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He Loves Me; He is Gone
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Heav'n! What a chill doth overrun me! What if this potion work not at all? Idle terrors!... Now to doubt, that were to disown thee, to fear were my love to betray, never! Never! Rather for dead may he bemoan me! Ah! for dead bemoan me! - Romeo et Juliette, Gonoud
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~~Chapter 12~~
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Christine was not awakened the next morning and so her eyes did not open until the sun was already high in the sky. She jumped out of her bed...wait...lounge? It all came back to her, the nearly perfect performance and why she was currently in a private dressing room with a massive headache.
She tried to raise to her feet, but found that she could do little more than grab onto something and stand as her head swam violently.
When the room cleared, she noticed poor Meg on a different sofa. She smiled fondly and went- slowly!- to wake her up.
Meg stirred and opened her eyes. . "Hello there. How does your head feel?" she asked, eyeing Christine sleepily.
"Like I fell from heaven," she joked.
She graciously accepted a dress from Meg's wardrobe. It didn't fit well as Meg was much taller and did not have the natural curves that Christine had, but outside of a little more cleavage than she was used to, it was appropriate enough.
The choirmaster tried to get her to go home, but she refused. They tried to get her to miss the performance but she refused that as well. She wanted to be on the stage. She would just have to watch her feet and limbs around Carlotta.
~~~
Carlotta was fuming, her head held defiantly proud in an arrogant display that was clearly meant to anger the Opera Ghost. She was successful, as Erik stalked about the opera house brooding and generally plotting her demise.
They had a few more performances left of Faust, keeping Christine busy from thinking too hard about the Traviata business, but Carlotta worried little about technique and preparation for a show she had already performed and she spent most of her time cursing the petite soprano and trying to finagle her way into her rightful place in the opera.
The bitch was hardy. A fall on the head did not scare her away for even an evening. She would have to try something more... permanent.
Carlotta would be rather clever about this, yet things would seem to thwart her every step of the way. She'd try to cut into Christine's shoes, sabotaging them, yet she would find that the shoes would be somehow replaced before the show. She poisoned her tea with an herb that would cause her skin to break out in hives, yet...the tea was replaced.
All the while, Erik found himself getting increasingly incensed with the meddling diva.
Christine's wound on her forehead was finally able to be completely covered by grease paint by closing night. Her headaches had mostly gone and she felt strong again, thinking it was the stage itself granting her health. Strangely enough, Christine thought, Carlotta had left her well enough alone. Perhaps it was all a
mistake after all- not some malicious prank.
Closing night was going well. The audience was not terribly engaged, but the energy on the stage was high. It wasn't until act three that anything strange happened.
Christine was cinched tight in an eighteenth century corset over a low cut chemise which bared her shoulders, cleavage and one leg as the skirt hitched up. The visage of a common whore. In this, she was supposed to be a witch, a succubus trying to seduce and persuade Faust to forget his incarcerated love.
The stage was full- nearly the entire cast crowding around the two damned men. Right as she was beginning to run onto the stage, bustling past many bodies,
She felt a sharp prick in her arm. She squealed and grabbed her bicep. Looking behind her, she saw Joseph Bouquet with a remorseful expression on his face. He took off his hat and smiled sadly at her.
She frowned but was late for her entrance, so she ran onto the stage to grip and writhe against Faust, as the choreography was written.
The scene was long, with the ballet corps coming on and dancing through the instrumental actions as Faust battled with his heart and the devil simply laughed and looked proudly over his hellish domain.
At first she thought it was another headache. But then she felt lightheaded and lost feeling in her fingers and toes. After about ten minutes on stage, she was gripping onto Faust for real, for she no longer could stand.
The tenor noticed and wrapped his arm around her waist and spared her a brief look of concern before continuing the scene. Her head flopped back wantonly, presenting the mound of her breasts to the man holding her. Except she had lost consciousness.
The tenor deftly lifted her and grandly moved to the edge of the wings, quickly handing her off to a stage hand before carrying on, right in time for his solo.
Erik, of course, had seen this happen. all of it. His heart was enraged, not knowing whether to care for his muse or murder the man who dared harm Christine. Her lithe, unconscious form eventually ended up in the arms of Madame Giry, the ballet mistress.
She had been poisoned Erik was certain of it, and he could help her; if only he could get her to his lair.
The Madame Giry heard a voice resonating in her head. "Have everyone else leave the room, now. You remain."
"Shoo! Quickly, everyone!" They were back in the private dressing room that Christine was becoming more and more acquainted with.
"She cannot breathe! She needs air. Everyone, leave now! You too Meg!"
Christine was indeed having difficulty breathing. She struggled against the cinched corset to take quick, rasping sips of air. Her lips were becoming blue- a sure sign of cyanosis. She had gained consciousness, but barely, unable to respond to questions or realize where she was.
Even Mme. Giry recognizes the signs of cyanide poisoning. Her heart broke. There was no cure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~(ooo the temptation to end the chapter there!)~~~~~
At that very moment, a mirror opened and Erik stepped through. "I must take her now. I can save her, but her time is fleeting," he announced, moving to scoop her up in his arms.
"Oh Erik, I don't know if even your magic can save her now," Giry moaned. However, she did step out of the way to allow The Phantom to pick up the shivering, gasping girl.
"This isn't magic, Madame Giry, this is chemistry," he said firmly, rushing to bring Christine down to his lair.
His home had obviously not been prepared for company. Clutter coated every available surface and empty wine bottles littered the corners. It was a frantic space - one corner table taken up by blue print scribbles and architectural tools. Another corner held herbs, strange liquids and a Bunsen burner. Beautiful artistic sketches and paintings were pinned to the walls in no apparent order. The back wall was dominated by a grand organ, the only thing meticulously taken care of, even as it was littered with crumpled and stained paper and empty wine glasses. It was a palace for a genius. Or a madman. But such things were not important to either soul in the room; far more important matters filled their minds.
A lavish couch of red velvet sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a cluttering of books. Christine was laid there gently, then quickly abandoned for the table with strange chemicals. Within minutes, there was boiling thiosulphate in a beaker under the burner. Amyl nitrate was prepared next while the thiosulphate burned. It did not take long for the noxious gas to be created and bottled. Minutes that lasted a lifetime passed.
When the cyanide antidote was prepared, one bottle to drink and one bottle to inhale afterward, one glance over to the couch would reveal Christine no longer breathing.
It could not come to soon, could not be ready too swiftly. With a sprint, he would tear towards Christine, swiftly pouring the liquid down her through. He did not consider himself a man of faith by any means, but he prayed in that moment that whatever deity reigned might take pity on her in that moment, or curse him with even more suffering that he already could bear. Moments after she reflexively swallowed, he w wafted the gas over her nostrils, hoping for any sign of life.
She was not inhaling. There was no breath at all. The tight corset was rigid and bare
of any movement.
Hands worked over the corset quickly. She needed to breathe and there was no allowing that to happen with that thing on. He tore it and the corset released. Yet, she did not breathe.
He growled at that and positioned her head to a neutral position. He did chest compressions, his heart racing as he would place his lips to hers, breathing air into her, trying to kick start her breath. It did not even register to him that this was, in fact, their first kiss.
It was violent work. Her shift was nearly off of her shoulders completely and spittle ran from the corners of Christine's mouth.
It was during one brutal exhaling kiss, one that employed all of an opera singer's significant diaphragmatic muscles, that Christine finally gasped. She sucked in air through her open mouth, her lips still up against Eric's.
He pulled back and swiftly opened the bottled gas which he rapidly wafted under her nostrils. "Breathe...breathe...my child. Breathe, and you will make it out of this alive."
She continued to gulp big gusts of air, choking on the fumes. Her lips and fingers slowly turned from blue to an angry, painful red and Christine began to moan, not quite conscious but very much alive.
"That's it...easy my dear...Just breathe,..." He comforted, his heart beating out of his chest. He felt as if part of himself had nearly died with her, a half that he never knew that he had before this moment, now one that he couldn't dare to part from again.
Beyond a passageway of curtains was a room with a beautiful bed and feminine decor. It was immaculately clean, as if waiting for a young lady to chance upon it.
It was like that because he had made it to be so. It was something that he was quite proud of, and yet deeply ashamed of. Why would a woman such as her want to retreat to such a dungeon as this, with a monster as him. No matter, he would take her there now; however forbidden it might be. He scooped her up, carrying her to the room. He laid her down gently and bundled her with covers. She was so beautiful, even at death's door.
One hand reached out to him as he pulled back from her. It dropped again as she shifted into true sleep.
He sighed, sinking onto the edge of the bed. His hand found the limb which had just fallen and he took it, squeezing it gently as he found himself unable to pull away from her there.
She slept fitfully that night, and the day afterward. The dose of cyanide was significant and it wasn't until late into the third night that she truly regained consciousness.
She awoke to the sound of a piano wafting from outside of her door. Her room was lit with the soft glow of candle light. Raising slowly from the bed, she opened the door and stepped into a magnificent cavernous alcove, filled with the contradiction of bare, unfinished stone and beautiful furnishings. Many tapestries were strewn about, creating a maze of rooms. Only the room that she had exited was built of man-made walls and a true door. The edge of a black lake was in view and across from he, a man in a familiar porcelain half mask was playing a low, mournful, piece on a grand piano. The piece honestly sounded about twenty years before it's time, making it seem beautiful and strange. He was wearing a white linen shirt, that which one would wear under a formal jacket, almost suggesting that he had recently been somewhere formal, or just hadn't changed out of those clothes in the three days that she had been unconscious.
Truthfully, he hadn't left the lair, hadn't eaten, barely slept..He was totally consumed with her well being.
Christine followed the music as if in a trance. The man at the piano was half in darkness, so she could barely make out his features. She crept closer, silent and careful, stopping a good distance away- close enough that if he turned his head, she would see the lines of his uncovered face.
The man heard the noise of her approaching and spoke. His voice was ever so familiar. But who would she hear? The teacher? The baron? Both?
"Mlle. DaaƩ. You are awake. I feared the absolute worst for you," he said in an unearthly voice, turning to face her in that dark, subterranean room.
She felt half dead and her body denied her any strength but she was still able to startle once again and drop her jaw. "Erik...?"
He stood at the piano. "Yes, it is me. Erik." He took a step closer to her. "How do you feel? You were poisoned, my child."
"Where... am I? I feel so fuzzy, like my mind and my body won't connect... poisoned. I... I don't understand any of this." The strength left her and she began to wobble of her feet.
He advanced rapidly, grabbing her by the hips to steady her. "You will understand in time that your ascendency at that opera house is imminent, and that there are some who would resort to lethal means to prevent that." He paused, his hands lingering on her hips. "But worry not about that...they shall be dealt with."
Her mind was so cloudy, she could do nothing but nod placidly. "I... I think I need to lay back down."
He would lift her, carrying her back to that room. "Of course...I will bring you food; you must be famished."
She cuddled against his warmth, still half in a daze. "Thank you, Erik," she whispered.
"It's...nothing." He said simply, not explaining anything yet to her when she was so weak. He lay her back in bed, disappearing to prepare a meal for her.
She was already asleep when he got back.
The rest of the night was fitful and delirious. She took water and food when prompted, but would remember nothing of it.
Another twenty-four hours had her skin return to a normal healthy flush and when she awoke, she blinked, clear-headed for the first time since the opera.
