Christine dans Deux

An Alternate Multiverse – A Phantom of the Opera Story

Nyasia A. Maire

© 2006

DISCLAIMER: See Chapter One
Chapter Seventy-Eight – Doing Time

Gradually awakening from a deep, dreamless slumber, I go to stretch and freeze as awareness kicks in with the first wave of pain that shoots down my back, into my hip, down my leg to circle the bottom of my foot where it makes itself at home.

"Ah yes, pain, my constant companion, my old friend. What a fickle maestro you are."

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I find myself staring up at the open beams of the roughly plastered ceiling. I shiver and think about allowing myself to return to the warmth of my blankets, but am fairly certain that someone is supposed to stop by today.

"Home again! Home again! Jiggity jig! Good evening, J.F.!"

I sigh.

"It's depressing realizing your own jokes are so obscure that no one but you will ever understand the reference. Still, that's a great movie on many different levels. Too bad Philip died before it was finished. I really like that actor. Very interesting to watch. He's very intense! I've never seen anyone move that way or emote quite like that … 'I've seen things you people wouldn't believe' …."

I cut short my silent musings as I perform my daily inspection of my damaged body. I hold up my arms, inspecting them for bruising, paying close attention to the tender baseball-size lump at the front of my left shoulder.

My once-beautiful bursa, now adds one more lump of monstrosity to my self-image. The Quasimodo of Peterhead. The Igor of Aberdeenshire. The Renfield of Boddam.

"How many humps do you take with your tea? One hump or two? Bah, dump, dump …."

Shaking my head, I scold myself.

"That one's so bad that I can't even laugh at it. Well, everything is up to specs and within tolerances topside, better check below the decks."

I turn my attention to my legs and begin with the left leg. The leg is well-formed with a long lean thigh, smooth knee, shapely calf, smooth shin and delicate ankle.

"My only good feature, according to me mum. My Betty Grable legs and I ruined them."

I continue my examination by moving to my right leg and frown. The right leg aches, burns and feels numb all at the same time. I run my fingers along the edges of the mottled, shiny, puckered skin. My fingers follow the path of the scar, which runs from my right hip along my thigh, encircling my knee in a gross parody of a crown of thorns, then winding its way down my inner calf to hide its end on the bottom of my foot.

"All in all a fairly ghastly scar. I wonder if you can tattoo scar tissue. Then I could make it really look like a vine of thorns. With my luck, scar tissue probably isn't a recommended surface for a tattoo."

I run my fingers around my knee wondering if the dark red lumps will ever look less angry and if the shiny white skin will ever stop looking like it belongs to a corpse. For a moment, my sight blurs and I can see a leg without scars. Shocked, I blink, only to find the scars still there, the pain ever-present.

"Why can't it just all be numb? But, no, of course not. Then I wouldn't hurt all of the time and I wouldn't have nerves misfiring and sending these bizarre phantoms running up and down my leg. Just another wonderful aspect of being me … I am just a mass of interesting sensations custom-made just for this broken body. Does the fun never end?"

I stop as I hear a quiet voice inside my head say, "Yes, it does end."

"Geez! I'm in a great mood today! What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I complaining? Just because your date stood you up last night doesn't mean it's the end of the world. After all, mother said that it's their loss not mine. That feels like a lie, but that's all I've got to hold in the middle of the night. I'll never have a man that wants this twisted mass of meat … okay, that's it! Enough!"

Shaking my current thoughts from my mind, I close my eyes and breathe slowly for a minute. I allow images of my favorite oil paintings to perform a delicate slideshow behind my eyelids. After several minutes, I feel calm enough to continue.

"I've always tried to look on the bright side of this before … the bright side … yes, Christy Keith! You know, the bright side … as in you can still walk. You can still hear. Well, mostly, anyways …. There is always someone who is less fortunate than you are. So, stop your bitching and moaning. After all, you chose this …."

My thoughts screech to a halt.

"What the fuck does that mean? What did I choose? I chose to lose my hearing. I decided, ah, what the hell, let's fall down a waterfall and end up with a partially paralyzed leg. No, I don't think I did that, but I did choose something. What exactly did I choose?"

Laying on my makeshift bed, thinking about things such as choice is not really a good idea. I have traveled down this road many times before and know where the road ends for I have marked it, 'Here there be dragons.' I decide to avoid the subject altogether and allow my mind to slide onto the next Saturday morning thought.

"How long has it been since I've slept in my bed? You know how long it's been. You cannot lie to me, Cairistíona Muiríol Murron Keith! You can try to lie to everyone else, but you cannot lie to me. It's been a little more than eight years. You haven't slept in your bed since you fell … okay, fine! Since I almost bloody well died. Or, have I?"

A foggy memory nudges my mind.

"A memory? No, a virgin body could not, would not remember this. No, it was a wonderfully wicked dream. Okay then, fine. A dream."

I allow the images to run through my mind.

"My dream lover was a tall, dark man, who held me in his arms as I watched him sleep. And when he awoke, in my dream, I rolled on top of him and guided him inside me. A dream in which I used muscles inside of me. Muscles I had never used before, a place no man had been before. I had squeezed him and relaxed. Tighten, release, over and over until our souls ignited and we passed into the sweet bliss of orgasm as one."

My breath catches in my throat and to cover my pained longing, I lie to myself and snort disgustedly.

"Oh, yes! That's right! I found my dream lover. My soul mate and now I've forgotten him and it would seem that he has forgotten me as well."

Ignoring the empty ache, which centers at the core of my womanhood, I slowly swing my legs off the settee and down onto the floor. I slip my feet into brown moccasins, grab my cane from the end of the settee, I pull myself up and head into the bathroom.

"At last a pain that has nothing to do with the accident! Unfortunately, there are no pills I can take to deaden this hurt. A man's body could offer me relief from the ache I feel, but I know that no man would ever make that offer. No man would ever wish to lie with me. After all, what man would want a monster?"

Again, I shake my head.

"Maybe I'll feel like more of a human being after my shower."

Showering and taking one red, one orange and one green pill dulls the pain enough to allow me to haul myself to the kitchen. As I walk through the formal living room, the view stuns me into stopping and staring just as it does every day.

"This is the reason I bought this place. This view and the fact that if I didn't purchase it, it would go to the Queen. Couldn't let ol' Lizzie own it. As the last descendant of Keith, I couldn't walk away. I will never get over how lovely it is here. It feels so much like home. Now, if only me neighbors didn't detest having me here so much …."

The sight directly in front of my living room window is that of the Buchan Ness Lighthouse. The most easterly point in Scotland. A beautiful view for the mistress of a castle, even if it is a castle in ruins.

"Not when I am finished. Boddam Castle will be as magnificent as it was during the time of Keith, Knight of Ludquharn."

I smile at the thought and continue into the kitchen for a quick breakfast.

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After breakfast, I remember that the Pastor of Trinity Parish Church had left me a phone message saying he would be dropping by later this morning for a visit. I hated his "visits" and felt they were just an excuse for him to be nosy and gather fodder for his gossip. I decided to "forget" he was coming. I gather my art equipment, stow it in my backpack and load it into my auto. I also pack my neoprene leg brace because the last time I visited Jeannie Grieves, I spent too much time trying to find a safe path through the rocks, boulders and pools and not enough time painting the beautiful countryside. This time, I am prepared. I'm wearing my black Timberland 6-Eye Boots, a pastel green ankle-length suede skirt, a long-sleeve, pullover top with scoop neck, my faithful black leather duster, black leather fedora and black collapsible cane. The wraparound skirt will allow me easy access should I need to put on the brace. Giving myself a once-over in the mirror, I nod.

"Not too bad. I almost look normal. Perhaps, I can forget about being the Monster of Keith for a couple of hours and lose myself inside a painting. I just have to be careful navigating through the rocks and pools. Maybe, I can find an angle that shows the castle and the lighthouse in it. I'd love to paint that and hang it over the settee."

I ease my body into my black Mini Cooper and head down A90 until I see the muddy cow path and turn off the main roadway. This path, not intended for autos, but luckily, my Mini is lightweight and can travel easily along it. I follow the path just far enough from A90 so my parked auto cannot be seen from the road. Deciding to attempt walking with just my cane, at least for a little while, I stash the brace in the backpack then heft the pack onto my back along with my keys. Giving my cane a shake, it clicks into line.

"And away I go!"

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"And why would I want to go to London?"

While my voice isn't exactly bellowing, it isn't exactly quiet and calm. Madeleine always knows the exact button that will push me into an angry frenzy.

She speaks in a calm, cool, almost perfectly modulated voice. Just as everything about her is precise and perfect.

"Erik, you spent the last eight years at Glasgow University. You graduated with your degree in law almost six months ago and yet, here you sit, scribbling away at your so-called "music." I believe it is high time for you to take up your uncle's offer of an internship at his offices in London. You are 27 years old. You need to settle down and use the education paid for by my careful planning. It's time, don't you agree?"

She stands there looking pretty and perfect. Much to pretty to be my mother. A wave of nausea hits me and I run from her, grabbing my keys as I head for the front door.

"I can't live my life by your timetable anymore, Madeleine. I'm going for a drive and I'm not certain when or if I will be back, so don't wait up for me."

Her voice is so cold that I feel the back of my shirt stiffen.

"Erik DeMornay, if you walk out that door, do not bother coming back, ever!"

"Very well, Madeleine. If that is your wish. Do not worry, I will not return."

I walk from the parlor and into the music room. I open my briefcase and fill it with reams of my sheet music then snap the lid closed. I bend over, retrieve my violin in its black case and holding my violin and briefcase, I beat a hasty retreat from my mother's house. I can feel her eyes on the back of my head as I drive my black Aston Martin down the drive, onto the street and out into the night.