I do not own the rights to The Phantom of the Opera. Or Tylenol, for that matter.
It was late July in Auburn, Massachusetts, and the weather was unseasonably fair. A warm breeze danced tree branches in a gentle rhythm and, if one stopped to listen, a simple etude for birdcalls and wind chimes could be heard from virtually any point in the modest town. It was a perfect midsummer's afternoon- and all of its natural beauty was lost on Christine Daae.
Christine could be found lying facedown on the carpet of her apartment, lights off and blinds closed, oblivious to the world. The only sign of life she showed was the occasional consumption of chips from the bag by her side, then it was straight back to a state of near vegetation. Frankly, she didn't have the energy to do much else. The events of the day previous had hit Christine like a truck, and all she could do was cycle between reflecting on them and trying to forget them completely.
The awful truth was that Christine needed a plan of action, but the more she thought about it, the more her headache threatened to make a triumphant return. It was hopeless anyways, and she knew it. There was the option of going to the police, but several factors stood in the way of this. The most obvious argument for staying home was the fact that Christine was too terrified to leave her apartment. However, she would have to leave to attend class the next day. Voice performance at the Nilsson Conservatory didn't study itself. In any case, she wasn't even sure whether the drug that had knocked her out (if there had, in fact, been a drug) was still in her system. If it weren't there, then she'd have no proof to show the police and would seem crazy. That is, more so than she herself thought she might already be. But if it really had been a dream, then how could the puncture wound be explained? And there still remained the concern of her own safety, if in fact a psychopath was stalking her.
In short, it was a lot to consider, and it all left Christine feeling as though she needed a drink.
Here we go. C'mon, feet.
It took her several tries to work up the gumption to stand. Perhaps the brunette was being overly lethargic, but she didn't think so. She could recall how unbelievably difficult it was to stand up to her accoster one final time after having been reduced to a bundle of nerves and emotion. When one took into account the introduction of a heavy sedative to Christine's body after a wild rush of adrenaline had sapped nearly all her energy, it was really no wonder that she would have needed all the sleep that she did. Even now her movements felt slow and labored. Of course, all of this begged the question of why she was told a completely different story by the Girys, two women who had been like family to her from a very young age. She couldn't see any good reason for them to be anything but truthful.
God, not again.
Without thinking, Christine grabbed a small bottle off of the kitchen counter and popped a couple of Tylenol. This, of course, ruled out the option of alcoholic refreshment, so she instead washed the pills down with water and closed her eyes.
She felt very much alone.
A/N: I know that this chapter is a bit short even in comparison to the others. I had my reasons for not tacking it onto the last one, though. After a couple of reviews, I'll be turning out longer chapters. Go, makers of your own destiny! Go forth and review!