in motion.
Vaguely, I noticed someone following me. A quick survey from the shadows revealed that it was in fact Joseph Buquet, the chief of flies. But more importantly, the person who never was at his post – not that I complained – our resident Peeking Tom and the most popular storyteller when it came to telling tales about me. The man once had a very nasty run-in with me. Above all, I wasn't wearing the mask back then, so his terror had more than good reason. He got a good detailed glimpse, that one, so his descriptions were all the more vivid.
Somehow, the tales of the Punjab lasso also bubbled to the surface. Strange, really, since I never actually used it on any of the employees. Maybe he noticed it when he saw me and though he didn't know the exact name of the weapon, he guessed what it might be.
Of course, most of the tales were grossly exaggerated, and that was saying something. My skin was far from "yellow parchment", for one thing. But I took no real offence in these fables, until I learned that Buquet had taken a liking to searching for me.
Occasionally, the ballet rats would organize a "search for the Phantom". It always amused me to watch the tight-knit group of girls run around with candles in their hands, shrieking at the sight of a rat. How they hoped to even see my shadow, I had no idea, but they weren't devious in their efforts and I doubted they would do more than scream if I would ever give them the privilege of a personal appearance.
They were actually useful – the lot had more than a vivid imagination, sometimes better than mine when it came to behaving like a ghost. At times, it seemed that their fantasy was wasted here and that the girls should make a career as gothic novel writers, not ballet dancers.
Buquet was another thing. While pursuing more details for his tales of the Phantom, I seriously doubted he would give up the search so easily. He was obnoxious, which was fine by me, but his persistence was beginning to be irritating. And this time, he wasn't searching for me for his own amusement.
I can only imagine what reward the managers would give for my head, what bounty the person who would find me would collect. Fortunately, I had a lot of experience with being a ghost, without even trying. Thus the chance of being caught by these amateurs was very slight, close to zero, if not even lower.
Finally, I showed myself to Buquet. The man predictably gave me the terrified wide-eyed look and tried to get away. I found the chase amusing, really. I knew every rope, every step, every wall in this building and had the skills of an acrobat when it came to handling them. And he thought he could outrun me.
Turning around, the look of horror on Buquet´s face as he saw me inches from him was almost amusing. But my mind was filled with the natural thrill of a predator cornering its prey. The noose was around his neck within an instant. Below, the ballet rats began dancing, oblivious to what was happening above. My prey couldn't even scream for help and his feeble attempts to pry my grip open were in vain.
It took seconds, really – it would have taken much less time if I didn't want him to suffer. It could be quick or really, really slow. I suppose I took out my anger on him, since I felt a sense of freedom when the corpse, now hung on the rope, tumbled down to the stage.
For moments my cold eyes watched the work of my anger. My rage had caused the screams that followed, the panicky running around. With one last look of contempt, I turned away, my cape flowing behind me.
Christine was safe. Christine was still in her dressing room. They had announced she would be playing the Countess, after all. She wouldn't ever find out… she wouldn't… she did…
It was her, in a red cloak, rushing around the stage. She was calling for the boy, desperate.
And, worst of all, she was out of my reach now! I couldn't snatch her away from his grasp in front of so many people. All I could do was watch as he tried to lead her away. But Christine was against that idea and pulled him away to the stairs to the roof of the Opera.
What she hoped to accomplish by this, I had no idea. But I was already running to the roof myself, arriving with several seconds to spare before the door flew open and my angel ran out, almost as if she needed oxygen more than anything else right now. She was holding back sobs, I could tell, even as I moved closer and hid behind one of the statues.
The boy was with her, obviously not understanding a thing. They seemed to be in the middle of a rushed conversation where she was explaining why she was running this way… and apparently, it involved me, for in a second, the Vicomte lashed out:
"There is no Phantom of the Opera!" I wanted to snort. I'm right here, sir. It would take one flick of my wrist to fasten the lasso around your neck and simple tug to end your life.
But Christine's voice stopped me. She was near tears, I could tell. Anguished that her friend didn't believe her, she shook her head almost violently. "Raoul, I've been there! To his world of unending night! To a world where the daylight dissolves into darkness… darkness…" she trailed off, remembering, turning away from him.
"Raoul, I've seen him! I… I can't forget what I've seen, there's no escaping from such a sight. His face… it was hardly a face, I was so very frightened…"
My eyes closed on their own accord. I couldn't bear to hear her saying this. It was true, so very true, she had every right to call me a monster… but it still hurt.
"But…" There was a dreamlike quality to her voice, as if she were in a trance that made me open my eyes and look back at her. She was staring in her space, as if imagining someone there. In her eyes, there was the flicker I saw when I led her down to my home. I still couldn't identify it, but it was important to me.
"His voice…" she whispered, smiling very, very faintly, "His voice filled my spirit with a strange sweet sound… music was in my mind that night… I felt as if I could fly, as if I had wings, I… I heard as I've never heard before."
Heaven was not too far away. She didn't hate me. She didn't! Hatred couldn't create the wonderful look on her face! It was the music of the night that had helped her soul take off and break free of the limitations of the mortal body! My music!
She could yet be mine, I knew. If only now I could step out of the shadows and take her away from all of this, I would win this yet. I saw her eyes return to reality, however. The effect of bliss was short lasting.
"Yet… in his eyes… there was all the sadness of the world." Her voice was nearing a whisper.
But her face still showed no repulsion, though she must have been picturing my face. It showed a sadness, pity. She felt sorry for me. But I desired her love, not her pity. It was a start, which I could put to good use, but it was not enough for me.
Now, however, I was certain that she cared for me, if only just a little. She saw the darker side of me, but still managed to think of me as of a friend, if not her angel anymore. If she learned to accept me, she could learn to love me.
"Christine, Christine…" Chagny wailed, despairing. He obviously didn't believe a thing she said.
I glared at the boy. If looks could kill, he would be dead. She needed comfort, not accusations! She needed care, not pity! He didn't understand her at all. Christine was mine, I understood her, cared for her, knew all about her, all of her deepest desires and wishes. The loving voice of her angel could perhaps bring her comfort.
Christine…It was almost as if the wind was whispering, but it was my voice, my emotions. Startled, my angel frantically looked around, searching for the source of the voice.
"What was that?" she whispered to herself. She knew the answer. She knew that I was near.
And I knew that if fate was on my side today, the boy wouldn't have embraced her, thus preventing her from running into my welcoming arms. A flicker of hope was rekindled as I saw her clutch the rose I had left her tightly, almost protectively. She was confused now, unsure what my intentions were.
Had I not made it clear that I would never harm her? No, I suppose I didn't. Not when I yelled at her, I didn't. Impulsiveness and temper, be damned! Why couldn't I simply tell her that I loved her? I wasn't an angel, or a phantom, I was just… me. With very little to offer her. But all at my disposal, all I had would be hers, if she wished.
I watched her still. She didn't melt into the boy's embrace. On the contrary, she seemed uncomfortable and anxious. I could only guess what she was thinking, but I can say that her thoughts clearly weren't here on the rooftop. Her mind was trying to reach me somehow, asking the one question I couldn't answer, for many reasons.
Why?