A/N: A double update! Wow, we really ARE back to the old days. No, actually I just happened to have time to sit on my behind for hours today and write two chapters (thanks so much, by the way, to those of you who commented on me being sick— I feel much better today!) in one sitting. Kudos to the chapter title goes to my secret identical twin, Noelle (you know who you are!); I couldn't think up anything that juicy. Perhaps she will name all of my chappies after this... lol!
Ah, yes, and be forewarned that the rating goes up in this chapter for violence. –cringes- I'm not going to bother upping the rating of the entire 'phic, so just know that this one is a little iffy.
Disclaimer: See the past bagillion disclaimers. –rolls eyes- Honestly!
The tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickled, a trail of goose bumps winding down my limbs like wildfire. I could feel someone's eyes following me closely, and my blood began to sear in fury.
A growl worked its way up from the depths of my being as I leapt neatly up onto a rafter above me, melding into the shadows of the overhanging scenery. I waited patiently, my face cast in an emotionless expression, for my stalker to stride out onto the rafter below.
Unsurprisingly, it was Joseph Buquet's scarred, balding head that peered out underneath me, turning quickly from left to right. His bloodshot eyes flitted feverishly across the abandoned rafters before he dared to take a step out onto one. With a twirl of my cloak, I turned to leave, uninterested in his petty obsession with finding me. Unfortunately, he either saw or heard me, and followed up in quick pursuit as I wound easily through the hanging ropes, my gloved hands easing my passage through the tangled scenery while Buquet tripped and stumbled, rubbing his palms raw on the thick hemp. One could speak multitudes on the man's persistence, if nothing else; he grunted his way through the trickiest line of ropes, his eyes still burning into the back of my head.
Beneath us, ballerinas in an array of pastel tutus leapt about gracefully to the gentle fluttering of flutes and harps, a stark contrast to the battle for blood that raged above them. For indeed, I had discovered Buquet's laughable intentions; he grasped a glinting dagger in one hand, ready to drive it through my brain, assuming he could catch me, let alone hold his own against my larger, stronger self. The tankard at his belt was stained with whiskey, and he swayed slightly; for a moment, I wondered if perhaps I would have no need to kill him— indeed, he might eventually lose his death grasp on the ropes and topple down onto the stage without any assistance from me. This idea appealed much more to me than reinstating the title of murder upon myself; I had hoped to leave that life behind me, but I did not mind pulling out the infamous Punjab if it meant ridding myself of this single-minded lunatic once and for all. He already knew too much as it was.
However, I still hoped for the first option, and began to lead the drunken fool on a mad dash through the overhanging scenery. I slipped deftly through even the most difficult of obstacles, darting easily across the narrow catwalks while Buquet fumbled for his balance. I made sure that he only saw brief glimpses of me to keep the chase interesting and to assure that he did not have a target at which he could hurl his dagger. Then, suddenly, I disappeared into a shadowed corner, holding perfectly still as Buquet walked right past me. His red-rimmed eyes went wide as he realized that we had now switched roles; he was now the hunted, soon to be the victim. Perhaps, in those last few moments, he remembered his own ghastly stories about the legendary Phantom of the Opera, with taut yellow skin, a gaping black hole that served as a nose, and gleaming eyes the color of fire. Stories of the notorious magical lasso, warnings to keep his hand at the level of his eyes…
He ran for his life.
I followed close behind, hidden in shadow, remaining perfectly calm and composed as he faltered, panted, sweated, and grasped for the ropes that didn't exist. His footsteps fell heavily on the wooden planks, and his wild eyes rolled in terror as he reached the thickest mesh of ropes. This time, he lacked the motive or coordination to make his way through. Paralyzed with fear, he turned on his heel.
I was directly behind him, waiting.
His eyes moved slowly up to meet mine, and upon falling on my mask, he screamed hoarsely, wheeling back around. He made it four or five steps before falling face-first into the tangle of ropes. He struggled uselessly, only succeeding in twining his flailing limbs further in the rigging.
In one short, swift movement, I wrenched the dagger from his hand and pulled the Punjab from my belt. The noose was around his neck before he could utter a strangled cry for help. I held his torso down with my foot as I heaved back on the rope with all of my might. Buquet's eyes bulged, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, as his face turned a satisfying shade of crimson, then blue. He gagged and sputtered, his eyes rolling back in his head, and I knew his end was near. As he began to shudder violently, a smile cut its way across my face. I was intoxicated with adrenaline, drunk on power, basking in the pain of the one who had tormented small children with horror stories about the hideous, cold, heartless Opera Ghost...
I fastened the rope to the rafter and kicked Buquet off the edge of the catwalk, watching with a possessed smirk as he dangled over the shrieking ballerinas, the rope quivering as he made one last desperate struggle for life before going limp. The audience members screamed and sobbed and gasped in horror as I sliced the rope with Buquet's dagger, allowing his lifeless corpse to drop heavily onto the stage. For a moment, I merely stood there, staring coldly down at my victim's body. I felt nothing; I was numb to pain or remorse or even triumph. It merely was; Joseph Buquet was merely dead.
So, with a brief twirl of my cloak, I walked quickly away from the scene with a distinct air of nonchalance, intent only on escaping from the rafters before the police arrived to investigate.
Little did I know that in a few minutes time, I would long for that sense of blind apathy more than anything in the world.
A/N: Responses to reviews at the end of the next chappie; don't worry, I didn't forget!