Il Muto
Christine had never minded playing the pageboy. It was bad enough to have Carlotta hating her. Christine had been to the chapel a few times, letting the spirit of the Angel fill her as she went to perfect her masterpiece. Each time she went, she wanted to go back again and again. That voice was like an addiction – a bad habit that she couldn't shake.
Yet, the face that he had shown her – that horrible face. She would never be able to forget that image, yet it didn't bother her now. As she thought of him more and more, the deformation disappeared, replaced with the handsome face that he should have been born with.
Poor, poor Erik. She had now gotten in the habit of calling him that. She was so much like her character, Brooke, and she had shaped Erik to be more like her Angel. From their long nights in the darkness of the chapel, she had been accustomed to calling Erik rather than Angel. Christine wondered now what his real name was. The real name of the Angel that she loved.
Someday, she would find out.
But, for now, she was stuck rehearsing, playing the silent role in Il Muto. She remembered talking with Raoul a few times in the past couple weeks. He had mentioned some things about a letter when he thought she wasn't listening. It seemed as though this letter was telling him to kick out Carlotta, or at least put her in the silent role.
It was too late for that – the show was that night. They could do nothing now, the costumes and make-up were on, and the guests were already arriving. Christine peeked up away from the stage – there was Raoul, sitting in Box 5. A chill ran up her spine.
She had the feeling something bad was going to happen in the First Act
He prayed that they had followed his instructions. It was about time that they finally saw how serious he was about his orders. Ever since the two new managers had come into the running, along wit h that despicable new patron who was trying to steal Christine away from him, his orders were being ignored. The patron had been sitting in his box – he should die first.
But, he couldn't do that. Better to send a warning than kill the man who gave him the money he lived on. The notes were now becoming useless. Buquet, the background master, would be the first to feel the wrath of the Phantom of the Opera.
Now, his plan was set, the prey wandering aimlessly among the rafters above the stage. He knew that the manager had not followed his demands.
The First Act had already begun, and he could hear Carlotta's voice – the voice that made his ears want to bleed. Thank God it wouldn't be singing for much longer. He snuck through the dark tunnels of his theater and entered the small door that led to the room that led to the balcony high in the theater above the audience and contained the chains for the chandelier.
He peered through the window to look down at the stage. There was his dear Christine, playing the pageboy, when she should have been playing the countess. Her genius deserved more. He went to walk away, but then something caught his eye.
The damned fool was sitting in his box. Again. They would have to pay this time – the war had started, and this was the first battle. He would be triumphant.
He slowly stepped out of the room and onto the high balcony, being blocked from the audience by the great crystal chandelier.
"Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?" he boomed, his voice flooding the room.
He looked down and saw Christine looking around, bewildered, but there was also that awe that he loved to see. "It's him." Yes, it was, Christine. He would have taken her there and then, but he had business to attend to.
"Your part is silent, little toad," he heard Carlotta snap at Christine. He smirked.
"A toad, madam?" he said softly. "Perhaps it is you who are the toad."
It had begun. Carlotta would sing no more – at least in this opera. Now it was Buquet's turn. He reentered the room and ran to fetch his lasso. When he closed the door, he could hear Carlotta's croaks. He smiled gently and made his way to the rafters above the stage. He grabbed his rope and quickly made a hangman's noose. Buquet was to be hung, just after he had suffocated him.
He reached the rafters and made his way all around them, catching Buquet's attention. He watched as Buquet starting peering around, trying to search for him. While he wasn't looking, the Phantom stealthily made his way up behind him, not making a sound on the ropes and wood that he had spent so many years navigating.
Buquet turned, and the Phantom cast an evil smile at him. He uttered a moan and ran away from him, trying to climb up the ropes to escape him. But no one could beat the Phantom of the Opera in his own domain. He was as quick as a cat on the ropes, climbing them with grace, and made his way to the next bridge over. The ballet music in the background added to his calm, but as it grew more energetic, so did he.
He looked to his left and saw that Buquet was there and had spotted him. He stopped. He couldn't be fooled. Buquet faked left, so did he. Finally, Buquet took off to the left after faking right. He thought he knew this maze of ropes and wood better than he did, did he? He saw what to do.
The Phantom took off straight up, climbing the rope directly in front of him and came up on the bridge that Buquet was now trying to cross. Fool. He shook the bridge, and Buquet fell right near a crossing. The Phantom pulled out the noose and grabbed Buquet.
All of his anger flooded out as he pulled the noose tighter and tighter. All his anger that those fools had not followed his instructions, the anger at the patron who was taking Christine away, the anger about the life that he had to live – a life in the shadows. All that he did now was for Christine, and always would be. He had nourished her, worshiped her, and lived for her. She would understand.
After his burst, the damage was done, and the audience was to see the price they were to pay if he was ignored any longer. He tied off the rope onto one of the railings, and shoved Buquet over to hang on the stage. The screams that reached his ears were nearly melodic. He watched as down below, there was mass chaos. People running and screaming backstage.
The battle had been won.
