Christine woke unpleasantly the next morning. Her head was hurting, her mouth was dry, and her entire body was sore and achy from sitting on the cold grass for so long and indulging in a lengthy pity party. She opened her eyes groggily and realized that she was being woken by the insistent buzzing from her phone. With a flopping, reluctant arm, she reached out and grabbed it, knowing who it was, because he was the only person who called her.
"Hello," she mumbled sleepily.
"Christine!" He was panicked. "Christine, where are you?"
"I'm at…my apartment…" she managed to say.
"What? Why are you—? Look, never mind. Why didn't you tell me? I freaked out when I woke up and couldn't find you anywhere! You can't keep doing this to me. I'm going to have a heart attack."
She yawned, rubbing her eyes and wanting to go back to sleep. "Sorry, Raoul," she said, not feeling very sorry at all at this moment. "I'm just…still really tired…"
There was a loud sigh on the other end. "I don't get it. Why are you at your apartment?"
"Because I wanted to come here," she said, starting to get somewhat annoyed. She was tired and grumpy now. "I can come here whenever I want. I'm not a prisoner."
"I never said you were," Raoul said shortly, sounding equally irritated. "I just wish you'd tell me things sometimes instead of running off and making me worry all the time."
"I didn't run off," she said, truly angry now. "I had the worst night of my life last night, and the last thing I wanted was to come back to your snooty, condescending mother who hates me. I didn't want to spend Christmas Eve feeling judged and stupid. And now I have to spend Christmas morning listening to you yell at me." She sat up and spat bitterly, "Merry Christmas." Then she hung up and threw the phone across the room with a loud, angry huff. The phone hit the wall and landed with a dull thump on the floor, still all in one usable piece.
Feeling empowered by her speech to Raoul and silently congratulating herself for managing to say something to him that she truly felt, she reluctantly climbed out of her old bed and went to the bathroom. It took nearly ten minutes to get the hot water started in the shower, and she stood there naked, folding her arms and alternately lifting her feet from the freezing tile floor. When it was at a slightly hotter-than-comfortable temperature, she stepped into it and sighed with pleasure.
However, the longer she stood in the steaming water, the worse she felt. She felt panic begin to rise just below her stomach and make its way up to her brain. What had she just done? She had just yelled at the only person who now cared about her. She had insulted him and his mother, had deliberately acted in ways that would make him worry, and had hung up on his phone call.
It was always like this with him. She knew it would forever be. She would be the one crawling back to him, begging him to forgive her. He never did anything wrong. She was the stupid one in the relationship—she would be the one causing problems. After all, hadn't he defended her last night? He had told his mother to…stop. And that he liked her. And that she needed help. It was…noble of him, wasn't it? Noble to say those things? His mother had torn her apart, and Raoul had told her to stop it.
As she stood, she paused and then turned off the water suddenly. She could hear someone knocking loudly on the door. Her stomach flipped, and she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself securely before heading out into the front room. Goose bumps rose on her skin at the chill of the air, and she went over to the door and stood on tiptoe to peer into the peephole. It was—it was Raoul.
Feeling horrified and relieved, she unlocked the door with one hand, keeping the other one firmly clasped to her towel, and she opened the door.
"Hey," he said, blinking at the sight of her in a towel.
"Hi," Christine said. Then she realized that his mother was behind him, and she was mortified. She was strongly tempted to slam the door shut. Mrs. de Chagny's lip curled at the sight of her. She blushed brightly and looked back to Raoul in a valiant effort to keep composed.
"I…brought your clothes," Raoul said, holding out the traveling bag. "I thought that…you might need them."
"Oh," Christine said, choking a little. "Thanks…Yeah. You can…see…that I do."
He forced out a little bit of laughter, though it died quickly, and they were left in an awkward silence.
"Also I brought your gifts," he said hurriedly, and he put the bag down on the floor and set a few brightly-wrapped presents on top of it.
"Oh," she said again, nearly in tears. She wanted to run up and hug him and beg him to forgive her, but the towel and his mother made it all…rather awkward. She simply stood there, her hand on the knob, her hair heavy and water dripping down her back. Then she took a step backward.
"Do you…want to come in?" she asked hesitantly. "I can…change into some real clothes…or…"
"No," Mrs. de Chagny said shortly. "We're going over to my sister's house for today."
"Oh," she said for the third time. Then she blushed deeper. "Have fun."
Raoul was watching her face carefully, but she was staring at his neck. She didn't want to see the expression in his eyes. He was undoubtedly furious at her.
"Yes. Have a good holiday, Christine." Mrs. de Chagny looped her arm in Raoul's. "Ready, darling?"
He nodded, and it looked like he was going to reach out to touch her, but he merely said, "Merry Christmas, Christine." And they turned around and walked down the stairs. Christine stared after them until she couldn't hear their footsteps anymore. Then she pulled the things inside her apartment and slammed the door shut.
It took all her effort not to call Raoul over the long hours of the next day. She sat huddled on the sofa underneath a blanket, the heat kept low to minimize the bills, and she stared at the phone that she had set across the room. He hadn't called or texted her once. She wondered if this was his way of telling her that it was over between them.
She wanted to call and cry and ask him to forgive her, but the way that his mother had looked at her effectively stopped her. Raoul was probably relieved that she wasn't pestering him. He was probably thanking his mother for helping him get rid of his obnoxious, clingy little girlfriend.
The presents he had brought her were sitting on the small, scuffed kitchen table, unopened and gleaming dully in the dim light. She couldn't bring herself to open them. She wondered if Raoul had opened the presents she had given to him. They were kind of pathetic, she thought. She had given him a CD he had been wanting, a documentary about his favorite sports team, and an old book of French love poems. She had found it while wandering around an antique shop weeks ago. The more she thought on it, the more embarrassed she became. It had been silly, disgustingly-sentimental, and stupid. She loved old books, and the bookseller had assured her that it was one of the first editions, published sometime in the early twentieth century. So she had bought it, had taken it home and proudly showed her father, and she had written a message on the inside cover in careful French.
Raoul,
Thanks for all you've done for me. You've made me a better person in so many ways. I'm so glad that you're in my life. You're the best boyfriend any girl could ask for, and I'm still amazed that you want me as your girlfriend. Thank you so much for everything.
Merry Christmas!
Love,
Christine
It was now all so embarrassing. To have broken up on Christmas morning…probably right after he had opened the gift and read the inscription…She hoped he threw the book away. She didn't want him to keep it and be reminded of how stupid she was every time he looked at it. She could imagine his future girlfriends at his apartment, wandering around and looking at his bookshelf. Maybe some of them would be sickened by the old, brown book. They would ask what it was, and he would laugh and say that it was a gift from a girl who had liked him. They would make fun of her together. Christine buried her face in her arms, embarrassed and angered.
Everything had gone wrong after her father was taken. Everything had somehow crumbled, as if her father had been the only person holding everything together. Before that awful night, she had felt that her relationship with Raoul was at least stable (though she did often wonder just why it was he liked her), and though she had worried, she had prayed to God that they would all make it through okay. She had believed that they would.
The day passed slowly. All of the perishable food had gone bad, and she threw it out in disgust. That left cans and jars of an odd assortment, and she made herself a few mismatching meals, not really tasting the food as she simply pushed things into her mouth and forced herself to swallow. She stared at her phone and the presents on the table alternately, wondering when she would break, and which one she would break for first. For the hundredth time, she checked her phone. No new messages, no missed calls…She swallowed.
Although it was barely eight o' clock, she readied herself for bed, different phrases ringing in her ears.
She has a lot of baggage…
Nothing going for her…
She's got the personality of a piece of paper.
That stupid, pathetic little Swede.
You can't keep doing this to me.
Maybe it would be better if she didn't intrude in anybody else's life. She just messed things up. She would get a job as soon as she could and be unobtrusive. Then she would find the Phantom again and give him everything she owned to find her father. He would return to her, and they would never bother anyone again. It would be just the two of them—no one else, ever. She wouldn't go around screwing up people's lives anymore.
She stared at her ceiling. Dull, orange streetlight filtered in through her thin drapes, making large shadows on the walls. Sometimes she found shapes in them. There were elephants and horses, monkeys, castles, butterflies, pirate ships…She rolled onto her stomach and watched the window. It was snowing again. The snow always turned ugly in the city. It froze over into a gray patch of disgusting ice, and the sidewalks would be dangerous. The snow in the parks usually turned brown from the dirt and dead grass. The snow in Sweden…She closed her eyes and sighed wistfully. She could have spent her whole life out there in that blinding, dazzling snow.
When her father returned, she would beg him to move back to Sweden. The only thing that had prevented it for the last six years was their lack of money. He had spent nearly his last Euro on their plane ticket here. He had taken her to France when she had been ten. Four years in Paris had done nothing but remind him of his wife, and so he had asked Christine if she would like to move to America—the land of the free and the home of the brave. Being only fourteen, she had been thrilled at the prospect of going to such a place, and so they had moved to a large city and hadn't been able to leave since. Gustave was paid less here because of his very poor English. They had done reasonably well in France because his French was fluent (if heavily-accented), but he hadn't known a word of English when he had stepped off the plane. Christine had spent more than half of her life studying English in the schools she had gone to, and so she had been his translator for the first couple of years.
It all seemed wonderful in her imagination. She and her father would go back to their motherland. She could just imagine the joy on his face as he stepped off the plane and heard Swedish spoken in every direction. He would probably cry, and then she would cry because he was crying.
She sighed deeply and closed her eyes, silently praying to ask God to protect her Pappa wherever he was. He just needed to hold on…for a little while longer…and then she would save him.
When she opened her eyes, she blinked and the frowned a little in confusion. The lights outside seemed even dimmer than before. She watched them, shrugged, and closed her eyes again.
However, a flitting of shadows across her eyelids made her heart jump, and she gasped and sat up, clutching the bedspread tightly in her hands in preparation to throw it over her head if she was in danger. She looked around her small room carefully. Maybe she was imagining things...She took a deep breath and mentally berated herself for being so jumpy and paranoid. However...when she looked into the corner by the door, she saw that the shadow appeared to somehow be getting larger.
Christine shrank back into her old, creaky headboard, covering her mouth. The shadow kept growing, and she was afraid it would take over the room and devour her. Two lights appeared within the shadow, and she was terrified. She let out a whimper against her hand, her eyes wide with horror. Her heart was pounding in her chest, as if it wanted to get out. She wildly wished that she was having an awful nightmare—that she was really asleep and that none of this was happening, but the pain in her chest from her pounding heart told her that she was awake and alive.
Then the shadow suddenly broke into its own entity, and it stood at the foot of her bed. After a moment, Christine realized, with even more horror, that the shadow was the shape of man. It was the man with glowing eyes—the Phantom.
Just as she opened her mouth to scream, he spoke to her.
"I would ask you not to scream," he said. His voice sounded…easy. Casual. "It really does give me a dreadful headache, and I do not have the time for that this evening."
Christine held the blankets up to her cheeks, leaving only her eyes, hair and fingertips visible as she watched him. He was here…to kill her. He had followed her home and was using this opportunity to finally silence her once and for all. Screaming wouldn't help anymore. He was too close to her. He could fire a gun with his eyes closed and hit her square in the head if he wanted.
There was a long, awful pause. She was crying a little. She didn't want to die. She hadn't found her father yet!
"Listen to me carefully," the Phantom then said, resting one of his long, black-enshrouded hands on the footboard of the bed. "I have a proposition to make to you."
Christine sniffled, shuddering a little on a sob. "I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I'm so sorry. Please."
"Stop sniveling," he snapped. "Be quiet and listen to me."
She obeyed. He might prolong her life if she obeyed him.
"I would be willing to find your father for you."
The air disappeared from her lungs, and she felt her heart begin to skip beats. Her head went oddly blank, and her stomach seemed to expand. "What?" she managed to whisper. "I don't…have any money."
"I am aware of that," he said irritably, waving his hand dismissively. "You will do something much different in exchange."
Christine whimpered. What would he ask of her? What could she have that would possible interest him? Something…immoral?
The Phantom continued to speak. "In exchange for your voice, I will find your father. Listen. Just listen. I have heard you singing. You have a remarkable instrument, but it is not properly tuned. I have never heard such potential in a soprano voice. You hold in your throat one of the most profound things the world has ever witnessed. In exchange for your father, you will take vocal instruction from me. You will adhere to a strict regiment of music lessons and other such things. You will be dedicated solely toward music. In three months' time, you will audition at the Opera House. You are still young and your voice has not fully developed, so you will be playing lyric sopranos and romantic interests—you will not be the leading voice of the company for a number of years. However, I will continue to tutor you until I deem you responsible and mature enough to continue on your own. After you earn enough to repay me, I will consider our bargain fulfilled."
She stared.
She wondered if he was crazy. He probably was. He…killed people. He was surely crazy! How could he propose this to her?
"I…I couldn't," she whispered. "I couldn't possibly…"
"You will accept if you wish for your father to be returned," he said coldly, threateningly. His glowing eyes narrowed slightly, and she shuddered.
"I don't understand," she then confessed timidly.
"What more is there to understand?" he said. "I have little time for this tonight. If you want your father returned, you will accept my proposition."
Christine continued to stare at him, feeling her chest heave with a mix of polar emotions. Was he telling the truth? Would he really return her father if she…took voice lessons from him? If she auditioned at the Opera House? She shivered as she thought of her distant dreams.
"You'll bring my father back to me…if I take voice lessons from you?" she clarified hesitantly, her voice muffled, still hidden behind her blankets. "Why? I…I don't get it."
"I have already told you," he said, his fingers tightening on the footboard. "A voice likes yours does not deserve to be kept in obscurity. You need a proper guiding hand to mold your instrument into perfection. Now, do you accept?"
It was all rather sudden. What if she said no? Would he kill her? He might leave…and then her father would never be found. She had an uncomfortable feeling that if she said no and then earned enough money, he would not accept it out of spite for her refusal to accept his insane proposition. But if she said yes…she was agreeing to take voice lessons from a known murderer—a terrifying, horrible man!
However, he promised to bring her father back.
If she said no, she knew she would regret it until the day she died. Worse-case scenarios ran through her mind. What if she said no, when her father only had hours left to live and the Phantom could have found him and saved his life? What if she said no, and the Phantom went out and deliberately killed her father? What if she refused, and he got so angry that he killed her?
Two of his long fingers tapped impatiently on her footboard, and his eyes were glowing and piercing into her. Christine's mind was racing, and she thought of her Pappa, alone...maybe sick or dying...
She looked at the Phantom, praying that she wasn't somehow condemning herself to death, and nodded.