Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Gaston Leroux, ALW or the Really Useful Group. Please don't sue me.
Author's Notes: This chapter took me ages to write even though it's (still) too short. I apologise for the length and any spelling/grammar mistakes in advance. This is one chapter to the conclusion. Enjoy (hopefully)!
Chapter Three: Like A Father
Clarisse didn't come the next day. Or the next. Or the next. Erik sat alone on the rooftop, watching the sun go down. He hardly noticed her absence for he was always musing.
The key to happiness…The more he thought about it the less he understood. If she came back perhaps she would explain it to him. But she didn't come back.
Erik was not surprised. The little girl had finally realised who he was. She would never come back now. Erik felt a little melancholy at the loss of her company but he had expected it. Who would come back again and again to visit a Ghost?
The weather grew colder and the days grew shorter, the sun less brilliant. Erik stayed inside the place he called home, composing. He lived on music as he had done before. Sometimes he would look up from his manuscript and imagine Clarisse sitting cross-legged on the floor, pencil flying across paper. She and Christine wove in and out of his dreams, Clarisse with a sketchpad, Christine with a rose.
Erik laughed at his own foolishness. Clarisse was gone from his life, as Christine had gone years ago. Leaving behind only the Phantom.
When he was small, Erik always used to wonder if it had always been this way. People moved on with their lives, did the things they had to do, leaving him alone, his own mother, Christine and now Clarisse.
He was the only one who never moved.
In truth, Clarisse had been taken ill. Very, very ill.
So ill, that she could barely get out of bed, let alone go the opera house. Violent coughing fits shook her thin frame till she vomited into the bucket by the side of her bed. The coughing would start again, and again, until it was only sour bile that came out of her mouth.
The Matron at the orphanage, a portly, red-faced lady named Madame Promeau, was completely confused. Clarisse hadn't been anywhere where she could have even caught a little cold, let alone contracted pneumonia! True, she had been late back for a few nights, but she had only been wandering the streets. If it got any worse she would have to take the expense of calling a doctor.
Madame Promeau bustled into Clarisse's room, tucking the child in and pouring her a glass of water. Poor thing, she was already doomed, she thought to herself. Out loud she expressed her hopes of seeing Clarisse well and out of bed soon. Clarisse smiled feebly and reached out for the water. Her skin was papery white, her eyes too big for her small face. She already looked more dead than alive.
"When can I get up again?" she whispered to her carer. Her fingers twisted a corner of the bed sheet anxiously. She had been told yesterday that she would be able to get up today, but she was starting to see past the façade. The Matron just sighed and patted her shoulder.
"Soon, dear. Soon."
Clarisse sank back into her pillows, not contented with the answer. She knew that she was quite badly sick, but people got sick all the time and got better soon after. And Erik was waiting for her.
Clarisse longed to know if her mysterious friend had heard any news of her illness. Surely something would have gotten out now, she had been lying in bed for such a long time. Clarisse realised that she had never seen him before and didn't feel any need to. Maybe he didn't want to be seen.
She pictured him in her mind, drawing a picture in her imagination. In make-believe pencil, the lines of his body appeared on a non-existent blank page, followed by a head. Clarisse smiled to herself whilst adding his features and clothing.
He had a powerful frame, she thought, with dark green eyes and a bearded face. She had chosen the latest Paris fashions for him, black breeches and a white shirt, covered by a black coat. After all, black was an appropriate colour for a man who always lurked in the shadows.
In her imagination, Clarisse leapt from her bed to follow him back to the opera house roof where they had met. Together they watched the sun go down in a blaze of brilliant colour, as it always did. But for the first time, the sky was covered in stars.
Outside her room, a doctor shook his head.
"It's no good wasting medicine on the girl, Madame," he said gravely, "She's too weak to fight for much longer against an illness like this. You should never have let her out in the evenings."
"But Monsieur!" protested Madame Promeau, "Monsieur, she had only gone out for one night, just one night! She said she needed some air in the streets!" The Doctor shook his head.
"She's obviously been up somewhere gusty. And she stayed there for a long time, I suppose."
"What?"
"You weren't aware of the fact?" The Doctor raised his eyebrows and sniffed disapprovingly. "I had no idea you let your children ramble about where they pleased, Madame." Madame Proseau was too worried to be angry.
"But Clarisse's always been such a good girl. A little dreamy perhaps, but very obedient!"
"Apparently not. There is nothing I can do for her."
"But…but…" the Matron spluttered, "You can't just leave without doing anything! Clarisse is in that room being sick and you're just leaving?"
"Madame, there is nothing I can do. Good day." The Doctor half bowed, picked up his hat and case and left hurriedly, for fear of being further detained. He did not hear her furious muttering behind him.
From her bed, Clarisse struggled up, gazing innocently at the flustered Matron.
"What happened with the Doctor? He was so nice to me last night."
"He…had an urgent call. Unavoidable. Never mind him, dear. Lie down." Clarisse did, not her big eyes still peered up with a troubled expression.
"Is something wrong?"
"No, Clarisse. But…but…have you been going anywhere recently?" The Matron tried to ask this in as casual a tone as possible, her twitching fingers betraying her state of mind.
"Um…"
"Clarisse, you really must tell me if you have."
"No?"
"Clarisse."
"Well, only to the opera house rooftop a few times. The view is good there. And I made a friend," Clarisse replied meekly after a few moments. Some of the children in the home could tell massive lies without even blinking. She was not one of them.
"The opera house rooftop! But Clarisse, it's so cold up there! It's filthy too!" the Matron exclaimed in horror, "And what sort of friend could you have made there?" Clarisse's eyes widened and she began to cough again, shaking the bed frame.
"His…name…is Erik…" she choked, "He…tells…me…some stories…" Madame Proseau tried to hide her dismay.
"There there, dear. Calm down. Have a drink of water." She put the glass to Clarisse's lips put she was coughing so badly she spat out half of it.
"Madame, I…think…he's miserable. At least…he sounds like it…I've never…seen his face…" she gasped, "But…when I go back…I'll tell him again…about happiness!" She sank down, completely exhausted. "If he's still there," she murmured to herself, "if he's still there. Of course he'll be there. He's always there. Like a father." The Matron started. Clarisse hadn't always been an orphan, she remembered, she had once had parents too.
"Yes, just like a father," she found herself echoing.
"I never knew a father," Clarisse continued dreamily, "Except for Erik. Wouldn't it be nice to have a father…like him…" Her eyelids started to droop as she fell into a dreamless sleep, "…wouldn't it be nice…a father like Erik…"
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