"Where are you going?" François asked Christine as she sat on the organ bench, reading a book.
"To the cemetery," she replied. "I'm going to see my father." She paused and raised her eyebrows. "Why are you here? Did I invite you?"
François glanced up from his book, amused. "Yes, Christine. You invited me," he said. "Don't you remember?"
She shook her head. "No. I must have forgotten. Never mind. Well, I'm leaving. Are you staying here or are you leaving?"
"I suppose I'll stay. Do you mind?"
"No, just don't steal things. Not that I think you will," she added quickly when she saw his facial expression. "I'll be back shortly. Help yourself to some food if you get hungry."
"Thank you, oh gracious Christine," he said sarcastically. Then he resumed his reading.
She smiled the tiniest bit, as she was getting more used to his odd sense of humor with each passing day that they were friends.
She stepped on the gondola, a bouquet of black-ribboned red roses in her hand. Then she grabbed the paddle and rowed away, thankful that she'd taken a good amount of morphine to make her not go hysterical when she saw her father's grave.
When she reached the above world, it took a good twenty minutes to walk to the cemetery. She was halfway tired by the time she reached Erik's grave.
She soon arrived there and sat down at the steps, letting out a long sigh. "Hello, Father," she murmured as she sat, as if Erik would actually respond. "How has everything been in that coffin? Is it uncomfortable?"
When there wasn't a reply, she said, "Oh, that's all right. I'm sure you're fine. You must be happier in Heaven than you were here - if there is such a place as Heaven." She paused. "I've made a new friend. His name is François Jannes. He's a scene-shifter at the Opera. He's not a drunk or a lecher, like the others, though, so don't worry. He's a good man."
She sat in silence for a few more moments, until she heard a creaking sound behind her. Gasping, she whirled around, still sitting, and saw that there was an old man in a wheelchair, a chaffeur, and a nun standing there.
While the chauffeur and nun gaped at her mask, the old man gazed at her steadily without any sign of shock or fear. Then he glanced up to the inscription on the top of Erik's grave.
After staring at it for a moment, he looked back down at where she was still sitting. "You are his daughter, then," he said to her.
She slowly rose and walked a little closer to him, as she recognized him from four years ago, when the Opera had been rejuvenated.
"Raoul," she said quietly. "Yes, I am Erik's daughter."
He nodded and feebly motioned to the grave. "So, he died, did he?" he asked.
Tears coming to her eyes, she nodded. "Yes," she said softly. "About a month ago. He was shot and murdered."
Raoul nodded slightly. "Well," he said, "the world is a better place without him. Good riddance, I say."
At that, her sadness immediately turned into anger. She walked even closer to him, her eyes narrowing into slits.
"Do you know whom you speak to, Raoul?" she asked angrily. "You speak to his daughter! It would be wise not to say such things in her presence, especially since she is already a murderer!"
Raoul made a foolish facial expression. "You know, you should be nice to me. I am your mother's husband. That makes me your stepfather."
She laughed cruelly. "I should be nice to you?" she asked harshly. She walked right in front of him and squatted down slightly.
"You know," she said softly, "you're very lucky, very lucky indeed, that my father did not kill you all those years ago." She wrapped her slender fingers around his neck, and he started to gasp for breath.
"However," she continued, "I could change that and make it happen right here, right now! Is that what you wish?" She tightened her grip on his neck.
He started to choke. "No; no, please," he gasped. "Let me go, please! I'll never say such things about your father again! Please, just - let me go! I shall leave right now! Please, Erik's daughter!"
"My name is Christine," she growled, letting go of his neck.
He rubbed his neck. "Christine?" he asked awkwardly. "Well, then, er - Christine, I shall leave. Goodbye."
With that, Raoul made a gesture towards his chauffeur, who turned his wheelchair around and walked away.
Fuming, she walked off in the opposite direction, back towards the Opera to take another morphine injection in order to calm herself down.
I came face-to-face with Raoul today. It was strange, and it also angered me. He insulted Father! How foolish! I'd have liked to kill him! I wish I had.
I can see now why Father wished him dead. He is a person that I do not like! I hate him! Oh, do I hate him!
I'm very glad that I have morphine to relax me and help me forget what had happened - for a little while, at least. How wonderful morphine is. I'm glad my father had it.