Disclaimer: Own Phantom of the Opera, I do not. No. Own its characters, I do not. No. Own only my own characters and story, I do.
-I have been very rude in failing to acknowledge the people who have so kindly read and reviewed this piece. Misty Breyer, Erik will eventually share his thoughts on the Christine incident, don'cha worry! JupiterPixie, thanks forreading, and thanks for the vote of confidence...it helps me keep writing. Nota Lone, I believe you even read my other, silly piece. Thanks for making me feel good at the beginning. Everyone else that I haven't mentioned: I really appreciate you taking the time to review my writing. I hope you're still reading this.
Antoinette was beside herself when I came to her with my request. Did I not understand, she fumed, the impropriety of what I was asking? A full grown man such as myself, could not engage in secret meetings with a six-year-old girl! Teacher or not, it was not done! At first I tried to reason with her. Surely, such meetings could only be beneficial to the girl. She appeared to have talent, and should have the chance to develop it. Antoinette, however was adamant. There could be no lessons under the conditions that I had demanded. I had never seen her so intractable, and it began to dawn on me that perhaps dear Antoinette had concerns about my mental stability. At that point in my life she had no reason to, but no argument I presented could allay her doubts. Her suspicions did not help my plan one bit, so as a last resort, I used my voice on the poor woman. I spoke to her softly and gently, using the techniques of hypnosis that I'd learned. Antoinette is a tough-minded woman, and I exerted my will with great difficulty. Little by little, I gained ground, and before I left her rooms, she'd agreed to bring the child to the chapel on the following evening. Antoinette is not a woman to be trifled with. She did indeed bring Christine to the chapel as she promised, but our friendship, such as it was, was broken. She receded from my life, until our only contact was the written word, and only when I wrote. I'd request, and she'd comply. There was never again any more to it.
Christine was too young for formal operatic training. Her voice was not ready for it. I taught her breathing techniques, and gave her scales to practice. I began teaching her the basics of Italian, and German. She still called me her Angel, and I did not correct her. She had to call me something, and Angel was far better than some of the names I'd been given. Christine always asked me to sing her a song before she left the chapel, and so I began singing my own compositions to her. It was a complete delight to discover that the child actually understood what my music was saying. She could hear it, and hear me within it. Who else, but two lonely souls, abandoned and unloved, could share such a rare thing? I believe we both found comfort in the music, and in the knowledge that we were not alone.
By the time Christine was ready to begin operatic training, I'd made my decision. This girl was going to be my Diva. She would perform my music, be my voice. She was extremely malleable, and I began to shape her, mold her to my will. I did not see her as an individual, but as an extension of myself. She was a vessel to carry my music to the stage. I learned from our exchanges that before he died, Gustav had promised to send an Angel of Music to her. She truly believed that her father could do that. I marveled at the unkindness of such a promise, but did not attempt to dissuade her from the belief that I was that angel. It helped make her compliant to my will. I could tell that Christine half-hoped the Angel and her father were one and the same, and I left her to wonder about it. All I needed was for her to sing.
Christine was fifteen when Signorina Giudicelli and her lapdog Signore Piangi joined the Opera Populaire. Carlotta was hired on as lead soprano, and Piangi, because he was with Carlotta. What a fine pair they made. She might have had a fine voice, had she not ruined it by screaming like a fishwife whenever she was unhappy. She was unhappy most of the time, our Carlotta was, and must be petted and flattered into good humor. She was an obnoxious, common woman, who was hired in good part, for the small salary she was willing to work for. Piangi, a fat strutting little man, possessed the florid, overblown baritone one associates with Italian Opera. I detested both of them. It was actually painful for me to hear them perform. I knew, however, that I would eventually have a far greater talent to put on the stage, so I decided for the present to let it be. I contented myself with bedeviling LaCarlotta with the Opera Ghost's pranks, whenever she became insufferable. She kept me quite busy.
Christine, meanwhile was rapidly developing into an absolute marvel. She could have performed at that point, and done quite well. I wanted better than that, however, I wanted perfection. And so we continued to work together, Christine and her very demanding Angel of Music. My demands kept her sheltered, isolated, and very much mine.
As I gained control over my Christine, so did my influence over the opera house grow. In part, it was because it was crucial to my plans for my budding Diva, but also because I loathed having the place run shoddily. LeFevre was an idiot, and could be trusted to make the wrong decisions every time. If he hadn't been so frightened of the Opera Ghost, I believe he would have been almost grateful to have been relieved of much of his responsibilities. He still paid me my salary, and I earned every franc. I selected cast, critiqued musical arrangements, and even advised him on costuming. Monsieur LeFevre became quite accustomed to my notes, and complied readily. He knew what would happen if he did not. A series of "accidents" had proven to him that it was wise to obey the Opera Ghost. I was quite satisfied with the progress of my plans. The stage was set, and when Christine was ready for her debut, all was in order for her. LeFevre would not question.
Christine's voice continued to develop and mature. By her seventeenth year, she'd acquired an emotional range that belied her age and life's experience. She could sing with the pure, virginal sweetness of youth, or effortlessly drop into a voice that evinced such rich passion and longing, that the very breath would leave me. It was, she shyly explained to me, how she heard my music. The knowledge that she knew me so well drew me closer to her, I think. I know that during that time , I began to see her differently. She was no longer a child, but had become a woman. She had a fragile and exquisite beauty, and a lovely, gentle way about her that made me ache with emotion. Incredibly, without even being aware of the transition, I'd fallen in love with my student. The outcast, the monster was in love! What's more, I sensed that my feelings were not altogether unreciprocated. There was a new tension between us, unspoken, which fairly quivered with need. I had never felt this way before, had never imagined that such a thing could be possible. The thought of her filled my waking hours, and invaded my dreams. I composed my music now solely for her. I was obsessed. I vowed that as soon as my Diva made her debut, I would make her entirely mine. Now, the knowledge that I possessed her mind was not enough. I wanted her, mind, body and spirit. I could not accept anything less. I made my plans accordingly.
With all of this in mind, I intensified her training. I made her practice each night until we were both exhausted, and she in tears. I forbid her to leave the opera house. She was to continue her ballet, of course, and practice with me. She was to go nowhere else. I did not want this pure, sweet talent to be tainted by outside influences. She obeyed me as always. I held her completely under my sway, and she never even questioned my commands.
One night, after her lesson, I gave Christine my news. She was ready. She let out a delighted gasp, and thanked me, tears streaming down her face. Oh, Christine! How I longed to step into the room and gather her in my arms! To share her joy then was my heart's wish, but I knew I could not. I had trapped myself in half-lies and subterfuge. She believed me to be an Angel. How was I to tell her after all of these years, that I was but a man, and a flawed, damaged one, at that? Clearly I must restrain myself, and wait until the time was right.
That time never came. As I busied myself in arranging Christine's debut on the opera's stage, events were occurring that would put an end to my fool's fantasy. In a very short while, my plans, my life would begin to unravel, and I would be powerless to prevent it.