Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. I do use a few direct quotes in this chapter from chapters VII and XII of Leroux's book.

A/N: Well, I have returned. I hope I did not break my train of thought too much. Thank you to all of you lovely people who have reviewed. I like you.


Dear Journal--well, it's not exactly my journal. Rather, a stack of fine paper I have discovered in a desk. I suppose writing on unattached paper is even more risky than keeping a journal (if I were to revert to my paranoid inclination not to write things down). However, writing has become so very therapeutic for me (I'll have to thank Mamma Valerius for that) that I feel compelled to feed the habit.

None of that matters right now. Focus. Right. So… without further ado…

Dear what-will-serve-as-my-journal-for-the-time-being,

My memory is such a haze, I am not certain how long it has been since I have written. How long have I been in this place? Days? Weeks? I have no way of knowing.

Right. I need to calm down. That is why I am doing this right? I will begin with where I think I last left off and go as far as I can remember.

Oh yes, Faust. It did not go well.

Christine had been having a rough afternoon. Carlotta's return to the opera--just in time to reclaim her role in the production--also marked a tremendous increase in the unwanted attention Christine received from the diva and her friends.

Not to mention, rumors that Christine and her friends (she was not so aware she had any) were plotting against Carlotta had spread throughout the company.

Where she had few friends before, now there were fewer who would issue so much as a kind word to her in the hallway.

The other result was that, when Carlotta finally walked onto the stage, the crowd launched into such an unwarranted round of applause that those who were unaware of the circumstances of Carlotta's return were thoroughly perplexed.

I remember seeing Raoul and missing lines.

While she had been removed from Carlotta's role as Marguerite, the managers were reluctant to demote Christine back to the chorus. Whether this was out of appreciation for her singing or fear of the Opera Ghost, she could not be sure.

Regardless of the reasoning, Christine had been moved into the role of Siébel--and all would have to admit that she looked adorable, even dressed as she was in boys' clothing.

She began to sing her lines when her gaze drifted to the de Chagny box. There she saw her poor Raoul, weeping with his head between his hands. Her heart broke for the boy, knowing that she was the cause of his pain. Oh Raoul, forgive me! Move on, please! You don't deserve this… you don't deserve me

Her breath hitched and her voice was suddenly hoarse and raspy. When her lines finally did make it past her lips, they were muddled and quiet.

As she sang, murmurs rippled through the audience. "What happened to her?" "She was so good the last time she sang" "What an odd girl!"

As soon as her part was finished, she made a hasty exit and headed to her dressing-room in shame. I wonder what He will think of this performance…

I went back to my room. Carlotta made odd sounds. I remember thinking it was extremely amusing and ironic. But then there was a voice and a crash, and my memory gets hazy from then on.

"Co-ack!" A terrible frog-noise interrupted Marguerite's aria. Carlotta began again, singing even louder and moving more brazenly than before. However, she could barely get out three words before the sound reverberated through the auditorium again.

"Co-ack!"

She tried again.

"Co-ack!"

Again.

"Co-ack!"

The crowd had begun to laugh nervously. There was not a person in the house that did not sense this was the work of the infamous Opera Ghost.

The managers and performers tensed in fearful anticipation of what was to happen next. Rumors had circulated concerning the notes sent by the Ghost threatening a great catastrophe. Is this the catastrophe He was referring to? To ruin the opera and Carlotta's career. Or is there something else?

At that moment, a voice echoed through the hall with a power that caused the windows to vibrate and the people to tremble.

"She is singing tonight to bring the chandelier down!"

Every eye turned upward to the glorious crystal chandelier above their heads for a few breathless moments before complete pandemonium broke loose.

That was all He needed to prove his point to the managers, humiliate La Carlotta, and abscond with Mlle. Daae who, at the moment, was in her dressing room--exactly where he wanted her to be.

Too, too easy! He smiled and expertly worked various trap-doors and secret passage ways, effectively circumnavigating the hysteria and landing him just outside Christine's dressing room. Just a thin piece of mirrored glass stands between me and my angel. It is time, my love.

I walked through my mirror? No, that can't be right. Can it? I am trying to think, but nothing adds up.

Christine stood in front of her mirror when she heard the crash of the chandelier. She had just changed out of her costume and into a light dressing gown, happy to be back in clothing meant for a female.

The crash had made her jump, but she was hesitant to leave her dressing-room because she had unbound her hair and currently wore little clothing. She was also not so sure that she truly wanted to know what was happening out there.

As long as she stayed in her room, she could ignore the frightening sounds and try to stay in her peaceful little bubble--if only for a few more moments. For a few moments, she could pretend that her life was not so complicated. She could forget Raoul's broken heart, Mamma's failing health, The Voice and her feelings of helplessness.

For a few moments, she could forget about the last six months. She could just be Christine. Plain, unremarkable, invisible, but still in control.

The shouts and screams faded out of her ears and were replaced with the sound of singing. Had she been completely clear-headed, she would have recognized the otherworldly voice and ran the other direction.

However, in her current state-of-mind, the song easily put her into a sort-of trance and she blindly followed it.

Around the desk, she followed it.

Across the room, she followed it.

Past the sofa, she followed it.

Back in front of the mirror, she followed it.

Likely, if the music had led her off the edge of a cliff, she would not have hesitated to fall to her death. As it was, however, it led her straight into the mirror.

Never for a second did she wonder how she walked through the mirror. It never even occurred to her to question it.

Then there was darkness. I have a few images. A few memories of sensations… never the whole picture. Just fragments.

I remember water.

When the singing ceased, she was met by a dark figure. The figure lifted her and set her into a boat. Taking its place at the other end, it began to row through the murky waters. The two yellow eyes that blazed in the darkness fixed on Christine's face and never wavered.

If I close my eyes, I can see two yellow lights. Like two stars or maybe cat's eyes in the darkness. I wonder if that was real or if it was a dream.

Ever so slowly, she began to regain control of her senses. What? Where am I? Am I being kidnapped?

"Who are you?" she demanded.

The only response was a sigh.

I remember a breath. A sigh. It was a chilling sound… something akin to the death rattle. The thought alone makes my skin crawl.

She shivered, but refused to be shaken. She struggled against the drug-like trance she had been in and tried desperately to put order to her thoughts. I have been taken. Who is this man? Could it be the Opera Ghost? Someone must be able to help me… but who? Raoul? No, he could not hear me down here. Who can hear me? The Voice! He hears everything! He can help me… I know he will… he must!

"Angel? Angel can you hear me? Help me! Save me!" she began to scream. She heard no response. Where is he? Why won't he help me? The fiery gaze of her captor remained steady and unyielding, but he said nothing and made no effort to stop her shouts. Her pleas were useless; they both knew it.

Then there was a man. Who was he? I can't remember. Think. Maybe I know him.

The figure led her out of the boat into a very comfortably furnished room. He gently forced her to sit down in a large chair in the corner.

"Peace, Christine," he murmured, "you are safe here."

It was Him! It was the Voice, her teacher, her angel.

"It's you…" she whispered hoarsely. Part of her felt relieved, but that was easily overshadowed by the part of her that felt betrayed and frustrated and out-of-control. The sight of the black mask that covered his entire face only added to her fury. After all of this he would dare hide from me? NO! I do not accept this!

Her myriad of emotions boiled over as she flew at him with an animalistic screech. All the rage she had pent up inside her over the last few months came roaring out of her while she struck at him with her fists and attempted to rip off the hated mask.

With surprising strength, he wrapped his skeletal fingers around her wrists and pushed her back into her seat. His voice betrayed no emotion, nor did it show any evidence of a struggle.

"No harm will come to you as long as you do not touch the mask."

Then he poured her a cup of tea and knelt at her feet. She took a sip, fully aware that it could be poisoned but willing to risk it for the small comfort it might offer her frazzled nerves. She didn't die and, as she expected, it was very calming. As she drank, she concentrated on taking deep, steady, breaths. Focus. Breathe. Think. Relax.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was evaluating her options. I cannot escape by force, she noted and mentally ticked the option off her list.

From his place on the floor, he looked up into her eyes and his gaze softened.

"Christine, I love you."

She evaluated his tone. His voice was no longer cold, no longer demanding. It was soft, pleading… completely and utterly submissive. Perfect, she thought triumphantly. She had discovered his weakness.

"If you love me, you must let me go immediately. If you keep me here I will only ever despise you"

The man nodded solemnly. "I understand," he said softly, "I will take you back."

He stood and turned his back to her and began to sing.

Too easy, she thought, this can't be right. This was too easy. Then she fell sound asleep.

Why can I not remember that man's face?

I have been violently ill. But, for how long, I do not know. It could be days. I am just now able to get out of bed.

I was not alone in my illness. I know this because, when I awoke, I was in a comfortable bed in this comfortable room. I am wearing a different nightgown. That thought is distressing to me, but I do not have the luxury to dwell on such things at present. However, the significance of these observations is that it means someone has been taking care of me. In truth, I do vaguely remember this being the case.

She awoke just as a fierce wave of nausea passed over her, a man helped her into the bathroom and then carried her back to bed.

He returned to his seat beside her bed, his book forgotten, and gazed mournfully at her while she fell back into her fitful slumber. I am so sorry, Christine. Please get better! Forgive me…

Again she awoke, thrashing violently. A nightmare. Her body ached all over and her skin was damp with perspiration.

There was fire followed by ice.

He pressed his palm to her forehead. It was so cold… the icy hand of death. But it felt exquisite on her fevered skin.

Is it wrong to take comfort from a stranger… possibly a murderer… your kidnapper?

"Again." she rasped as he pulled back.

He hesitated. Did she just ask me to touch her?

"Again, please" she begged again.

The man was stunned. He reached out a tentative hand and placed it against her cheek.

She let out a relieved sigh and leaned into his palm.

His eyes grew wide. This can't be happening. Unable to help himself, he moved his other hand to her face, cupping her jaw in his hands and caressing her cheeks with his thumbs. She moaned ever so slightly and her restless body snuggled down contentedly in her sleep.

He stood that way, holding her head in his hands, for a few minutes more until he withdrew and fell back into his chair, trembling and confused.

I expect that it is. I shall have to use more discretion in the future.

The next time Christine awoke, she was alone in the room. She felt much better and her mind was clear enough to realize the importance of his absence. Now. I must run now!

She opened the door to her room to find that only led to a bathroom. Christine had to admit that it was the most luxurious and large bathroom she had ever seen. But it was still merely a bathroom, not an exit and, as such, it held little appeal for her.

She returned to the bedroom but was frustrated and confused to find no other doors. Where am I? How did I get here?

On the chest of drawers beside the bed she found a folded note that she had not noticed before.

--'My dear Christine, you need have no concern as to your fate. You have no better nor more respectful friend in the world than myself. You are alone, at present, in this home which is yours. I am going shopping to fetch all the things you can need.'--

You're kidding.

I am trapped here. I am alone and there is no exit. If there is no exit, how did I get in here in the first place? There are no windows. I am not usually prone to claustrophobia, but I am beginning to feel closed-in on.

You'd think that my first priority would be to get dressed or bathe. It is not befitting of a lady to meet a man, kidnapper or no, in her nightgown.

However, I've found that in a situation such as this, typical priorities no longer apply. I found paper and I wished to write. And so, that is what I am doing.

I don't know how long I have been writing, just as I do not know how long I was ill. My watch has stopped and needs to be rewound so I know I have been here more than twenty-four hours. Beyond that, I have no idea. There is no sense of time here.

And so, there is nothing to do but wait. I am playing a game in which the stakes are high and I am unfamiliar with the rules. All I can do is wait to meet my kidnapper and take it from there.

We'll see what happens,

Christine