Hi all. Forgot my disclaimer last time (again), so here you go:
Disclaimer: your mom owns POTO. Oh burn.
That was surprisingly fun. Oh yeah and Erik will say a mild French curse word in this chapter, just so you know. Sigh, I can't seem to write a story without hurting any of my characters! Look at this: I break three of Erik's ribs and cut him open, and now I throw him down the stairs! I need to work on that. Oh well. Thank you to my glorious reviewers! The following people made my day:
GerrysJackie: I guess my disclaimer made you take back the "mature" thing (laughs) . . . I may not be able to update regularly, but around once a week, twice if you're lucky. Or if I'm lucky, depending on how you look at it.
QueenBoudicca: I agree, he needs love. And I mean, who couldn't love him, with a chest like his (insert girly giggle here)?
theNightEnchantress: Thanks for the review! If I were Christine, I would go with Raoul because he has the best hair in the world (not just for that reason though). Some people think it make him look like a pansy (or a "fop"), but I think it's kind of hot, actually. Or as my good friend would say – "He is such a fox!"
HPFanatic2478: when aren't you confused? Way to reveal my name to everyone! Oh well. Just don't use my last name/province or I shall have to punish you . . .
IMPORTANT NOTE: I am SO sorry I was so long to update, but I was out of town and didn't have a computer nearby. I made sure this chapter was longer than the others just for you guys! Aren't I nice (laughs)! Some of this is from Madeline's POV, and the big block of stuff in italics is a flashback.
Review my angels of reading!
Chapter 5: Memories
The heavy black fog slowly lifted. It took him a while to notice it was gone, though, for it was night when he finally dared to try and wake up completely. He moved from an uncomfortable heap on the floor to a crouching position. He almost managed to stand up, but he became dizzy and slumped down again. When he tried to regain his balance, soar bile filled his throat.
"Tabarnac!" he swore after his stomach was completely empty. His head was throbbing and his legs weren't faring much better. He could see that familiar crimson though his pant leg. He also realized his forehead was bleeding, too. He felt groggy and tired and sore. He lay there on the floor for a while. After a few minutes he felt a bit better, so he tried moving again. He felt dizzy after the slightest effort, so he took a long time to get in a crawling position.
Carefully, he moved his hand across the floor. It was dark so he couldn't use his eyes to guide him. Soon, it came in contact with something hard. He slid his hand up its side and discovered it was only about the height of his hand, then it lead to a platform, and so on. I must be at the bottom of the stairs.
He began his painstaking climb up to the apartment. The staircase seemed so much bigger now than it had before. His whole body hurt, and he was tempted to lie down and sleep once again.
Finally, he was up and over the seventeenth step. He curled up in a ball again and listened to his own ragged breathing. His eyes flicked to the window. The moon was full outside. It was nighttime. That's why it was dark. He didn't hear any other noises in the house. It was all so familiar . . . every night he would crawl around and think about the people who slept untroubled in their beds, blissfully unaware of his pain . . .
He didn't know how he did it, but after a time he somehow managed to drag himself to the guest room. He pulled himself up on top of the blanket mountain and let sleep over take his tired body.
It didn't last long. The sun jumped through the window and pried his eyelids open. He stared at the wall. He studied the woods grain. It seemed to go on, deeper and deeper into an eternity of soft brown shapes. Then anger filled him. At first he was angry at the wood grain for being so confusing and complicated. His was tired and hurt; the last thing he needed was another impossible puzzle to solve. Then he was mad at himself for thinking something childish and foolish. Then he remembered why he was really angry: it was their fault. They pushed him. They bought the house and its stupid stairs. They hadn't even made an effort to help him after he fell. He must have been lying there for hours! They had known he had fallen, yet they hadn't even sat there until he woke up. He hated them! They were idiotic carefree imbeciles! That man was perhaps the stupidest of them all; he was so sad and kind and he was TOO DAMN SYMPATHETIC! Anyone who had any brains in their skulls at all would have left the broken murderer to die on his own in the ruins of the opera house!
Then he cried.
He didn't even know why he was crying at first. After a few minutes he decided he was sad for them. There was no wife in their family, so chances were she had died. He was also sad for himself. Was he that blind? How could he not see that he was not angry at them at all? He was so grateful for them. Henri could have left him to die, but he didn't. He had taken him home to his prodigy of a daughter and she had cured him.
He ran out of tears and lay there on the bed. He still needed rest. He hurt from crying, and his whole body ached from the movement sobbing required. He could see blood from his forehead had stained the sheets.
A few minutes passed, and he heard footsteps by the door.
"Erik?"
No response.
"Erik . . . Genevieve and I are going to mass." Henri's voice was addressing him, but he pretended he couldn't hear. "We'll be back in two hours."
And then they left.
---
As soon as she heard the door of the shop slam, Madeline took the paper and pencil from her bedside table and hobbled into the hall. She came to Erik's room. The door was wide open, so she just walked right in and sat in the chair by the bed. He lay there, motionless, with his back to her. She had no idea whether he was awake or asleep. He wasn't showing any signs of knowing she was there. She wouldn't be surprised if he was unconscious. She could see blood on the pillows and on the sheets under his legs. He was in a perfect position to draw. She put her pencil to the paper and began to sketch.
She knew she should be afraid, but she wasn't.
It was not a new sensation, this lack of obvious emotion. It was a strange trait of Madeline's, to feel suddenly calm when others would be panicking or crying. It had been a common thing with her mother, too. Her mother had also had the habit of doing incredibly unladylike things in public, such as yelling at taxi drivers.
Only after Genevieve had been born did Henri's wife begun to calm. But it had not been a healthy sort of calm. It had been a difficult birth, and as the days went by her health had begun to deteriorate. Henri at first said it was only the normal pains a mother had after labor, and they would fade soon enough. But he had to stop saying that, for anyone could see that something was not right. She had trouble sleeping, and could barely eat. She was restless, only going to bed to get up again and pace the hallway for hours before sitting in the kitchen and gazing out the window. She hardly spoke, only the occasional soft lullaby for Genevieve. Sometimes, too, she would mutter things to Henri or the air in front of her, always something about a pain she felt inside of her.
After two weeks, her mother finally fell asleep. . .
Madeline gently laid her hand on her father's arm. He jumped at her touch.
"Papa, I've made dinner. Please, can't you leave Maman and eat with me? Please?"
"I can't, Madeline. I have to watch you're mother. She may need something." This made the girl desperate.
"But Papa, you haven't eaten in almost a week!"
"Go eat alone, I'll be fine."
A few minutes later she returned. "Papa, Genevieve is crying. I don't know what's wrong. Nothing I try works. She's been doing this for a long time. I'm worried."
"Bring her here. I'll wake your mother. She'll help." His daughter ran off and returned again, this time carrying a small wailing bundle. The little thing had used up all its tears and was now making pitiful screams. Madeline stepped across the room to stand by her father. Henri leaned forward and shook his wife's shoulder gently. "Opale. The baby is crying again."
The woman didn't move, so he shook her a bit harder. "Please Opale, we need you." Silence again. Henri's voice was tired and small. "I need you."
"Papa . . . I –"
"Opale!" his hoarse yelling surprised Madeline. It was not like him. He suddenly sounded scared "Please! I need you! Opale, don't you understand. I'll DIE without you! Don't leave me alone. Never leave me!"
Silence showed itself again. Henri and his daughters held their breaths, even the baby, though perhaps that was only because she was utterly exhausted.
Henri then knew that one of his greatest fears had become a reality.
He put his arms out, and Madeline passed him the baby. He hugged the child to his chest. Fresh tears left their wet trails down his face as he faced the bitter truth. Madeline, though, felt relieved. Not because she was happy about her mother's death, but because, now she knew Henri would have to leave the place in his mind that he had build from false hopes and useless prayers and return to the world of life. He knew now he held in his hands a new life that he had to tend to, and another young one was at his side.
She had been but nine years old.
But still, she had known that her mother would never wake up before her father had. A full grown man had not accepted the idea until his daughter showed him that other people were still living around him. Madeline had not cried about the loss, despite the fact that she had been close to her mother. She had felt strange and angry at herself for being so out of place when everyone around her made it seem so obvious that they were mourning. Yet no matter how hard she tried, she could not be like them.
She noticed she had finished her drawing. Standing up carefully so not to wake Erik, Madeline made her way to the door.
She was halfway down the hall when her bad leg gave out. Her body slammed against the floor and her breath was knocked out of her. She lay there, shocked and numb, for a few minutes before becoming aware of the screaming pain in her foot. It was worse than it had been in days; it was as if she had burnt it all over again. Too much weight had been put on it at one time. She sucked in air and tried to drag herself to her bedroom. She barely moved before she decided it was hopeless. She would have to stay here on the floor until her family came back . . .
There was a shuffling sound and she felt a hand on her leg. She turned her neck around frantically trying to see who was there. Erik was kneeling by her feet and was unwinding the bandages on her shin.
"What are you doing?" Madeline tried to say, but her voice was caught in her throat. She took a few breaths and asked him again. This time he heard.
"I'm curious as to how much damage the fire has actually done."
She was surprised at how gentle his hands were. They were better than the doctors' at the hospital, anyway.
He finished unwrapping her leg and he propped her foot up on his lap. Madeline looked down and immediately felt ill. Her skin had taken on an appearance not far from that of melted wax. It was swollen and red, with some black and white flesh that was now dead. The twisted and sickening limb was attached to her, and she was all too aware of it.
He looked at it from various angles, and then set it back on the floor again. "I'll be back in a moment. Do not attempt to move again."
Erik limped back into his room and reappeared with a mug in his hand. He set it down on the floor and picked up Madeline's foot again. He dipped his fingers in its sloshing contents and was about to touch her leg.
"What's that?" the young woman demanded.
He almost smiled. "Oh, I was alone for a while . . . your family has the most useful supplies in the kitchen, did you know that?"
Madeline's first impulse was to get up and try to get away from Erik, but because of her injury she had to settle with giving him suspicious looks. She braced herself for a new wave of pain, but it never came.
Instead, as soon as the strange liquid touched her burning skin she felt instant relief.
She looked up at the man in surprise, but he was looking at his hands. He was rubbing the lotion into her leg and foot gently. She tried not to make herself comfortable. Erik was a murderer, she had seen it. She remembered the frantic crowds as they climbed over the seats and each other. It was the human instinct, the very basis of life: the want and need to survive. When it came to that point people would do anything to save themselves. If they had to, some would even leave their loved ones if it meant they would see another day. Madeline herself had watched this from under a burnt velvet chair. She had assumed she was doomed, and had felt helpless. She had been like a puppy that was hiding from an abusive owner. Then, Armand had come and pulled her out from her from the trap she was ensnared in. he had run, half-dragging her behind him, trying to avoid being trampled. Someone had pushed him and the couple had been separated. Madeline did not know what had happened after that, but suddenly she was with a man from the fire brigade and was telling him that her fiancée was still in the building as he led her from the smoldering ruins of the theatre.
She let her eyes wander to the right side of his face. Funny, it didn't seem nearly as bad as it had been, not now that he was acting like any other human . . .
---
Erik Looked up and saw that Madeline had drifted off to sleep. He sighed. He was suddenly glad that he had been so bored three days ago. It had given him some time to work on his hobbies, including medicine. The pain reliever he had made was simple and effective. It would last for some time if Madeline didn't stress her foot like that again. The burn had been serious, worse than he had expected, but he could make salves and other antidotes that would help it heal faster.
He knew he could not leave her on the floor; Henri would have a heart attack if he came home to a scene like this. Erik began to dress the burn again. When he was done, he carefully lifted the girl in his arms and carried her in to her bedroom.
As he laid her on the bed, a memory leaped into his mind's eye. He remembered when another girl, around the same age as Madeline, had lost consciousness in his presence and he had carried her off to bed . . .
He became furious with himself for thinking about Christine. He felt nothing for this woman! Nothing!
Nothing . . .