Ang stared at the man, then blinked several times and stared a bit longer. He was insane. Literally insane. This was a totally different type of crazy, one that she'd never considered any of the times she'd read or watched his story.
She imagined his brows raising behind his mask as he awaited her answer. By his body language, he felt the request was nothing outrageous; he stood almost casually, as if waiting for a cab.
"Are you serious?" Dumb question; he was absolutely serious. "Monsieur, you don't understand. I don't sing in front of people. I mean, there's a reason why everyone tells me to stop singing when they hear me. I'm awful at it. I- I was, literally, the only kid who didn't make it into the junior high chorus. Please, just trust me. You aren't going to like what you hear." Ang was on her feet now, hands gripping the bars, pleading openly with him to spare her the shame he was asking of her.
His head tipped to the side. Most of what she said was jibberish as far as he knew, but his understanding latched on to one particular sentence, and he refuted it quite quickly. "I have already heard you, Mademoiselle, and I quite enjoyed it." He relaxed his arms and brought one hand up to study his fingertips as if he could see them through the leather of his gloves. "It is entirely up to you, however it seems to be an obvious choice. You sing, or you starve."
"Your parents obviously gave you the wrong name," the hateful voice of her foster father spat in the dark before locking the closet door from the outside. "There's nothing angelic about you."
"Did you hear how everyone in church laughed at you?" hissed her foster aunt as she dragged her out to the family car. "That's the last time we're letting you be part of the kids' choir. You ruined the Easter program."
"It was like listening to a goat. I could barely stay on key standing next to her," snickered one of the girls in her high school to a group of her friends. "Seriously. Crippled and tone-deaf."
The voices of her past battered her mind as a storm's waves toss a buoy to and fro. Ang's jaw clenched and she pinched her eyes tightly shut, willing the tears away before they revealed themselves. That was then, and this was now. And 'now' feels so much worse! Her heart was hammering in her chest and she felt the familiar sensation of her blood-pressure dropping, her extremities tingling with numbness, the blood roaring in her ears as panic rose like a flash flood. Breathe. You have to breathe. Just get it over with; he'll feed you, and then you can figure out how to get the hell out of here!
Her mouth opened once, twice, then a third time, and each time, not a single sound came forth. Pulling in a shuddering breath, Ang tipped her head forward against the bars. "Please don't make me do this," she pleaded softly.
The Phantom simply waited in silence, tapping a finger against his elbow.
"Y-you are music," Ang began to croak out, her voice trembling as she stifled the sob that threatened to escape her throat. "Beautiful music... and you are light... to-"
To her horror, she heard laughter. It was soft, but it was there. Through embarrassed tears she lifted her gaze and peered at the man so amused at her expense. "It's not funny," she said flatly, quietly.
"It is, rather," he chuckled, turning and walking away. "You sing like a goat."
Of all the things he could have said, it was that which pierced her heart and made her chest ache, a deep wrenching pain that radiated down her arms. Her shoulders drooped and she hung her head in shame. "I- I told you you wouldn't like it," she muttered to herself, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Another peek upward showed that he'd vanished, and with a trembling breath she let herself fall to her knees, still leaning heavily forward against the bars.
As her tears dried on her face, indignation replaced her embarrassment. How dare he? How dare he! Who did he think he was? He lived in a glorified basement for the better part of his life, and he was judging her? Not just judging, but actually had the audacity to laugh at her, to her face! Her hands balled themselves into fists as her rage smoldered within her. Gone was the wilting child that was too afraid to stand up for herself. She'd left her behind years ago. She had overcome incredible odds and had survived horrors most kids in America only had nightmares about. She was independent, and successful, and she'd be damned if she let this know-nothing, ugly-faced hermit make her feel poorly about herself!
His footsteps heralded his return, and with him he carried a silver tray filled with more of the same fare as before. "An agreement is an agreement, Mademoiselle, though I believe you received a better deal than I."
Ang sniffed, wiped her face, and stood to her feet. "I need to relieve myself again," she stated, her tone void of emotion, her expression carefully schooled into a mask as blank as his.
Balancing the tray on one palm, he inserted the key into the lock and twisted. He stepped to the side and swung the cage door open, allowing her to exit.
Ang stepped through and took the tray from him gently. "Thank you, Monsieur." He closed his eyes and bowed his head just slightly in acknowledgment. At that moment, her grip tightened on the edges of the tray, and in one smooth, fluid movement, she brought the tray up and around, slamming it solidly against the side of the infamous Opera Ghost's head. Fruit and bread scattered around him as the man dropped like a felled tree, mask askew and cracked, body crumpled in a heap. He stirred with a moan, hand cupping the injury, and the rage that welled up tempted her to kick him while he was down. Instead, she stepped back and tossed the tray to the side.
"No wonder you're down here alone," she ground out, tears returning unbidden, hot and angry as they coursed down her face. "You're as ugly inside as I'm sure your face is. Too bad there isn't a mask for your heart." With that, she spun on her heels and fled, hands hiking her skirts up as she took to the tunnels.
A/N: Definitely not a fun chapter to write, but it was necessary to move us along. Erik ended up being a little nastier than even I anticipated, and I could feel him laughing in amusement at my surprise. Granted, Ang has a lot more spitfire than intended, as well. So I guess they both have minds of their own. Any other writers out there have a difficult time controlling their characters?
The *very* brief song excerpt is from the musical "Phantom" by Kopit and Yeston, the same show she was working on in her theater when she was suddenly kidnapped by the trap door. Temperamental things, aren't they. Trust me, being a theater actress and techie myself, I had dozens of songs that were warring for a place in this scene, but it made the most logical sense that something from her current show would be at the forefront of her mind when put on the spot, especially since she isn't a performer or singer herself (at least not a singer when other people can hear her - she and I are both professional shower and car singers, as a matter of fact ^_^).