Ok guys. This is the last post for a week or so. PLEASE COMMENT! I would like to see comments when I return. As for Juliette Delphi- being the co-author you don't count... but I still love ya! embrace Alright, well, please review everyone. Thank you, and see yall in a week.
-Olivia N.
The girl shook her head, "I can't."
Concern on Raylan's face increased, "Why not?"
"Because that's what mommy did, after he wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed. Mommy ran away." Actually the girl's father had killed her mother, but he had told her that she ran away, to save his guilty conscience and he had threatened the girl with a similar fate should she do the same. Of course everyone in the Opera house knew of this, but nobody spoke of it.
Raylan stroked the childs cheek comfortingly, "Your daddy wont hurt you if you're with me, I promise you that. I'll protect you if you let me- I wont run away." She felt somewhat guilty for promising the last bit, knowing fully that if the worst was to happen she couldn't stay- she was always running.
The child shook her head, still afraid, "I'm not allowed to talk like that." She looked back towards the sewing room. She knew she was missed, and the others would waste no time ratting her out. She was the lowest of the low in their eyes, and it was sheer pleasure for them to get the little amateur in trouble.
Raylan sighed and shook her head. She couldn't convince this girl, she had made herself believe she deserved what she got. "Alright," Ray groaned and stood straight, "Just remember that- if you ever need me- don't be afraid to ask." She smiled tenderly and made a gesture towards the costume room, "Go on now. Don't want to fall behind on your job. Hurry now."
The girl nodded with a small smile, before scurrying off to the room, and slipping back inside. She would get hell for this-both of them knew, but she had needed that talk.
Raylan sighed and slouched against the closest wall, leaning her head back and staring up at the rafters. She had half expected to see him up there, watching her from the dark, but he wasn't there, although strange enough she had wished he had been. She wanted to inquire with him how someone could have known, who heard and who made up the idea that she was his new pupil? True, she had spoke with him, but she was in no way his pupil. Still, she did want to know how they had found out, and as usually the phantom of the opera was bound to know.
Vits idly walked by, busy as usual on her way somewhere, thinking of something. She paused seeing her roommate. She followed her gaze, up. "He won't be there you know." She answered the unasked question bluntly-her usual form.
Raylan snapped her head down and made a shushing gesture. "Lower your voice," She whispered, "Someone found out that I talked to him and now everyone thinks I'm his new pupil. I don't want to give anyone any reason to think I am."
Vits laughed, the type of laugh that made a person feel insecure, "That's what they say about every new person. Hell they still say it about me. It's their way of getting attention. Obviously it worked."
"How did they find out I spoke with him though? I thought no one was there,"
"They make things up, they don't know, and they never will-unless either of us tell. And no one would believe me if I did, not that I have any interest in the gossip of this damn House. It's their way of making them feel superior," Vits shrugged off the usual antics of the Opera House.
Raylan nodded, "It's immature of them. They made a little girl come ask me what it was like being the phantoms new pupil- they MADE an innocent child do it...the cowards."
Vits nodded, "There are many here. I know of the particular group you are talking about. They were holding the place as a spool runner when I went through there. They will never change. But not all of us are like that," Vits smiled, a rare occasion, "You may have to look twice to find us. But we're there."
Raylan nodded, but her face still looked grim, "I know." She sighed and slowly pushed herself up from the wall, walking towards the costume room. She stopped by Vits side and whispered a small thank you before heading back into the room, back into the mocking and the laughter.
The laughter silenced the minute Raylan entered. They all stared at her, obviously not expecting her to return. Raylan looked at them, a triumphant smirk on her face as she went back to her work station, returning silently to her stitching.
Once the quiet had settled down, the talk resumed. The girl who sat next to her, Rachel as Raylan had once softly heard her tell Madame Dacio, paused in her stitching. Rachel held the paled chestnut hair, and freckles of the stereotype of a farmer's daughter. Even her dresses were faded and wrinkled, her feet clothed in leather boots. She was silent and shy, but Rachel paused, looking at Raylan. Her brown eyes fearfully held Ray's for a moment. Her voice was barely a whisper. "What was it like?" She asked, softly "what was it like, America?" She was shy.
Raylan was slightly taken back from the question but somehow found the voice to answer, "It's...it's different from here. It's nothing like this place."
The girl's demeanor changed. "Really?' she was excited, she wanted to know more, "How?"
"Well," Raylan sat her needle down, leaning back and looking to the roof as if drifting into deep thought, "Life's a lot simpler. There you have the time to do everything you needed that day and still can make it in time to watch the sun go down, and when it goes down there- lord it seems like god himself had painted the sky over those mountains and hills. There's fields of grass and luscious forests as far as the eye can see, and rivers and lakes that are delightfully cool during the summer and sometimes freeze over during the winter so they are great to skate on. The towns are usually modest and friendly, most people would welcome anyone with open arms, especially if they are a good Christian family. And the Natives...you wouldn't believe. They are nothing like people say, not most of them at least. Few are as savage as the stories say- in fact of the ones I met, they are an amazing people. They still worship the nature that so many of us have forgotten." Her voice faded and for a few minutes she looked solemnly at the floor. She sighed then, saying softly, "I miss it sometimes."
Rachel followed her gaze, her eyes seeing everything Raylan described. She cautiously glanced around the room, no one paid attention to her-ever. She leaned in and whispered, "It is my dream to move to America."
Raylan smiled, "Where you want to go? Any idea?"
The girl shrugged, "Anywhere has got to be better than here. Here my mother and father are so poor we can not even afford to eat every day. My eldest brother died, so we have no means of income other than me. My other siblings are still to young to work," She sighed, "It is a foolish dream. I will never go to America." Rachel picked up her needle and went back to work, her head down, slightly crestfallen.
"Don't say that? America is a land where all things are possible. Think of it this way, you can either try to make it or die wondering what could have been if only you continued to try," She smiled tenderly, "Don't ever give up. All things are possible if you believe in yourself enough, work hard for it and not sit around waiting for it to happen."
The girl smiled sadly, knowing that she wouldn't but, still humored her new found friend, "I shall try"
Raylan doubted what this girl said was true but she smiled and nodded to encourage her, "Good, because it is possible. Nothing is ever impossible."
The girl nodded, with some hope. Her mind reeled over the sights Raylan had told her. She carefully kept her own mental notes, not knowing how to read or write, she would tell her younger siblings of America, and fill their minds with wonder and dreams.
((Note from the Authoress: Awww, isn't Raylan just the little trooper... bah! Don't let that innocent and courageous nature fool you! stares suspiciously at Raylan Alright...we may now continue.))
Night settled over the Opera House, the darkness's silence shortly followed. Vits wasn't dancing that night, in fact she was one of the few who were still working. The set absolutely had to get up. Raylan had also not joined the auditorium that night, but instead yearned for a different air. Being stuck in the musty Opera House had made her desire for the outside world strong and unwavering and tonight the night beckoned her. It called her up, up to freedom, away from the mess below, away from the mindless gossip, away from life. Raylan walked briskly and soundlessly, pin and ink grasped firmly in her hands. The travel up to the roof wasn't as bad as she had excepted it to be. She had expected people to be all over the place, getting in her way, offering her drinks again but surprisingly there weren't many. Her book was clutched tightly against her chest- the symbol of her secret passion held close to her heart. Minutes passed as she walked the levels, slowly making her way there. After some more silent minutes she had made it to the roof, taking hold of the iron handle and pushing open the door to the roof. Outside was chilly but she ignored the cold and headed out into the night atmosphere. Raylan let the door fall shut behind her as she made her way across the roof, over towards the stone angels that perched atop the building. A shiver ran across her neck and in effort to keep warm she pulled her hair free to fall down her back, shielding the back of her neck from the bite of the cold. At the foot of Apollo's statue she settled herself on the stone edge, sitting cross legged, then opening her book in her lap and reading over what she had written the night before. She placed the ink and pin in front of her, an arms reach away for when she needed it.
Across the roof top, the night's fog settled over the city, and the roof. The chill air misted the surrounding statues, hiding many things from sight. Beneath a winged horse, kin to the fabled Pegasus, the tiles shifted, revealing a man garbed in all black, the trap door lover had appeared through his infamous trap. The fog hid him from view, and the well oiled hinges silenced any noise. Slowly he emerged, a ghost in the distance. His masked eyes had watched her, followed her climb from the House, and its inhabitants. He understood her wish to get away, even for a moment. His eyes watched her now, hidden behind the mask, and the swirling mist, enclosing them both within their own worlds.
For several minutes her eyes rolled over the pages, rereading all her midnight thoughts. She had turned to a blank page seconds later, but before taking up her pin she stared thoughtfully at the unmarked page, clearly gathering in her head exactly what she meant to put upon it. She mulled it over for some time, and then suddenly seemed to settle on an idea, taking up the quill and dipping it gingerly into the ink. Once ready she began to write. The emotion of what she wrote could be detected by the speed of her writing. If it was sad or uneventful the scribbling was slow and messy; if it was anger, or passion, or loneliness, or any of the extreme emotions her writing was brisk and thorough. Tonight she wrote with a firing speed, completely consuming herself in the words that flowed so easily through her fingers.
He watched all this, his steps advancing upon her, from his hidden shadow in the mist. His green eyes never left the figure writing herself into loneliness. He watched as her hand danced across the page, telling some story, some note, something. But what? His mind reeled with curiosity from what was held within that red leather bound book. What stories, what past, what future lay beneath those hands, that cover, those pages? What did she say? What did she feel? What did she know? He watched her, hidden with in his shadows, his eyes intent upon her, his breath baited as his eyes held her, gently caressing her, yearning to find what lay beneath that hardened exterior. He felt this way to few others, Vits had been one, but she steadily refused to even acknowledge him, beyond the brilliance of his Don Juan plans. Christine Daae had been the other. Oh Christine...
His heart took a leap at the thought of her name, she who he had loved-deeply loved, and she who was never to return. His eyes returned to his subject, what were her dreams? What did she want? Why was she here? Would she stay? Would she be able to see him? Would she love him? No! He would not fall for that trap again! He would never love, again. His heart had been broken once, and now it could not be repaired! Silently he cursed Christine for the pain she caused him, but then he relented. The love was lost, but he still remembered it-and always would. He always would love his Angel. Again the dark orbs hidden behind the mask returned to his subject, eager to know. What was she feeling?
The words were rapid, falling like title waves onto the page- her single release. They spilled from her fingertips, pouring out the pain her soul was carrying- the remorse. It was obvious from the random slow of her writing occasionally that one word was being repeated. Every time she repeated that word she would pause, sigh, and then continue to write feverishly. Time seemed to wait in awe as she wrote, eager to see the result, but once she had finished she had peculiarly slammed the journal shut, denying the night to see her masterpiece. She replaced the quill and then leaned back against the statue, clutching her precious release protectively to her chest. Her eyes had drifted to the lights of Paris, lingering on the starry display but with only a look of pure woe. Her lips parted and a whisper escaped, uttering so softly that one word, "Arron." What had happened then that caused her guard to rise once more? What had happened to make her pull back from her emotions, to force them away, and begin to look fretfully about? Again alarm struck her, again she was beat with that feeling. Again she felt exposed, somehow knowing she was being watched.
The Opera Ghost froze as he realized that she had sensed him. His ears caught the word "Arron". He silently cursed the name, and longed to lash out. He wanted her to be his alone. No! He wasn't ready for that. But still he wanted another pupil, another prodigy... if his dear Christine was not to return to him... why not this girl? He sensed something buried deep within this one. He yearned to know what. He had to know what lay within the book, what secrets she held, what desires, what dreams. He was close to her, his eyes stared at her figure. He understood that she knew he was there. A barely audible swirl of his cloak, gave him away as he disappeared into the surrounding mist. He became visible on the other side, blocked slightly by Apollo's massive leg. He waited, watching.
Past experiences had attuned her ears, as well as all her senses. She had caught the whirl in the mist, the sound so soft she had almost missed it. Immediately she knew. She clutched firm to the book as she sat up straight, her eyes searching the dark, peering through the mist. She didn't search long though before her eyes came to settle on something that did not belong by Apollo's side. Raylan squinted as to make certain, but there was no mistaking it. It was he who watched her, the great phantom of the opera.
He offered her a sly smile; perhaps he had intended to get caught. His voice was soft as he stepped out from the god's shadow. "Mysterious night," He commented, mostly meaning the fog, but hidden darker meanings lurked behind the words.
She nodded. Her voice was strangely defensive and protective as she replied, "Indeed, it is."
He noted that, keeping tabs of her reactions. "What draws up here?" He inquired, making idle chatter that both of them knew had a deeper meaning, neither of them knew exactly what the other was up to, so both danced, an elegant dance around the blatant and out right truth. Why had the other come here?
"Seeking solitude," She said, truthfully but not in its full integrity, "Sometimes I just yearn to be alone and watch the stars."
He nodded and also looked up at the stars that could be barely seen through the fog's haze. "Not the best night for it," He then gestured over to Paris, "But the lights are fantastic in this weather." The lights shone through the low lying cloud, a haze of different colors, and meanings. The Eiffel Tower stood out in the distance, a dark shape among the light, with an odd thought back towards the Phantom, the dark man amongst the light of the Opera House.
Raylan made a quick glance over her shoulder at the city before returning her gaze to her company, not wishing to leave herself vulnerable to him in any way. "It is beautiful," She said softly, "Much more extravagant than my world."
His smile waned, "What was your world like?" He hungered for the outside world, away from here, from hiding although this was never possible. He stepped closer; they were close, almost touching. He had not been close to any other in a number of years. He realized he missed it.
She paused, confused by the warmth that began to burn up her body as he grew closer. Her blood was beginning to rush and a scarlet blush was crossing over her cheeks before she lowered her head, using her locks to shield the reaction. Her mind screamed with confusion. It had been so long since she blushed, years since she had felt this, but why on earth did it emerge when this ghost grew near? Why on earth was she blushing over a phantom- a man who confused himself with a ghost; a man she hardly knew? She cleared her voice nervously and slowly raised her head back to him, forcing the blush to die away. "My world, America, its more old-fashioned," She paused, trying to find the right words to explain her home for the second time that night, "More peaceful. It's calm, a place where time has no meaning. You live for the moment, the sorrow, the passion, the adventure...you live to the fullest because you don't have forever. There are no cities like this there, nothing of this grand stature, but we still have the same problems. Violence, rapist, prejudice, and thieves... but you find so many good people there. The natives are good people, most of them at least. I have met only one tribe that did not put peace before violence. They...they are different world in their own though...one that worshipers nature in all its glory... one that accepts the different... America though... we have better sunsets."
He followed her descriptions with slight awe. He chuckled at the last remark., "I'd like to see a sunset better than the Persian ones." He hadn't slipped, but he hadn't exactly meant to say it out loud. It was an idle thought, one of his in passing, "So, why did you leave heaven for h-" He meant to say hell, but stopped himself short. Here was far from hell. He knew Hell. He had designed it
Her eyes narrowed and again she clutched firm to her journal. "I," She stuttered a little but forced herself to reply calmly, "I... I had to..." She cut her words short, not daring to say anything more.
He pressed the moment, his hunger to know overwhelmed him. His need to control, to be the puppeteer. "You had to...?" He left it hanging before supplying, "leave?"
"Yes," Her reply was short though, a clear example that she would give no explanation as to why.
He took a turn on her, a blunt, a slight failing of his, "Obviously. But why? If across the Atlantic lies Heaven, America. Why come here?"
She sent a burning glare towards him and replied tersely, "My reasons are my own. Don't make the mistake Monsieur that I am required to share them with you or any one else."
He responded like wise, the anger rising. His stature changed. Before he had been gentle, almost a friend, now he withdrew himself to his full height, and squared his shoulders, an imposing stance, on that had stirred the fear up in many, and would do it again. His eyes hardened with the rage that burned within. "We shall see Mademoiselle," He added the title, almost as an insult, calling her like he would a child. With a swirl of his midnight cloak he vanished into the swirling mist, once again leaving her very much alone.