All that Matters

Ok, a wrote this quickly, hope you enjoy!

Chapter 3

I left the hospital the same day as they 'surgery'. I had been given some ointment to put on my wounds and told to change the dressing every four hours. As I slowly walked down the step of the hospital, the shock and realisation of the extent of my injuries still hadn't set in. Although I was in a lot of pain, I still didn't seem to realise that I scared children as they walked past me. I would look up when I heard a child laugh, silently wishing for my own, only to see them look at me and hide behind their parents, or cry, or sometimes stare. Parents would usher them away from me, staring coldly at me if they dare, others mumbling the Lord's Prayer as they passed me. Some even crossed the roads to avoid me. The clip clop of horse's hoofs on the cobbled road would ultimately bring a loud gasp as the riders would stare in disbelief at me. I wasn't a human. I was a freak.

The doctors had tried to make a mask fitted to my face, but the skin was too hot to touch and too painful to deal with. The dead skin had lost its elasticity and was impossible to work with. As a result, they had given me a mask made out of a material I did not know, but it was uncomfortable to wear as they had just cut it out and bent it to the shape of my face, cutting it where it needed to be. You could see under it if you were below me.

I went straight to the only place I could think of; my home. My purse had been burnt in the fire, so I didn't have a key to get in. Climbing the steps of the town house, I saw my father looking out of the window. I smiled weakly at him, but his face remained cold and judgmental. My mother opened the door after I knocked, inviting me inside. I made my way to the spiralling staircase that led to my room, only to feel a hand gently hold my shoulder. The pain of my mothers touch racked through me as I dipped out of her touch, gasping at the pain. A look of pain from my mother.

"I'm sorry, I forgot…"

"It's ok mother." I wanted to rub it, but I knew it would make it worse.

"Where were you going?" I saw my father enter the hall from the side room, standing behind my mother. I knew the outcome before she had hinted it.

"To my room, mama, I am very tired."

"Mirabella?" She called me as I was about to turn my back. I looked at her as she stole a cold glance from my father. "My darling, I, we…"

"What is it mama?" I asked, although I knew what was coming. I just didn't want to admit it to myself. She stole another look from my father. She looked back at me, eyes wrapped in tears as she raised her hand to her mouth and turned away.

"You can't live here anymore, Mirabella." My father said simply.

"Pardon?"

"You heard me. Go and collect your things, I, we, would like you to leave." Shock. Cold. That's what I felt.

"But, papa, I don't understand, why…?"

"Look at you. People will be here night and day to see you, even to hurt you. I cannot allow anything else to happen to my family. They will hunt you. They will try to torch this house and burn it to the ground, just like that damned Opera House. I won't allow that to happen."

"But, mama…" She had her back turned, unable to speak, inconsolable, looked back at my father.

"But, I am your daughter… I need you…. Where will I go?"

"I don't know. You will figure it out. Please, don't make this harder than it already is." I could feel the tears begin to sting my eyes. A pause. That damn pause in which the silence freezes over with the cruel, cold emotion from my dear father. I turn from them and walk up the stairs and turn right to my bedroom. I pack a few things, hair brush, clothes, a toy bear that I had treasured since I was a child, my perfume, scissors, paper and pen, photographs of my parents, Armand and Carolina, my drawings and my diary, avoiding the mirror as I packed these things into a small suitcase from my wardrobe. I didn't look at my room as I left.

The suitcase wasn't heavy, but not light enough to carry for long. It clunked down the stairs as I made my way slowly back to my parents, my mother now wailing loudly. I felt ready to join her at any minute. I looked at my father, those cold eyes looking back at me. I was about to take my mask off, the salt from my tears stinging my burns slightly as they trickled lazily down my face, filling the wrinkled crevasses that were my burns, but he placed a hand out to stop me, not touching me.

"No. I want to remember you the way you were. Not this thing that you have become."

Disbelief. Numb. Whatever else you can feel when you have been abandoned by your parents. Told by the only people who mattered that you are a freak.

For what seemed like an eternity I wandered the streets, at first in the day, but I soon learnt that less people would see me at night. I slept where I could, old houses, abandoned buildings, anything. I spoke to no-one. I looked at no-one.

Often I would walk past what used to be the Opera Populaire, thinking of my sister trapped somewhere in the rumble, of that beast who made me what I had become. I had tried to go in, but my strength failed me and fear would take over as I walked closer to it.
I had soon run out of bandages, yellow pus weeping through the scabs that had formed on the exposed skin. It was healing, only just starting to. But still painful.

Nothing more than a week must have passed. I had no recollection of time. Only pain. Physical and mental. It was just as they had said. People jeered at me in the street. Threw things at me. Cursed me. The pain still hadn't gone, though subsided slightly. My pain was so immense that I tried to end my life. Knife in one hand, a photograph of Armand in the other, I dug the knife deep into my wrist not the top, just lower down. It didn't hurt as much as I had expected it to. But I reacted differently to how I thought I would. The blood trickled down my arm, filling the creases of my elbow, like water in a riverbed. I suddenly felt a deep feeling in the pit of my stomach, this was wrong, aside from that fact that I hadn't cut deep enough to bleed enough to die, the sight of the blood was making me sick. I wrapped the last half clean bandage I had over it, the deep red seeping through. I then vowed I would never try to hurt myself again.

My encounter with death gave me a new leash of courage, and I took my first steps into the Opera House. I had to find my sister. There were still some people in hospital, burnt so bad that no-one knew who they were. I preyed to God Almightily that Carolina wasn't there. I would rather her to be dead than to suffer as I had. I needed proof. I needed to know.

It had only been a week and a few days since the fire, yet no-one seemed interested anymore. The remainder of the doors had been closed, but it didn't take much to open them, not sure of what I would find.

It was unrecognisable inside. Everything that could be burnt had been, and the things that couldn't, like the exquisite marble floor, had big black smoke marks over it. There was a faint smell of something I did not recognise. I found my way back to the stage rather quickly. At first I turned away, the smell was now unbearable. I soon realised what it was; a mixture of burnt flesh and wood. The stage, once host to a plethora of shows and emotions, bright lights and colours was now only three colours, black, brown and orange, with the scent of death lingering around it. The chairs, where the audience had watched many a dazzling performance, now burnt to cinders. Remainders of bodies scattered over them, people who had tried to climb over them to get out, the screams, the fear, the pain…

I had to turn away for a second, block those thoughts from my head. It was disturbing coming here, I realised too late that I should have never gone back so soon. It took a lot of control to stop myself from crying, from vomiting, but most of all to stop myself from running out. I had to find her.

I turned back to the scene of death a few moments later. There were so many bodies, so burnt, so deformed… I would never be able to tell which was Carolina.

I looked for her, gently turning over the bodies, flinching at they twisted little faces, you could see the bones in some. No hair, no eyes, no features. Nothing. Just a room filled with bodies. They could be anyone.

30 minutes later and I could take no more. I could feel the pus and water running down my face from my hard work which had got me no where. No sign of her. I began to look near the places that we were sat, in a desperate last hope to find her, but still nothing. I looked briefly under the chairs…. Nothing.

Until…

I automatically spun around and covered my face, not wanting to witness the sight, not wanting it to be true after all, but there she was. Hidden, under the chairs. When everyone else had gone over, she had gone under, in an attempt to escape the rush and the smoke. You clever girl Carolina. But I bet someone stood on you, hurt you badly. Or you got stuck, in the panic and rush, you called out but under the screams no-one heard you. You poor girl.

I slowly leant down, no longer holding back the tears, a small noise coming from my mouth that was almost a cry. Her face, twisted like the others, screaming in pain in her last agonising moments of life, burnt to a dark red, brown colour. No clothes. No hair. But I knew it was her. She had the bracelet that I gave her as a present 2 Christmas's ago. She never took it off.

I stood and walked quickly to the end of the aisle. I tried to compose myself, but it still cried quietly, my face hurting as my features creased up, tears falling freely now. My hands covering my face carefully, feeling the burns that this terrible fire had given me, realising what I had lost. My sister, my mama and papa, my Armand, my face… my life. I put a hand out to lean on a half burnt marble column, half broken and flaked as I cried against it. I couldn't lean on it fully, my shoulders and upper back had been burnt too. My hand slid down in despair, and it was only then that I noticed that the column that should have been all marble was actually hollow on the inside. Enough room for a man to stand comfortably.

So that's why it had been burnt. It wasn't really marble…

Only upon closer inspection did I see the secret passage way, leading into the dark unknown, a small light at the end…

Nothing left to live for. I won't take my own life, but I don't treasure it as I did before. Before I could stop myself I was already inside the tunnel way, creeping towards the light at the end…

Ok, now, please review! REPLIES!

eknibbe- My first reviewer! Thank you! Hope you enjoy!

xXGoddessXOfXDeadXLoveXxx- Thank you! Glad to hear that you're trying new things! Hope you like it!

Mr Rusty Ryan- Thank you my dear!

Ethereal Singer- It is inspired by your own! Although I prefere yours, for some reason I've gone into LOADS of detail on this one... I don't know why because I normally hate it when other stories do that... I sorta couldn't help it!

Thanks guys!