I drifted in and out of consciousness for a long time, drifting deeper into the darkness of my mind only to be pulled back to life by some horrible pain. The Vicomte de Chagny had taken to whipping me. I'm sure he relished in every tiny, involuntary noise I made. My back, my shoulders, both sides of my head… All felt like my skin was on fire. At some point, he must have cut me loose, because I woke to find that I could move my hands, but after being whipped a few more times, I knew it would be pointless to try and push myself up.
The whipping finally stopped, and I fell into a deep sleep, my body aching but still very much alive. I neither wondered nor cared if Raoul de Chagny realized that I still lived, just as I neither wondered nor cared how horrible of pain I would be in when next I woke, if I were to wake again at all. It was amazing, the lengths to which my body could be tortured without it killing me. I found myself cursing my ability to survive.
I found, next time I woke, that the viscomte had made a mistake. One I hoped I would live to rub in his face. When he pulled me up from where I had curled up after he'd whipped me, I realized my hands were free. It was with that realization that I managed to grab onto his wrist when he dragged me along. The surprise in his face was delicious as I managed to pull him down, causing him to trip and fall, his body tangling with mine as we rolled down a narrow hallway. We tumbled down some stairs before finally separating. I tried to land face down so he would have less to cause real damage to if he managed to stand before I could.
But he didn't. I managed to pull myself to my feet, but the viscomte did not budge. At first glance, it appeared that he had been knocked round the head hard enough to put him unconscious for a while. I moved quickly, taking his boots and his cloak. I also took the small knife he had stabbed me with, which was in his front pocket.
I was thankful for the large hood on his cloak. It made up for my missing mask.
Every step was agony. The viscomte's feet were at least two sizes smaller than my own, but the small size of his boots on my feet was the least of my concerns. Every step seemed to reopen the wounds on my back. Every little movement seemed to worsen the stab wound in my side. But I knew which direction I needed to go in. Once I reached the outside and the cold, bitter winter air, I could see the city. Deep within the city lay the opera house. I would find the nearest entrance to the sewers. Traveling underground I would stand a better chance of outrunning anyone who might chase me.