A/N: Due to the content of this chapter, I expect to be murdered multiple times due to the fact that multiple reviewers will want to murder me. But as you all prepare your Punjab lassoes in anticipation, I want you to know that I'm already dead. It killed me to write this chapter.
Christine and Erik sat in the lair one day shortly after her fourteenth birthday, writing music and reading.
Christine sat and read La Prisonniere, the fifth volume of A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu, her favorite series of books. The story was intruiging, and she loved reading it over and over. This was the third time that she'd read it.
Erik sat at the organ, scribbling some new music on a piece of parchment. Every so often, he played on the organ and hummed the music to himself.
"Would you like to try singing this later?" he asked her, turning to her.
She glanced up from La Prisonniere briefly. "Maybe," she replied, shrugging, and then she looked away from him and continued reading.He nodded and continued to write.
They both sat in silence for several more moments, but then he glanced up suddenly and looked around, his eyes narrowing.
"Christine, do you hear what I hear?" he asked his daughter, turning back to her.
She again stopped reading La Prisonniere for a moment and listened intently, trying to see if the silence she heard was truly nonexistent.
Evidently, it was, for after a moment, she replied, "I do hear something, yes. What is it?"
"I don't know. Let's listen for a bit longer."
They sat and listened quietly for a moment longer. Then, suddenly, she realized what the sound was - music. It became louder and more understandable with each passing moment.
Track down this murderer -
He must be found!
Track down this murderer -
He must be found!
He heard it, too, and he muttered rather anxiously, "Oh, damn it... it's a mob. They're coming after us - after me!"
Then he glanced over at her. "Christine, close your book and come here to me," he commanded. "Now!"
She obediently closed her book. Still grasping it, he hurried to his side. "What is it, Father?" she asked. "Why is a mob after you?"
"They're apparently put up with the murders and extortion," he replied with a rather heavy sigh. "Now they want to get me."
He was then quiet for a moment, listening to the sounds of the angry mob growing nearer before he finally looked down at her and said, "Christine, I want you to find a safe place to hide right now. I'll handle this."
She didn't move. She felt too anxious about what could happen from a mob coming after her father and herself.
"Christine Elizabeth!" he exclaimed as he rushed over to where his cloak was hanging and grabbed his Punjab lasso from an unseen place inside it. "By God, do what I say and hide - now! It's for your own good!"
Afraid of being punished for disobedience but even more afraid of getting hurt, she quickly walked away from him, searching for a hiding place. She finally found a small place underneath the swan bed in her bedroom that she could just barely fit into and crawled inside, still holding on to La Prisonniere. She listened for something.
She heard someone who was a part of the arriving mob start to shout.
"Look! There he is! Get him!"
Then she heard her father's savage shouts in reply - "Go away! Leave me! Go away, or by God, I'll kill you all!"
She heard screams of terrified mob members and the sound of people sloshing through the water, heading back to the safety of the above world. Because of this, she almost laughed out loud. Nobody would defeat The Phantom of the Opera! She continued to listen to what was going on, intrigued by the action.
She heard the sound of two men struggling and guessed that her father was fighting the one person who dared to challenge him. Would that person regret it!
Then she suddenly heard the boom of a gunshot and the thud of a body hitting the floor. The sounds made a chill race up her spine, but she continued to hide, not yet knowing if it was safe to come out.
When she heard a truimphant chuckle and the sound of a person sloshing through the lake water and heading back above, she crawled out from her hiding place slowly, not wanting to make any sudden movements in case someone who would bring her harm was still around.
She slowly straightened herself and looked around, not seeing her father standing nearby.
"Father?" she called out rather anxiously, seriously hoping that no one dangerous was around to hear her.
She heard a soft groan in reply. "Christine..."
It was her father's voice, she knew, so she stepped out of her room and walked out to the main part of the lair, where her father's call had come from. She then froze, for there, lying on the floor right in front of her, was Erik, his eyes closed, his breathing heavy, and his chest bleeding. He'd been shot.
"No!"she gasped, eyes wide with horror as she crouched down beside him on the floor. "No... Father..."
He opened his eyes and looked at up her, smiling somewhat weakly. "Oh, Christine, ma cherie," he breathed with relief, "you're safe."
She nodded fervently. "I'm all right, Father. And you... you'll be okay! I'll - I'll help you!" She looked around wildly. "Where are the bandages?"
"Christine, it's... no use..."
"Don't say that!" she exclaimed. "Father, you'll be all right! Don't worry! I can fix it! I'll help you get better, I promise!"
He let out a bitter laugh, then winced at the pain in his chest. "You may be intelligent, ma cherie, but you're... not a doctor... unfortunately." He paused, reaching out, and taking her hand in his. "It's all right, angel. I've had my time here... with you... my daughter."
Tears filled her eyes as the resignation his words showed. "Father, please," she whispered. "Don't leave me. I need you to stay here with me; I'm not old enough to take care of myself yet."
He managed another smile and kissed her hand. "You'll be fine without me," he said quietly. "You're 14 now. I trust... your competence. You're a strong person... like me."
"I'm not strong enough," she whispered, closing her eyes and trying to shut out the pain she felt for a brief moment. "I can't do it. I... I won't!"
"This is no time to be stubborn, dear." He looked into her eyes deeply, one pair of grey-green meeting another. "Just... promise me something."
"What? Anything, Father - anything for you!"
"Promise me... you'll... end up better than I did. Get... married. Have children. Be... the person I was never able to be. Please promise me that." He gazed at her, waiting for an answer.
She nodded, choking on tears. "I promise, Father," she whispered.
"Good," he sighed with relief, smiling a little. He paused for a moment. "Goodbye, Christine. I love you, ma fille."
Then he closed his eyes and let out a long sigh, his last breath. He was gone.
For a moment, she simply sat there, looking down at him and thinking that he was simply resting for a brief moment, but then his hand went limp in hers, causing her to briefly lose her breath in horror.
"Father?" she whispered, letting go of his hand and placing both hands on his shoulder. She shook him gently. "Father, wake up! Please wake up! No... don't leave me...!"
She then began to cry, resting her head on his bleeding chest. "Father... no..."
She sobbed for another few minutes, cursing God for taking away the only one on Earth who cared for her.
After what seemed like an eternity to her, she finally straightened herself as she let out a deep, shuddering breath and a whimper, wiping her eyes as she looked around the empty lair for a moment. Then something caught her eye.
There was a gendarme, holding onto a gun in one hand as he wandered around the lair, taking no notice of Erik and Christine on the floor. He snooped around, every so often taking little trinkets that had sentimental value to both father and daughter and sticking them in his cloak pocket.
Judging by the fact that he was holding a gun and he was just wandering around her home without acting threatened, she could tell that this man was the one who had murdered her father.
So, he was a thief as well as a murderer, was he? He simply thought that he could kill someone and steal whatever he liked from them? How dare he!
Anger burned inside her like fire, telling her that her temper had suddenly flared. She grabbed the punjab from out of her dead father's hand and rose, walking over to him from behind.
When she was right behind him, she put the punjab lasso around his neck and tightened it. The man stuggled, but her anger was giving her an adrenaline rush and therefore making her stronger than he.
Having seen her father do it so many times to other, she shoved him down and rather expertly pinned him on the floor with her foot, pulling on the punjab. She heard the man gasp for breath as he continued to struggle, but she could tell that he was getting weaker with each passing moment. She heard his neck snap, and then he went limp.
He was dead. She'd just committed her first murder.
Without feeling any guilt or remorse for what she'd done, she loosened the punjab from around her victim's neck and wrapped it around her arm. Then she pulled the items he'd been attempting to steal out from his cloak pocket and placed them on the nearby piano bench. She looked down at him and knew that, had she not been griefsticken for the loss of her father, she would have laughed hysterically.
She heard a shocked gasp behind her and whirled around. There stood a man, his hand on his mouth, his eyes wide in shock and horror.
She let out a little gasp herself, and then the two stared at each other for the longest time. There was utter silence.
After a moment, she finally motioned to the unfortunate man who was her first murder victim.
"Unless you'd like to share the same fate," she hissed at the man standing before her, "you'd better get out, quickly, and take care that you never come back, monsieur - now."
His eyes still wide with shock, the man backed away slowly, then turned and ran back to the above world.
She looked after him menacingly for a moment, then dragged her victim outside, to the stables, and stuck him on top of the hay. Soon enough, she knew, he would be found by some of his fellow gendarmes and would be given a grand funeral that he didn't deserve.
Then she walked back to the lair and over to the spot where her deceased father still lay. She knelt beside him, tears in her eyes.
"Oh, Father," she whispered, "I am so sorry that this happened. I'm so sorry."
She reached her hand over to his head and slowly stroked his hair, which was still as midnight black as hers.
I have to build him a grave, she thought to herself with equal depair and sadness. A beautiful grave where he can rest with all of his valuables forever. But where do I start? I've never built before...
This sudden stress quickly became too overwhelming for her. She began to sob, feeling distraught and completely helpless.
She sobbed for a bit longer, and then she wiped her eyes and looked around. She needed something to relieve her stress - quickly, or else she wouldn't even be able to survive the night.
Wiping her eyes, she rose and halfway picked her father's body off of the ground, as she was surprisingly strong for her age, dragging it out of the main part of the lair and placing it on the swan bed in her bedroom. She decided that he could stay there until she had a coffin and a grave for him to rest in. Then she walked out into the main part of the lair and sat on the organ bench, not really sure what to do with herself. Something on the organ then caught her eye.
There, resting on top of the organ, was a box full of needles, as well as a syringe. There was also a box of small containers that contained a clear liquid inside of them.
Letting out a surprising cry of delight, she stood up and looked down at them, her eyes burning with desire to use the items now at her disposal. To her, the items meant one thing - stress reliever. But, as she picked up the syringe, a needle, and a liquid container, then put the needle on the syringe and put a small amount of the liquid in the syringe, then stuck the needle in a vein in her arm, letting out a sigh of pleasure as she injected the liquid in her body, she knew what it really was.
Her father's morphine...