A/N: Okay, this story's coming along quickly, so I hope it doesn't seem thrown together, cuz I'm loving it! Oh yeah, disclaimer... I own... NOBODY! See, easy as that. R/R and enjoy!

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Wishing You Were Somehow Near

Chapter Two: To Glance Behind...

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London, 1883

Below the bow window of the little apartment, Londoners clamored and chattered as they sought refuge from the drizzling rain. Behind the water-spattered glass, Christine gazed listlessly out at the monotonous scene from her oak desk. This wasn't the first time she'd been cooped up in this coat closet of sorts that Raoul proudly named "their new home." It had been nearly a month and a half since the boat bearing them from Paris docked in London. Raoul's fortune had come to such a value that it made them somewhat less than aristocrats. This combined with Raoul's refusal to work had landed them in the bourgeoisie- slightly less than upper class, slightly more than middle class.

Christine found she rather liked not having to show off extravagant jewels and clothes to the "cream of society". It lessened her overall stress not to keep up appearances as Raoul so indulged in. He regularly frequented society parties and dinners where he would come back from very intoxicated and in a foul mood. Christine refused to attend with him on grounds that she was not ready for society yet. That deliberate stutter worked wonders on his feeble brain. But he endlessly encouraged her to forget Paris and enjoy their new life together. She was safe from "the beast" and there was no way for him to interrupt their wedding. Sometimes she could picture herself cornering him, shouting at the top of her voice how much she didn't want a new life.

(What kind of life would I lead now you fool? I would welcome him at our wedding as the one who shouts, "I object!" I might as well be dead if I can't be with him!)

No matter how she longed to say this to him, she was certain that one of two things would follow after. One possibility was that, because Raoul's skull was far too thick to take her seriously, he would just pat her on the back and say "Poor dear." The other, and the one she was more certain of, was that he would react harshly as he often did.

With a sigh, she brushed her hand over the bruises on her shoulders, the products of a rather heated argument about the wedding. Not within a week of their arrival in London, a wedding announcement in the paper caught her eye.

De Chagny/Daae: March 14th.

It was their wedding announcement.

She had promptly flown into Raoul's study, waving the paper around and asking why he hadn't consulted her about it. He simply said that she showed no interest in planning it so he took it upon himself. She told him he was a vain, inconsiderate man, and warned him not to brush her off like that again. Even when he stood looking angered, she continued to shout at him, demanding that the wedding be postponed.

It was then that Raoul displayed his true colors in all their intensity. He grabbed her shoulders, the pads of his fingers like steel, and kissed her roughly. He began shouting that unless she wished to find herself on the streets, they were to be married at the decided time. Christine had begun to breathe heavily, bringing him out of his rage. He fell to his knees and begged her for forgiveness. He was so far from the sweet boy he'd once been that it appalled her. Yet, with no way to get back to Erik at the moment, she had become legally engaged to the Vitcomte de Chagny.

Letting free another sigh, she opened the drawer of her desk and withdrew a single white rose, the delicate waxen petals now golden, fragile and dry to the touch. Memories spun in her head and she laid her cheek on the desktop...

(((*)))

Raoul began to push the boat away from the shore when he noticed something glittering on her hand. His hand flashed out and snatched up her wrist.

"What is that?" he asked, spitting out each word.

She looked at her captured hand and saw the beautiful band with its smooth black stone. "The ring he gave me," she answered very matter-of-factly.

"Well give it BACK," he hissed, and Christine jumped in surprise. "You are not tied to him any longer and I won't have him thinking you are! Give it back!" Before she could answer him, he had shoved her out of the boat.

Christine hurried back to the house, completely taken aback with that sudden display of anger. She reached the drawing room as the final strains of the Masquerade Waltz sank into silence. Erik sat hunched and dejected, tenderly holding the gossamer veil as he sobbed. Her heart nearly broke and she placed her hand on his cheek. He gasped and looked up at her, the intense hope burning in his eyes. Her own overflowed with tears as she pressed her hand into his, depositing the precious ring. He did not look at it, only into her eyes.

"Christine...I love you," he sang in a tear-soaked voice, laying his hand over hers on his misshapen cheek. A sob hitched in her throat, and she bent to kiss his forehead, secretly dipping her hand to the floor.

"I love you," she whispered back. Oh, to remain with him now. Oh, that stupid boy! She rose to leave, her first sobs causing her shoulders to shiver. As she disappeared into the shadows, her fingers clutched the stem of the rose she had retrieved from her bridal bouquet...

(((*)))

She'd kept the rose a secret all this time, taking it out from time to time to remember her promise and keep fighting to keep it. She raised the bloom to her nose and inhaled deeply, catching hints of the sweet scent under the dead mustiness. A wave of sadness passed over her and she pressed her cheek against the window, the cool smooth glass reminding her of his mask.

"Erik..." she whispered, tears softening her voice. She had to think of a way out soon. But what?

"Christine?"

She spun around and cursed inwardly when she saw Raoul standing in the doorway a deep frown on his brow. Over the weeks, he'd become more of a pest than ever, but she was adept at concealing her dismay of his presence.

"Raoul!" she answered, pasting what she hoped was a convincing smile onto her face. The frown on his face, however, failed to diminish, and Christine's sixth sense began to buzz. Something was about to happen. A little uneasy, yet undaunted she continued. "Where have you been darling?"

"Christine, what is that?" he demanded coolly, gesturing to the faded flower.

Memories resurfaced in her head, remembering the first time he demanded this question of her. Not bothering to think of an excuse, she shot him a look of blank innocence and answered in the same matter-of-factly tone as she had before. "It's a rose."

"I can see it is a rose Christine. Answer my question; where did it come from?"

The innocent look on her face faded into a smug smile. "But dearest, that isn't what you asked me at all. One question at a time please."

"I see you mean to be stubborn, my sweet," He spoke these last two words with such cold, dripping sarcasm that it made Christine's stomach twist. "Where did you get that rose, and don't you dare lie to me."

She frowned darkly for an instant then smiled smugly again. "Oh, I've had it for quite some time. I think a little over a month. Hmm, let's see... Ah, I remember!" She flashed a saccharine-sweet smile at him, watching his bratty impatience darken his brow. "I took it with me when we left Paris. Oh, it seemed like it would be a lovely souvenir."

"Don't defy me Christine!" Raoul spat, advancing on her slowly. "He gave that to you. Am I correct?"

"No, sir, you are not," she answered, raising her voice ever so slightly. "I took it with me. I doubt Erik even knows I did."

"So I'm right!" he shouted triumphantly. "It did come from that...that THING! It passed from his hands to yours!" He stood over her and pressed his flushing face into hers. She could smell the sour champagne from his latest debauch on his breath. "Now I know what it's all about! All those times you've tried to leave, your blasted aloofness, and even now I heard you whisper his name! The demon still has some hold on you! You've let him control you again!" With that, he snatched the fragile rose from her fingers and crushed it in his clenched fist. Christine let free a small cry of dismay as the gold-brown fragments of the petals fluttered sadly to the floor. Her gemlike eyes grew hard with indignant fire. She stood up and stomped her foot.

"How DARE you! I never imagined you could be so unreasonable! Erik has no hold on me, and if I choose to remember him that is my affair and you can do nothing about it!"

"Don't you dare shout at me Madam!" Raoul bellowed, seizing her wrists violently, his fingers digging into her soft skin.

"Stop it! Let go of me!" she shouted, struggling to free her hands. Raoul's open palm came crashing into her cheek and she screamed in pain. She shoved him away and retreated to the far corner of her study, holding her throbbing cheek. Raoul, suddenly realizing he'd hit her, instantly sobered and ran to her side.

"Christine, I..." He got no further. Her hand flashed across his cheek, her long nails slashing the skin.

"GET AWAY!" she shrieked, the violent force of her voice thrusting him back. "Don't come near me! If you touch me again I'll KILL you!"

Raoul touched the furrows she had scored into his face and, recovering from his shock, became angry again. "How dare you strike me you little witch! I was trying to apologize!"

"Oh, of COURSE!" Christine screamed with bitter, sobbing sarcasm. "And then what? Within the next week you'll strike me again! Don't you DARE act as if this is the first time you have done this!"

"Be quiet Christine! The neighbors will hear you!" he hissed sharply.

"Don't tell me to be quiet! My whole life I've been quiet! For months I've longed to tell you exactly what I think of you! And now I shall! You are a selfish, pompous, conceited, chauvinistic FOOL Raoul de Chagny!" she yelled, her ivory skin glowing crimson with rage, contrasting sharply with Raoul's which had gone the color of a wet sheet.

"That's quite enough! I said be silent!" he shouted again, advancing on her threateningly.

"I will NOT! You will kindly cease interrupting me, because I'm going to tell you something that I'm sure you've wanted to know for months! Why did I leave with you? Ever wonder why I left Erik? Hmm? Well I'll tell you! Because I CARED about you because we were childhood friends! You think I left because I LOVED you? No Raoul, you selfish brat! I left because you threatened suicide if I stayed with Erik! And I CARED! What a silly fool I am!" she half laughed, half sobbed. In her rage, she hardly knew what she said at all, nor did she notice the angry fire burning in Raoul's eyes. "You DISGUST me, do you know that? Erik may have lost his temper, but he never, EVER hit me! He would never raise his hand to strike me! You see these?"

She thrust her arms from the sleeves of her gown, baring the fresh red bruises and the fading yellow ones that mottled her pure skin. "These are from your hands! These are the 'proof' of your LOVE for me! Erik would never do this to me! And do you know why? Because Erik is a better man than you'll EVER be! He loves me, which is far more than I can say for you!"

"SILENCE!" Raoul screamed, lashing out at her with a tight fist. It slammed into her left eye and sent her into the wall behind her. The back of her head smashed into the framed picture, shattering the glass. The last thing she heard was her moan of pain and Raoul calling her name before she fainted among the shattered glass and crushed petals on the floor.

--

Reluctantly, the stick grasp of insensibility loosened its hold on Christine. Groaning, she struggled to sit up. She opened her eyes with some difficulty as her left was already beginning to swell, and glanced about her. Raoul had laid her on her bed and left the gas half up, its dim yellow light casting strange shadows around the room. Rising from her bed, she tested her legs and stumbled to the lamp. She twisted the switch and threw a little more light on the objects around her. She crossed to the full-length mirror and stifled a scream when she beheld the strange apparition before her. Then, sinking into reality, she realized that the specter was she. Raising one hand to her face, she pressed her right cheek to see if she was dreaming or not. Needles of pain prickled her face and she choked back a sob.

For the first time, she saw how terribly altered she had become in the past month. Her face, which had always been fairly pale, was paper-white, the once supple cheeks waxy, sallow and sunken in. There were dark shadows under her eyes and her entire frame was nearly emaciated. Her right cheek burned under the red imprint of Raoul's hand, and skin around her left eye had already begun to darken to a deep purple one usually associates with flowers. She let her dressing gown fall to the floor and saw how rack thin she had become. Her arms and legs were skinny, transparent and mottled with painful, purpling bruises. She could even see the delicate blue veins pulse under her white skin. The whole spectacle of herself made tears prickle behind her green eyes. She sank to the floor and sobbed like a lost soul as the tears streamed in rivers down her bruised cheeks.

(Why did I ever leave him? How could I have ever thought that Raoul would understand? How could I let this happen just to play along with this stupid charade?)

She'd tried not to let it happen though. Three times she tried to escape from him. First, she'd taken Czarina, her mare, and rode off while Raoul was out. But the Fates felt frivolous that day and chose at that moment for Czarina to become thirsty. No sooner than she'd stopped that Raoul came rattling up to her in a brougham, quite unexpected. Thankfully, he seemed unsuspecting of her intentions and ushered her into the carriage, gently chiding her un-ladylike behavior. Not long after, she tried again, leaving Czarina behind this time. She had taken a carriage into town, changing cabs several times. Yet, somehow, Raoul managed to follow her again. When he caught up to her, she found that he was under the impression that she had gone shopping. He handed her a purse of pounds and reminded her to get fresh bread. When at last he had gone, Christine ducked into an alley and wept angrily. How would she ever get home to her blessed angel if that wretched boy kept getting in the way? With each day that passed, she could feel her hopes, and Erik's, growing fainter. But she would not admit defeat and she would not give up. She'd die first.

The third attempt at escape had hardly been the charm for her. She'd made it nearly to the docks on Czarina, but was intercepted by a group of ruffians with leering smiles and hungry eyes. Their loud, mocking shouts had frightened Czarina and she threw Christine off and ran, trampling one man as she went. The gang roughened her and knocked her about, and worse might have come if the bobby hadn't observed the scuffle. He sent the gang running with bruised skulls and bloody noses and took Christine to the police department. After being bandaged and inspected, it was determined of who she was and Raoul was summoned to claim her, as they put it.

"Claim her". That phrase burned into her mind as she realized it was not only the pompous boy who held her in that respect. As a fiancée, and indeed as a wife of society, she was looked upon as a possession, and it disgusted her.

When Raoul arrived, the officer told him where she had been found, and only then did Christine suspect his assumptions that she meant to leave him. For his strictness towards her increased. He gave explicit orders to the housekeeper not to let Christine leave the house without telling him. Feeling the sudden need to insult him, she snapped, "From one captor to another!" This earned her a rather brutal slap across her face and a fresh round of bruises on her arms.

Returning to the present, her body wracked with sobs, she looked down at her hands in her lap. The fingers, once soft and slender, were now unbelievably bony. Like Erik's.

No, not quite like Erik's. Erik's hands were indeed white and thin, and sometimes cold, but the soft pads of his fingertips and palms were always felt when he touched her hand or face. Her hands, however, had now become sharp and skeletal. How had she become so thin? Every night she dined richly with Raoul, skipping meals only when she was ill, which was often, or depressed, which was more often. This could hardly constitute to such extreme spareness. Puzzled, she turned her gaze to the mirror and found herself staring into her dull, lusterless eyes.

She saw then that she was like a flower in foreign soil. No matter how much sunlight, water or love you give it, it withers and inevitably dies. Erik always told her that life without her was not a life worth living. Until now, Christine had not seen that the concept applied physically to her and she was gradually wasting away. A new fear kindled in her. If she didn't return to Erik soon, she would die. Tonight would be the night, no more waiting. Never again would she submit to Raoul's hands.

A light rap at her door startled her from her brooding. She tread softly back to the bed and sank beneath the sheet.

"Yes?" she croaked, her throat feeling insufferably dry. The door opened and Raoul entered the room his head hung in shame. She had no sympathy for his shame, and scowled at him. "Is there something you want?" She asked calmly.

He looked up at her, his pride wounded. "Please Christine, don't be like that. I am truly sorry for my atrocious behavior. There is no excuse for the way I've treated you. Please, you must forgive me."

"Must I? I'd rather hear more poetry. Tell me another," She answered with dry humor. A look of darkness passed over his brow, but melted away as quickly as it had come.

"Please Christine. Think of our engagement, our marriage, and what your unforgiving attitude might, or might not, bring about."

Christine was so incredibly incensed that she could have leapt out of the bed and pummeled him within an inch of his life, just so he could watch stupidly as she left him. But her psyche told her to stay silent for a while, and she snuggled into the pillows, turning away from him. Raoul sighed.

"Very well Christine. We will speak tomorrow. Goodnight." With that, he left the room and she heard him enter the bathroom. As soon as the door scraped shut, she kicked the sheets aside and went to work. She slipped into a pair of soft slippers and, retrieving the small bottle of laudanum from her vanity, slipped silently through the corridors into the drawing room. Crossing to the large decanter of sherry, she pulled the small cork from the bottle of tranquilizer and emptied its contents into the snifter. It was a small bottle and no more than half full, so she didn't think it would do too much damage to him. At the moment, she cared not if it did. But whether he was harmed or not, she needed to be sure he was out so she could make preparations to leave.

The bathroom door squeaked open, announcing his approach. Without time to get back to her room, she draped her long, plum dressing gown about herself and slunk into the deep shadows between the wall and the bookcase. The firelight was low and the curtains were drawn; he would not see her form in the darkness.

Her betrothed entered the room and tied the sash of his robe about his waist. Collapsing into his plush chair before the fireplace, he let free an exasperated sigh. He reached for the decanter and poured a glass of the amber liquid, muttering softly. Christine shuddered inwardly as the flickering light from the hearth cast strange shadows all over the angry scowl on his face. The huge clock struck the midnight as he opened a large volume from the side table. Settling at last into the upholstered chair, he began to drain glass after glass of the drugged spirit. For nearly an hour and a half, she stood breathlessly, watching him empty the large crystal bottle. As two o'clock approached, she saw the effects of the drink take their toll on him. His eyelids began to droop closed as he tried to make out the words on the page. Christine grinned to think of how the letters must be swimming in the sea of parchment. Twice he yawned, his eyelids clearly very heavy. He raised the glass to his lips, his fingers barely gripping it. As the last drips of sherry passed through his lips, the glass lolled out of his hand and rolled under the table. His blonde head dropped back over the top of the chair.

Christine nearly clapped her hands in glee and restrained a laugh. The sight of him looking so limp frightened her only a little. His chest rose and fell and his gentle snoring told her he was quite all right. With a tiny spring in her step, Christine entered her bedroom for the last time and began to hum happily. Soon she would be free of this place and that wretched boy for good.

--

The deep, loud clanging of the clock startled Raoul out of his sleep. Rubbing his eyes, he stood shakily, feeling the onset of a terrible hangover. The fourth and final chime of the clock died away into the thick silence of the house. Raoul frowned. Why wasn't he in bed? Then he remembered; he'd fallen asleep in his chair after the sherry. He glanced at the large decanter and was surprised to find it nearly empty, with only shallow ring of amber liquid at the bottom. The fight with Christine must have upset him more than he thought. Never before had he consumed so much liquor. His awakening mind, still heavily muddled with sleep and wine, thought to go to Christine and ask forgiveness again. How could she not? She was to be his wife and she depended on him. His determination regained, he began to walk down the corridor leading to her room when his foot connected with something on the floor. It bounced and rolled down the hall and he stooped to pick it up.

It was a small bottle cork, too small to be from any wine bottle. He frowned and cautiously brought it to his nose. The odor of alcohol and opium assailed his nostrils. Laudanum.

He threw an amazed glance back at the crystal snifter. What... what if someone had drugged the wine in order to kill him, or simply knock him out? Christine! What if they were after Christine? He began to run down the hall, when he stopped, frowning. Whoever had drugged him knew well of his habits to take sherry before bed. Reluctantly, he pushed the possibility of Erik from his mind, which consequently caused him to reel with horror. Could it have been Christine? Resuming his run, he burst into her room.

The gas was half up as she had left it and the sight of the room alone confirmed his suspicions. The bed, neatly made, was empty. Her vanity had been cleared off, save the empty bottle of laudanum winking mockingly at him in the low light. Next to it was a folded piece of parchment with his name written on it in Christine's copperplate hand. Snatching it up, he opened it and stared stupidly at the one word written on it.

Goodbye.

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Sorry Erik isn't in it yet, but he will be in Chapter Three, I swear! Good so far? PLEASE REVIEW!