A little note to clear up any confusion: If the font is italic, it is not of the waking world.

Adelson's Carictures

A patter of petite feet raced backstage, as heavy curtains betrayed no sign of the movement behind it. With bright eyes, forms of sea foam and fire competed to overtake upstage from the singers, even as the singers raised their voices over the deafeningly silent footsteps. No dancer missed a noticeable step, as they switched from a balance to the fifth position. Then, with a right foot front, demi-plie takes hold, with the foot gliding into second position. Then, a graceful leap, and birds in the air would soar along, landing, and putting up a sur le cou-de-pied front. Just as swiftly as the ruffled elements took the stage, they would flee, leaving it for the sopranos and altos to claim once more.Applause, loud echoing applause, would resonate from the high gilded ceiling. Laughter and chatting would flit about the palace, a caged nightingale beating its wings against glass. A resonance then, stealing the breath from the place. Lime lights would dim, their operators gone from their posts, to drink and sleep, and do little else. Silence would lend itself to the Garnier Opera House, and shadows now were the only things that would flit so briefly across the stage. Joie de vivre, the happy life. Ah-, an illusion it all is.But as the curtain falls, the gaudy people, the fake laughter, it went down with the heavy cloth. The masks fell, all so happy to dance, and sing, and skip together, now hated, despised, mocked each other. Amidst this world, this kingdom of falsehood, and deception, lay a girl. A girl as nondescript as the silhouettes that haunted the Opera house."Christine!" Shrilled an angry woman, with her face red, from the effort of not combusting. The girl, who was the subject of such an upset voice, flinched, turning to look at the woman."Madame Fleurel?" It was said as politely as possible, under the circumstances."If you can not keep up with our girls, if you insist of falling behind every half step, you will be out of here faster then you can drown a mouse! Get your head out of the clouds!"Wincing at such words, Christine nodded mutely, and returned to her tiny dressing room. Four grey walls and a tiny mirror were all the young girl could call home. It was better then the dorms she had to sleep in as a child, yet it was nothing so beautiful as the Prima Donnas, or the beautiful houses that lined the Parisian streets.Sighing without passion, the girl stripped herself of her stockings, and other dancing items. She was very much alone in the Opera house. It was filled with many orphans such as herself, but 'they are more sociable, and much more pretty?' Resignation on her shoulders like an iron lined jacket; Christine washed her face with cold water from the basin, and when that was done, knelt by her bed. She prayed to her father every night, taking from it, a kind of peace. With that done, she slid beneath the thin covers, and shivered, before she let the world fade away, and the hush envelop her. No one was awake this time of night, and it was only the scurry of rats, real and imagined, that woke a person.At first, she felt as if she had dreamt a truly dreamless sleep, until she realized that nothing had changed. Even the night around her was empty. No moon hung in the shallow sky. Pushing back weightless covers, the girl Christine examined her world. A sad smile touched her face, as she realized where she was. Every night, was the same as this. No one was in her world. It was the Opera Populaire, down to the very last scuff on the walls, and no one moved inside it, but her. She was free to do what she wished in this world. Free to sing, and dance out of step, and run the halls, and throw things out the window to watch them shatter. At first, Christine had done this, and rejoiced in her freedom, but all too soon, the empty feeling returned. 'I am utterly alone in this world. Completely and utterly alone.' Even then, when her world of dreams stopped becoming entertaining, she returned. Christine could not lie abed during this time though, despite her wishes. The girl was compelled to wander every hall.
"I haven't been below? I will do that tonight." She decided, brushing her curling golden strands of hair behind her ears. Every night, her hair changed with her, as well. She was fond of it when it was black, but tonight, it had chosen to be blonde, and so she let it be. Crossing the stage gracefully, for she never need fear being ungraceful in her dream world; she came to the trap doors, and the stairs that led from them to the cellars. Most times it too was flooded, but tonight, it too had chosen to be different. Descending the stairs hastily, she walked past self-sustaining furnaces, gaping like monsters in the pitch, to props.
"Le roi de le-?" Christine muttered, naming the pieces stacked against the wall. Sighing, finding nothing of excitement beyond the props, she returned up the stairs, deciding to instead, visit the roof again. It was becoming a favourite haunt for her, on the nights when she was not impassioned to do anything but wander. Humming tunelessly, she surmounted the colossal way to the top of the Opera house, and pushed open the door. Apollo rose with his lyre, but unlike on the real Opera house, there was also Artemis, Persephone, Eros, and Psyche. They were not at all faded, but cried out wordlessly, as stars in the nights.
"No stories for me tonight?" She asked the night-time, alas, the wind held none of its own dreams; Christine could only wait for the first rays of the sun to peak over the Opera house, heralding the dawning of her own day in the real world. Regrettably, "That is hours from now..." she told herself resignedly.

A resounding crash broke the forlorn stillness that had settled over the wide cellar. The black water pulsated with another clatter, rippling like molasses and slowing only as the last of the sound dispersed. "It was here! This was it!" A voice hissed, the violent sound of crinkling mixing with the words. Furiously, Erik kicked aside the music stand to his left, turning his back swiftly as it clanged to the ground, hitting the wall with a crack. "But it isn't here now! Like yesterday, yesterday I had written it again." The viciousness in the man's voice drained in a breath, and he turned his back to the black tapestries, to the expansive organ that spanned the entire wall. Gazing at the disarranged sheet music, the anger that had once flashed in his eyes, sparked again, and he rushed forward in a rage. With a mighty wipe of his arm, the papers scattered, curving willowy through the air until they rested on the floor. A vicious growl emitted from his throat, as he turned away from the mess, crouching on the floor as his pressed the fingers of his hands to his corresponding temples. Minutes drifted past meaninglessly, as he waited for his anger to pass, with no care of stifling it. When his pulse had calmed his right hand drop and reached to take up a paper, eyes fixed on the ground. Only, when he felt nothing, Erik stood and turned to look toward the organ. The papers appeared as they had before, lying strewn and unorganised on the consol, selected pieces lying unsteadily on the Swell manual. In a listless gait, the man stepped to the organ and sat at the bench, gazing vacantly ahead. He began to mutter, as he lifted his hands to idly brush the Great's keys. "Again, that is all. I will write it again." Erik murmured melodiously, leaning forward subtly as his fingers pressed strategically on specified keys. He closed his eyes expectantly, to hear diapason chorus, only he startled when there was nothing. Jumping to his feet, Erik felt the bench fall behind him. He paused, and still nothing. Turning, he glared down at the bench, which lay silently at his feet. Drawing back, Erik lifted his foot to push the bench, and though it slid, Erik was deft to the sound. His lips moved, and in his mouth he felt the words pronounced, though he could not hear. Panic began to rise in him, and it was with his panic, he felt from the room. Erik began to run, only faster, when the sounds of his footsteps were silent. Coming to a stop before a set of large doors, he paused again, poised and listening. Nothing! Perhaps it was the house! Nearly frantic, he hurried to the front door, throwing it open to met complete darkness. Erik paused for a moment, looking back to the foyer of his home, pressing a hand to his mask to assure its presence before fleeing to the shore of the lake. The rocks under his feet shifted, but remained silent. By this time, his nerves had calmed, though now within it laid a sense of dread. Was he deaf, and so sudden? Leaping into the gondola, Erik untied it and withdrew to begin poling it through the black water. He paused, listening, able to make out the faint sound of the lapping water. And it seemed, the closer he got to the other side of the lake, the more he would hear. As Erik tied off the gondola and stepped onto solid ground, he was anxious to hear again, and as he neared a staircase, he pause, straightening up as he made to decipher the time- it was evening. With a rapid turn, he began to make his ascend back to the surface.
Carefully, Erik stepped up the small set of stairs, pausing for a moment, before gently pressing his hand to the wood ceiling above him, and lifting it up. The trapdoor opened, with a faint thud, and Erik leapt up from the darkness. He closed the square door with his foot, casting a glance around the shadowed surroundings warily. When he was sure he was alone, the masked man took off again, at a gait he expected was as quiet as the lightest mouse. The irritation he felt at having to leave his work, and come to the surface when his influence was not need, had faded in his curiosity. He felt as if his mind was leading his somewhere, and if not, Erik ceased to care as long as the world was audible again. More staircases, more hallways, higher and higher, Erik moved with such ease, confidence in every step. Though, he met with confusion, as he exited a hidden door to the room, and was taken back by the light of the stars. Erik drew away for a moment, at a lost as to why the sky looked as such. On the few nights he had ventured out, the night was always as black as the cellars of his Opera house and so it was with cautious steps, he moved into the idealistic night. Erik paused suddenly, when the sound of footsteps that were not his own came to his attention. Striding forward, he moved to lean against the stone statue of Eros, and only when he realized this, did he frown, with no knowledge of its existence prior. The stone crumpled suddenly, and began to dissolve against him, and for a moment he thought it would collapse, but it had thankfully stilled another second later.

Christine pulled her knees closer to her chest, as a chill wind picked up. "Odd...it's never been cold before..." She wondered aloud .Not even the barest flame of gold stoked in the kiln of the evening. More often, during her night time visits to the empty Opera house, Christine would sing, positive she was unheard. For the most part, only the mocking echoes would repeat her misshapen chords. So, bolstered by such evidence of desolations, the young girl began to sing.
"A wash of memories,
Black and white,
Shaded and framed,
Fading out of sight,
I grasp, I hold,
Trying to keep them still,
To keep them forever,
And watch them from my sill..." Silent tears fell down Christine's face, as she felt the bitter stab of loss once more.
'Damn! I can not escape my father, even in my dreams!' She cursed. Taking a shaky breath she continued.
"But the dream is running,
Colours in the drain,
Time won't stop moving,
Walls are forcing us with strain,
This pulling apart,
Is all we've managed to create,
Until the time to meet again... " Disgust and anger riddled the innocent girl's voice. Hating her own singing, and the fact that she could not escape the remembrance of her father, Christine struggled to stand. Sulkily, she scrubbed her face clean of the wet trails, and bit her tongue harshly. "Shut up! You aren't doing anyone any good with your moping. No matter that it is just a dream, you've been doing this awake too!" Scolding herself, Christine kicked a pebble across the roof, casting another anxious glance at the sky. No matter how much she wished it, time passed normally in the realm she occupied with sleep.
A sound similar to the shifting of gravel, alerted the girl to the presence of another. Mortified, Christine cast about the empty roof, and saw nothing but shadows.
"Hello?" She called into the inky darkness. Receiving no answer, she warily picked her way along the building, and was vaguely disappointed to find no one. Condemning her imagination, she once more looked at the sky, and with relief found that it was lighter then previously. Within minutes, it was a lavender shade. Retreating from the roof, and waving goodbye idly to the statues adorned in gold, Christine rushed to the bed she had woken up in, and pulled the blankets to her chin. As in real life, it took a while for her to sink to sleep, but the moment she did, a peaceful idleness overcame her being.
Eyes fluttering open, Christine stretched. Her lack of real dreams never interfered with her body resting, though she was habitually far away from anything considered normal for a young woman. Her mind seemed to still flutter in the far reaches of the imagined and empty Opera house, instead of the large, bustling, cruel one that she was faced with."Christine Daae! If I catch you inactive once more time I swear to God, you will feel my lashes!" Falling back in step, the petite, pale ballerina forced the question out of her mind. It re-entered though, during her lunch of cold porridge and bread.
'What was on the roof with me?' However, her ponderings were interrupted by the giggles of the younger girls. Pretending she did not care what they said, she let them talk in front of her, while she ate her meal.
"Ohhh! Tell us about the ghost!" One of the younger ones, a sallow looking Megahn Giry pleaded, her sloe coloured eyes wide.
Drawing in the attention, Jammes, a older girl, younger then Christine by a year, swelled with pride.
"They say he built this place with his own hands, and that he would terrify everyone who worked here. Joseph Buquet said he was ugly as a skull, but no one can prove it, unless they go down to the dungeons and find him."
'I'm getting too old for these stories.' Christine thought dispassionately. Bussing her tray to the kitchen help, the girl took full advantage of the two hours reprieve, by wandering Paris, and then returned to dance again. Dinner followed the same routine, and since no performances were scheduled that month, it would be solid rehearsals. It was with an odd reluctance; she said her prayers and slipped into bed once more. Effortlessly, the transition began, and within seconds, she was pushing back her blanket to lay her feet on the warm stone floor.
Fingering straight brown hair absentmindedly, Christine called about the Opera, questing for the presence she half convinced herself that existed. When she received no reply, she climbed once again to the roof, rejoining the night sky in her vigil to wait out the dawn.

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Some enlightenment, updates will be done when we feel we have written enough for a chapter! Good day.