If you want some background on the REAL lead key, check out one of my pages at www deviantart com/deviation/20050384/ (replace the spaces with dots.)

Dedicated to a certain recovering puppy. Fatter is better!

Chapter Thirty Four: Shock, Wounds, and the Unknown

Leah

A ghost fluttered down the length of the passage.

Her half lidded eyes passed over the sterile white curtains that separated the wards, rejecting the cold truth of reality. A tiny stairway lead her closer to her goal as the steps groaned beneath her feet, making a counter rhythm to the wailing wind that beat against the walls of the hospital.

The next floor was silent, in an unsettling contrast to the level below. This hall was lined with doors and windows. She had come to the top floor, reserved for wealthy patients who could afford private rooms. She stopped suddenly before a window, jolted by her own reflection.

My mind was shocked enough to return to my body. I had been living as an empty shell for weeks now, hollow of emotion.

Devoid of any pain.

I had escaped my body, viewing the world as an entirely separate person whenever I could. Surely this woman before me was a stranger!

And the reflection in the rain splattered window couldn't have been more different from that of Leah Iglesias, the dancer at the Garnier Opera. Her skin was nearly as pale as the hospital uniform that hung limply from her shoulders, both an unappealing shade of off white. Her lips were dry and chapped, and her eyes flatly unexpressive.

"That is not my face." I longed to convince myself.

But reality refused to be ignored.

That was my head looking back at me through the dark clouds that suffocated the sky. A soft blue scarf was clumsily draped over my scalp, hiding the embarrassing stubble that had just grown long enough to cover my ears. I no longer disliked the hair that had once been long and luxurious, if not beautiful. I would have given a great deal to have it back now, for it had all been shaved off in order to address the wounds that now scarred my tender flesh. The injury to my head had been terrible.

The scars were a visual reminder of that evil day. They were the reason that I had remained in this prison of a building, even after my sprained ankle had recovered. They were the reason that I remained trapped in the prison of my worries.

It was they that had stolen my joy, my dance.

Dr. Giry had attempted to explain the situation several times, but constantly failed to grant me a full understanding of what barred me from my only love in life. He was a kind, quiet man, but very difficult to understand when it pertained to his profession.

For the most part, he spoke in a foreign language of medical jargon. For all that I understood of what he said, he may as well have been speaking in tongues. I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that he didn't know a word of French, and had been speaking in English or a similarly incomprehensible language for the entire time.

I had vaguely managed to make out that I had suffered a 'concussion'. "That means you were unconscious." Beth had whispered to me as he rambled on. There had been 'severe trauma' to my 'cranium'. That had referred to the disgusting gashes on my head.

They still looked terrible, crusted over with yellow puss, and my scalp had turned a multitude of unsavory colors that reminded me of chicken soup left out to sour for several years.

Apparently, Dr. Giry feared that my brain had been injured as well. "I could have told him that." Beth had muttered under her breath to me. I would have liked to have given her a swift jab, but my head had begun to swim at the very thought of movement.

He believed that this injury could cause terrible damage if it were ever to be irritated again.

"A simple accident, such as tripping on the stair or a fall while dancing, could kill you my dear." He had smiled warmly, and tried to be cheerful, but the damage had been done.

For the first few days, I attempted to convince myself that it was a lie. Or a terrible prank of some sort. The idea of never dancing again still seemed to be an impossibility. I woke up every morning, half expecting to hear that it had all been a mistake, a nightmare.

And each morning merely solidified the dreadful truth of the matter.

I would never dance again.

Each morning, my world shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. I had lost the only thing that had ever mattered to me. Yes, I loved my family. Yes, I cared deeply for my friends. But dance … dance was the root of my soul, the one companion who would never abandon me.

My family had betrayed me. And my friends, though I cherished them like sisters, were not promised to me forever. Only my passion would never leave me.

And yet, it had.

My assurance had vanished. The foundation of all I had ever hoped for in life had evaporated without warning, leaving me rudderless in an angry sea of anxieties.

What could I do? Each day I worried about survival, a new and terrifying experience. My bills in the hospital had been covered by the opera house, but what would happen when I left? How would I support myself?

The funds from my abuelos would keep me alive for a little while, but they were far from inexhaustible. Dancing had been my only true talent.

I could sew, but my skills were elementary. I had only learned to embroider. I was an abominable cook. I could play the piano, but not nearly well enough for a place in the orchestra.

There was no function for me in the opera house. There was no job that I could take outside its walls. There was no home for me to return to.

I had no where to go.

"God? What is this supposed to mean? What do you think you are doing?" I whispered in my confusion.

I could think on it no longer, turning away from the reflection and all its despair. Sinking down with my back against the wall as it vibrated from a peal of thunder, I sighed deeply. Many of the other girls were afraid of lightning and thunder, but I couldn't remember ever having feared them. Abuela once told me that storms were the orchestra of heaven, and I had always found them to be a soothing sort of music. Tina had failed to see my logic, stubbornly hiding under our quilt whenever a storm settled over Paris.

Tina.

The mere thought of my little friend sent waves of sadness crashing through me.

Tina had also suffered greatly from the accident on stage that day, for she too had lost her ability to dance. Massive splinters of wood had pierced through two of her toes. The doctor who had seen her had been forced to amputate them. I ached for her loss, knowing that she loved dance as I did.

But I ached far more deeply for the loss of her person. After the terrible accident, Tina's guardians, Monsieur and Madame Valerius, had removed her from the academy. They had been outraged that the management had allowed such a catastrophe. After Tina's surgery had been completed, she and the Valeriuses had repaired to a family estate, far away from Paris. Beth had been my sole source of information on the event, for they had left before I had awakened.

Like my family, there hadn't even been so much as a goodbye.

It seemed that everything and everyone that I loved would always leave me.

But several people had come to see me. I tried to concentrate on them instead of brooding over my loss. Henry came immediately, for Beth had sent a friend to tell him of my injury. His warm conversations and his box of chocolates had been the first to break through my barrier of emptiness. He had come as often as he could for the entire span of my tedious stay, nearly a month and a fortnight in all.

Several of my friends had braved the damp weather of spring to see me, each a warm ray of light in my dark world.

Most surprising of all, Philippe had come to call on me. When he barreled in unannounced, I had immediately blushed, embarrassed for him to see me in naught but a shift. After a bit of convincing on his part, I allowed him to stay. He had won me over with a lovely bouquet of flowers: daffodils, daisies, and lilies of the valley, my favorites. He had been sincere and sweet, brightening my day.

But the intermittent conversations with visitors could not fill up the whole of my long, dreary days in the hospital.

As soon as I had been permitted to walk about, I had begun to pace St. Elizabeth's from attic to basements, due to sheer boredom. A sweet nurse, Sharla, had allowed me to follow her when she saw my restlessness. She was several years my senior, but seemed to enjoy my company as much as I enjoyed hers. As I observed her treating her patients, I had asked to help, itching to do something. Anything.

Little did I know how profoundly it would affect me.

St. Elizabeth's was saturated with pain. I was amazed and frightened by the vast number of ways that the human body could suffer. After meeting Sharla's first patient, Tobias, I had regretted my request to help.

Tobias, or Toby, as he had informed me, laid face up on his stark white sheets. He did all that he could not to move until Sharla forced him to. Even breathing was a painful exercise for the small boy of ten. A red stain dirtied his young chest and oozed the front of his legs. As I walked closer, I had drawn in a sharp breath and closed my eyes involuntarily.

The stain was, in truth, a nauseating scab. It was a gut wrenching shade of green-ish brown that one might commonly find on the decomposing corpse of an animal and alternately black and crusted. It was cracked like old paint, exposing the sickening pink flesh beneath.

He was a monster, a freak!

"Sorry. I know this looks a bit nasty." Young Toby surprised me by speaking. I cautiously opened one eye to see him looking away, ashamed of his appearance.

"Oh! No, no, I was just a bit shocked. That's all." I lied though my teeth. I was sickened by the thought of looking at him again, but I could not further insult him. I swallowed hard, trying to prevent my stomach from leaping out of my screaming throat as I stepped nearer. I wanted to vomit. Sharla closed the curtain that partitioned off the tiny mockery of a room and began to fill a small steel tub with the water we had brought in in pails.

"It's alright if you're frightened. Most people are." He said humbly. "It used to upset me, but I don't mind so much anymore." His voice was cheerful, and despite his obvious discomfort, I found myself more and more relaxed in his exuberant presence. We chatted as Sharla gathered up various bits of strange equipment and towels.

From his energetic words and ideas, I saw more and more that he was simply a young boy who happened to have been burned. He wasn't nearly as frightening as I first imagined him.

"What happened?" I asked timidly after several minutes of conversation, gesturing to his wound.

"I was helping Maman around the kitchen and I tripped. I fell into the fire." He answered openly. My eyes grew round with surprise. The scab was from a burn?

"Yes, he was very lucky, this one. He nearly died." Sharla interjected with a grin, tousling his dark hair. "But not lucky enough to avoid his bath. Come on, you little imp, into the tub."

The blood drained from Toby's face as he eyed up the metal container. "Do I have to?" He grimaced.

"I'm sorry dear, but you know you do. I'll try to be as quick as I can." She replied sympathetically.

"Honestly!" I thought to myself. "All this fuss about a bath!"

But I soon learned the source of his anxiety.

Once Toby was half submersed in the cool water, I came back inside the little room to face the pair of them, sitting on the bed at a distance that afforded him some privacy.

Sharla placed a stack of towels near the tub, and picked up a very coarse heavy washrag. What a thing to scrub with! I imagined that that cloth would leave scratches on your skin.

What could she mean to do with it?

To my horror, she began to roughly scrub the dead skin off of Toby's tender chest. It was obvious that it took all that he had not to bellow in pain.

And it was all that I could do not to immediately heave up the contents of my stomach. If I had felt ill before, it was nothing compared to this!

"What are you doing to him?" I barely managed to squeak out.

"I have to get the dead skin off." She grunted shortly. It was apparent that my voice was not a welcome sound, so I remained silent for the rest of the disgusting ordeal.

As she continued, Toby could no longer keep up his resolve. He burst out, shrieking like the living dead as the pink tinted water in the tub steadily turned crimson.

After it was over, we helped him back to bed. I averted my eyes until the proof of his sex was out of site behind the closed curtain.

As we headed for her next patient, Sharla giggled and called me prudish. "It's really just another limb you know! An appendage, like an arm or a leg. You don't have to be so skittish around naked men."

I had stammered and turned the familiar color of blood until we entered the room on the top floor.

When the door was opened, I was shocked in a different manner.

Upon meeting Madame Oriela, I doubt that there was any more appropriate reaction than that of shock. Though pallid and gaunt, she was full of eccentric life. She had an absurd collection of hats, and insisted upon wearing a new one each day, each more gaudy and spectacular than the last. A private maid attended her in the hospital, but her real job seemed to be walking Madame's lap ornament, a small pug named Seamus. She smuggled the dog in, and it resided in the hospital despite the doctors' best efforts to remove him.

The odd woman had been one of the few bright spots in my dim world of madness, besides my precious visitors.

I pulled myself up off the floor of the dim hallway and set out for her door. But as I reached out for the brass doorknob, it opened of its own volition, and a figure stepped out.

The most unlikely person in the world stood before me.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded.

Author's Notes: Any guesses on who it is? You'll never get it, not in a million years! (Laughs maniacally) In fact, I'm willing to wager an entire cheesecake AND a chapter dedication that no one will guess! (One guess per reviewer)

♪As for the story of Toby, my inspiration came from my mum. She used to be a nurse (now she's an administrator). Her first job was in a pediatric burns unit. She had to scrub kids down every day, just like Toby. A lot of the time, the only part of the kid that wasn't burned was their shoulders, so she would massage them to take their minds off the pain. She got to be REALLY good at back massages, and actually passed the skill on to me. I'm even thinking about taking a masseuse course in collage for kicks.

♫Oh, and if you are thinking that just because Leah makes nice with Toby she will then be completely understanding and loving regarding another someone's deformity … lets just say you've got another thing coming. (More dark, maniacal cackling) Oriela means angel of destiny and Sharla means little and womanly.

♪Oh, and every body MUST take a look at Allegratree's last review for important corrections. Thanks Fish!

Responses: I've been terrible at responding lately. Please forgive me. (Sobs uncontrollably until somebody forgives her.)

Fish: Wow, did I ever screw up. Grr. The book I was taking my opera history from was rather vague, saying that it débuted in Paris. Idiot that I am, I assumed the Garnier. (Smacks forehead) It also said something about it being looked down upon because it wasn't written in high opera the first time round, so I assumed it flopped (more smacking) the French was taken off of the internet, so I assumed it might be close to accurate (tremendous smackage) I once heard an adage that says 'Assume, and you make an ass out of you and me'. Rather apropos., no? (I would continue smacking, but I must remain conscious in order to further respond.) :D I love you Fish! Oh, and I finally got the picture of a certain canine. SO CUTE! I had a ten second AWW fest when I saw him.

Bip: BTW, Bip is an awesome name as well as an abbreviation. It reminds me of the name Kip, which in turn reminds me of kippers, which leads to an oddly disturbing yet hilarious joke…. Any who, thanks for the review. I can do it be cause I AM GOD! Mua-ha-ha! (She is then SMOTE DOWN FROM ON HIGH) Wait, I'll be good! I'm not a heretic, really! And while he does need those things, he may not get them for about thirty more chapters (I'm kidding about the 30 thing … or maybe I'm not … refer to God complex.) and he is unlikely to turn into little miss mary sunshine once he receives them. Dork, yes, but sexy SEXY dork! (Hugh! Sigh!)

ALC: Hmm, as I ponder these name abbreviations, I find that yours reminds me of TLC, the television channel. Do YOU have Andrew Dan Jumbo? Tiny squee for that sexy carpenter man. But he's not half as sexy as HUGH! Since you haven't seen the stage show, Hugh is the latest guy on Broadway to play Phantom. I LOVE his voice! He has a resonate, expressive quality that I feel some other Phantoms have lacked in years past. And I adore his interpretation of the character. And he's not bad looking either. Big Squee. As for not dancing, I can't dance, and look at me, I turned out just fine! (Snickering can be heard from the peanut gallery)

Avid: Thanks, and much love. You inspire my typing!

JPT: Well, Eric may know his opera, but apparently SARAH DOESN'T. (I say this with a huge grin as I laugh at myself. One of my favorite adages applies here: 'Blessed are those who can laugh at themselves, for they shall never cease to be amused.') Authors! What ARE they thinking? … thinking … it … hurts … the …. brain. Ow.

HomelessPirate: Well, if you are homeless, you are welcome to pull up a trashcan fire under my bridge. (Mind you, you are unlikely to escape my insanity unscathed, but hey, even The Man Upstairs gets a little nutty now and then.) In fact, my favorite quote (a self quote) is: "The platypus. Proof positive for divine humor." As for your review, I'm blush'n worse than Leah avoiding thoughts about 'the appendage', though I can assure you that my waist size would complain if I consumed a million cheesecakes. I am just tickled that you like this so much, and I appreciate it when somebody appreciates my historical research. (Hands you cheesecake!) Concerning your suspicions about Beth, blast! You found me out! I am discovered! Woe is me! Yes, though unintentional, a bit of Beth is borrowed from the greatness that is LMA. (Hmm, LMA… Lama? I was in Peru last summer, and I love Lamas!) Actually, Beth is a bit of an anomaly as far as character names. Most of my character names have symbolic or literal meaning behind them, but I chose her name because I think the word itself sounds soft and gentle. As for your offer of help, I would be delighted to have another opinion on editing! I shall clean out another fish tank. (Toddles off to find her scrubbing wand.)