Christine clamed down on her tongue, focusing on the pain of her teeth cutting into it instead of the agony that the man forged upon her lower back with a knife. No tears leaked from her doe-brown eyes; tears had long ago dried up, her ability to cry, to sob- numb. The pain however, still managed o wretch upon her like a rabid dog after a rabbit.
It had been so since the night of Erik's voice. It had sounded in her ear as music from an angel. He was an angel really. An Angel of Music. It mattered not if he had deceived her- he had been the Angel of Music. The beautiful, unearthly voice that had filled her sleep and days still clung near and dear to her heart. That beautiful, alien voice, a sound unlike any would ever hear again once their ears had set upon his vocal splendor. Yes…yes… he was the Angel of Music. But he was not a saving angel. No. Not her savior. He had murdered in her name, threatened to kill the man she loved; now he failed to save her when he was so very, very near.
A cold pit dropped into the burning thing that was her lower stomach; he had failed to save her- failed to redeem himself in her eyes. Yes…yes…failed.
And Raoul? Where was Raoul? Attempting to find her? No, she doubted it. Before he had sat within their lavish home waiting for news of her. Most likely, that was what he did now. Sat the house, and waited.
Had they forgotten her? Had they all forgotten her? What of Meg? Or Madame Giry? Did any one of them remember her? Remember anything? The top of the line performer that she had been?
How ironic that she should g from Diva to sex slave in a matter of six months. How ironic indeed. Ironic and sick. But then, who wasn't sick in this world? Even she questioned her sanity now.
"Get up, bitch," she was dragged to her feet by her hair, now matted and greasy, feeling the fresh blood trickle into the crevice of her back and over her buttocks, a few trails managing down her legs like snakes. In a way, she almost savored the pain now, the sting, the throb of the blade or hand; it allowed her a way to release her anger and misery without having to do it herself. "Now stand against that wall."
Christine moved against the wall without complaint, feeling the man press his large body against her roughly. More out of boredom then spite now, she snapped at his shoulder listlessly, hardly bothering. It did the trick however; she could feel his repulsive manhood bulge harder against her lower stomach. And her womanhood again knew the agony of hell.
Margareite woke to find a single rose, a white ribbon around its stem next to her on the baby-blue pillow that comforted her head. She smiled, closed her eyes again, and stretched, yawing. She opened her eyes again expecting to find Erik sitting at his organ, and perhaps Christine beside her on the satin and velvet blanketed bed.
Her heart sunk heavily when she remembered where she was and why she had been placed there. Erik was not here. Quite possibly in his lair, sleeping; he did not like sunlight. Christine…oh gods, Christine…she was being abused, raped, violated in ways no normal person could imagine. But Margareite could.
She dressed herself silently and solemnly, depression slamming into her like a bag of bricks. She exited her room quietly, after extinguishing her oil lamp on the bedside table and made her way to the small dining area. Madame Giry had already laid out muffins and milk and was biting politely down upon a muffin of her own. She nodded once to acknowledge Margareite's presence, making a gesture with her hand towards the plate at the end of the table. Margareite forced a thankful smile and sat down, eating without a word.
The food was like cotton in her mouth no matter how much milk she gulped down, her throat tight. Was there nothing she could do to force herself to speak, to help Erik in his search for information?
Meg opened her own eyes, feeling the cool, smooth surface of the mask still clutched in her hand. She had slept fitfully after the Opera Ghost had left, waking at the smallest of noises, thinking-hoping- that it was the Phantom come to claim his mask…and possibly more. She closed her eyes again momentarily against her thoughts. She had such a guttural mind at times!
She dressed herself with mixed feelings; in one way she was exhilarated to finally meet the Phantom of the Opera; in another way she was slightly depressed by his unwillingness to stay in her presence. Not that she blamed him. All she, or anyone else in that opera house, had given to his name was slander and legend. She, however, hand secretly fantasized about the Opera Ghost. She would not speak for all, but she was almost positive that most of the ballet rats had as well. If the girl did not fear him as they would an evil demon, then they fell into fantasies late at night about being taken away by the Phantom.
Meg extinguished her own oil lamp and walked out into the morning-cool hallway. She tip-toed across to Magareite's room, daring to pray that perhaps they phantom was there again, but was not surprised when she did not find him there. She was surprised however when she found that Margareite was already up. She padded to the dining room to find her mother and the girl eating their morning tides, a plate set out for her across from her mother, diagonally from Margareite. She stared at the girl in curiosity. Did the child have any clue what had taken place this past night? That Meg had in fact, seen the Phantom? Did her mother?
If either had any knowledge of the matter, neither spoke of it. Meg sat before her plate and began her breakfast absent mindedly, her thoughts running over her memory of the previous night.
Those eyes. Those beautiful crystalline blue eyes; The one behind the mask however, had speared out prominently, nothing but darkness surrounding it. Is ha had a square jaw and a slight cleft chin, his aburban hair slicked back tidily. And his hands; they had been ungloved in his handling of Margareite, their palms large in proportion but sender in the piano lengths of his fingers. Christine had once told her that his hands flew over a keyboard like a bird across the skies, exquisitely graceful and amazingly quick.
Christine now entered her thoughts as they had not since shortly after the fire. Her mother had told her that Christine was well, but would tell her nothing of what had happened after the Phantom had stolen her away during Don Juan Triumphant. Nor would she allow her to see her old friend after that.
"It would be a painful reminder of her past," her mother had said when Meg had requested to see Christine. "And I do not wish her any second thoughts for her decision. The Phantom is not one to be teased or trifled with."
"But surly he is dead?" Meg has asked with a curious frown. Her mother had shaken her head and answered briskly that Meg was not to inquire any farther.
Meg snapped back t the present when Margareite set the glass down with a slight clink. She eyed the girl curiously. How was it that a young girl, scarred and exceptionally smart, came under the care of the Phantom f the Opera? How was it that such a young girl had managed to gain his trust while others had not?
Giry snatched unnoticed glances at Margareite, wondering, worrying. Christine, the poor girl, was kidnapped by horrible men, from what she understood. She snorted quietly to herself. She had never been abused or mistreated by men, but she had a certain distain for them; Meg's father had knocked her up, then left her pregnant and wanting for money. The current ballet mistress of the Opera House during that time had taken her in and allowed her to instruct until after Meg's Birth. Soon after, the mistress had handed over her authority to Giry and moved to Australia for retirement. After that she had rarely known a man that was much better then a snobby upper-crust man, or lowly stage hands that were mainly perverted, however harmless.
She watched as her daughter stared unabashedly at Margareite. She knew her daughter well enough to understand the questioning in the young woman's eyes. How had Margareite come into Erik's possession? Giry was in no way prepared to explain any of it to her daughter; the Opera ghost had trusted her with the very private matter and she intended to keep it as such. Anyone not understanding the story between the young girl and the Phantom man would wonder how the child had gained his trust; in reality, however, it had been quite he opposite. He had had to gain the girl's trust. That in itself had endeared the child to him; for once, it was not the idea of the poor man wondering if he could accept them, knowing that they would not run at the sight o his deformation. It was the question of weather Margareite would accept him, despite her mental scars. She was happy for the Opera ghost; perhaps maybe, someone but herself could accept the phantom for the exquisite creation that he was.