Note- I did this long ago, just never posted it...
The Ballerina's Madness
They say I'm mad. I am not so sure. I saw something that night, as the others heard something. But I must pretend to be sane now, so I may be released, so I can go back to my ballet studies. So I can hear an angel again.
But was it an angel I heard, or was it a devil? I saw the Voice Christine Daae once mentioned to her lover, no, husband, De Chagny that night on the roof.
Yes, I heard that conversation, hidden in a hollow in the statuary.
But that is the past, something that no longer matters. Except the memory I shall forever cherish, the memory of that voice.
Oh, that voice! Was he an angel or demon? Or neither? The undead my grandmother told me of in stories?
The image of him dragging that poor screaming young lady, well, lady is not the proper word for a woman who goes 'round clad in trousers, though a dancer like myself has no claims to propriety.
His song will linger in my mind for the rest of my life, the song Orpheus sings to his wife to bring her home from the underworld in the opera, whose title escapes me.
Eventually the girl stopped struggling. Her blue eyes glassy, she followed him, docile as a lamb. He stopped then, taking his magic song back, and my sanity, as well. He spoke, his voice as lovely speaking. "Very good, Christine. It is best to stop your struggles."
The shreds of my mind wondered at this, for the young lady was the spitting image of the singer. There were differences, of course, but she was very close. Then I noticed HIS eyes.
Two dainty golden stars, glimmering with madness. Madness reflected now in my own, as if madness was a plague.
The Red Death, perhaps, like the man at the masquerade last year. The man I had asked politely for a dance, a dance I had received.
Perhaps we all are mad to think we are not mad, like the nobles in Poe's story thought they were safe, until another being showed them the truth.
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