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Step. Step. Step. Step.

Christine kept her eyes trained on the sidewalk ahead of her, making a point of stepping in the center of every square of concrete as she made her way to her next class. Song Lit. "Yippee," she muttered.

For a little over a week, Christine had made her way from point A to point B in this exact fashion; head down, quick step, hands at sides. Perhaps it gained her a few odd looks, but she didn't care. Christine felt far from safe at this point, although this was not information she was willing to share with anyone else.

Step. Step. Step.

It wasn't as though it would do any good to talk to someone. Christine knew full well that she had no physical evidence to justify her paranoia, and that there were several people who would even testify against her. People she thought she could trust.

Christine stopped walking for a moment, staring straight ahead. Then, as though remembering something, she glanced over each shoulder, and took off again.

One more block to go. I'm on the home stretch.

Christine's behavior could, however, be very much justified. By now, she had come to several conclusions, one of these being that, for whatever reason, she was being conspired against. It hurt her to try and avoid her best friend of eleven years, but Christine had resolved to try and distance herself from the Girys until she had a firmer grasp on the situation. Another realization on Christine's part was that most likely she had been, or was being stalked.

It wasn't easy for the girl to try and wrap her mind around this idea, but for the time being, she wasn't taking any chances. A canister of pepper spray (unused as of yet, but purchased several years ago) was in the purse at her side, as was her cell phone. She made an effort to be as aware of her surroundings as possible at all times, and made a point of never travelling alone at night. However, seeing as how she had alienated her closest friend and thereby exhausted her list of people she was comfortable asking for favors, Christine didn't travel at all by night.

All she knew for sure was that she was ready for the constant fear to be over. In fact, Christine almost wished that she would meet her masked assailant, just to be able to put the sense of expectation to rest. She was already sick of jumping at every little noise, and not feeling secure in her own home.

By this point, Christine had reached Crage Hall, where her Song Lit. class was located. She hefted the bag on her shoulder, and pushed her way through glass double doors and inside the building.

Checking the time on her phone, Christine saw that she had seven minutes to spare before her class began. Chalk yet another one up to my compulsive punctuality, she thought dully, as she ducked into the women's restroom on her left.

Dropping her canvas bag to the floor, Christine turned on the taps and studied herself in the mirror. Her face wore a pained expression as she took in her appearance. Her normally pale skin was actually pallid, all the color having left her cheeks and lips. A distinct lack of make up made the dark circles under her eyes stand out, and create a generally corpse-like look about her.

Here she comes, Miss America.

After checking the water's temperature, Christine splashed her face and scrubbed it with hand soap until she could feel her eyes stinging. She rinsed and patted dry with a paper towel, looking at her reflection again.

She knew she shouldn't be so hard on herself, but then, she always knew that. Christine knew what she liked about herself and took pride in what she did, but thoughts of these things were not usually foremost in her mind. Before leaving the bathroom and heading to class, she made a point of finding one quality about herself that she actually liked, if only to try and preserve her sanity. Her light blue eyes were her late father's.

After half an hour of reviewing German pronouns and simultaneously staring out of the nearest window at the street below, Christine was headed to classroom 100 for her weekly voice lesson. At this point, she felt as good as she would all day. Nowhere felt safer to her than the buildings at the Nilsson Conservatory, surrounded by familiar faces and music, leaking through doorways. Even if her experiences while practicing or studying were frustrating (which they often were) or her communications with fellow students painfully awkward, she still felt more at home here than anywhere else in the world.

For the first time in a while, perhaps all day, Christine allowed a smile to play across her features as she neared her destination. Of all her school-related activities, private voice lessons were easily her favorite. Her teacher was kindly and sweet, an older lady named Emma Valerius who insisted that everyone call her Emma, and who was as much a mother figure to Christine as Madame Giry had been. Christine owed so much to Emma, who had worked from day one to make Christine feel as though she was not alone in this most imposing of places.

"Hello-o-o!" Christine called in the traditional way she and Emma had established as she opened the classroom door. A cheerful "Hello!" greeted her upon crossing the threshold.

Christine stopped and stared at the owner of the voice, and a small moan escaped her lips.

It wasn't Emma Valerius sitting at the piano bench.