I apologise for another filler chappie. But this one especially was much needed. I hope it's not too monotonous!
R&R please!!!
Months passed. I walked through those days as a ghost, hearing but listening, seeing but never looking. Erik had consumed my mind completely. I had made myself sick with worry over the man I had pledged my devotion to and cried myself to sleep countless times. I knew in my heart that he had not meant to worry me, but I still felt a pang of sudden nausea and anger rise in me whenever I thought about that last letter. Which was often.
In this time Meg and I had grown apart. It was something that had only happened once- when my father had died. Meg realized it too.
"What is wrong with you, Christine?" she questioned one day after rehearsal, her normally light blue eyes dark with worry as they surveyed my deathly pale face. "It- it's like your father ...died again. What has happened?"
I swallowed and avoided her gaze. 'Really, Meg, I-"
"No," she intejected, placing a stern hand on my forearm. "Tell me. Are we not best friends?"
"Yes," I sighed. "And I should apologise for not telling you sooner than this." Then I took a shuddering breath and began my story. Purposefully -and though I felt guilty about it- leaving out details like the Opera Ghost facade and the details of Erik's face and living arrangements. Even then, her eyes were wide with shock.
"That's where you were all those evenings," she muttered. Then she was silent, and even in my pitable state I detected her mind adding up all the events of those few wonderous months.
"So, now you know." I concluded in the lifeless voice I acknowledged now belonged to me. "I have lost something that is equally if not more precious than father was to me."
Meg seemed sad for me. "Oh, Christine," she murmured, throwing her arms about me. "I'm so sorry."
Meg was the only thing that kept my sanity and my heart intact. And, although I did not notice it, three more years passed.
I had waited all during that third year for his return. This was when he told me that he was going to be back at the opera house. And with each week that disappeared, my heart grew colder and colder. And as the first autumn leaves turned color, I changed as well. In my mind, Erik was dead.
In my heart, however, I still desperately hoped otherwise.
Before rehearsals for Hannibal began, rumors of the opera ghost were still spread as vigorously as ever. There were only letters and silly little pranks to show for it. Madame Giry and I, the only ones who knew truth, remained silent. But the chorus girls did have some cause for gossip as of late. The tricks had grown in number and more sinister in nature as well as rehearsals progressed. Some of them actually posed a danger to those preyed upon. But to me it was trivial to the worries I held foremost. Every evening I turned to the chapel and prayed for my Angel of Music. And when I sang, I could have sworn he heard me. Singing allowed me to take a holiday from the despair and emptiness that engulfed me otherwise.
Opening night was but a week away. I was in the chorus and the ballet, but there was little passion in my moments, as the music was dead to me. I did as I was told and nothing more. Singing, on the other hand, was a different matter entirely. It was something Erik and I shared, and which had pleased him, and as much as it hurt it healed me as well.
It was the day Raoul de Chagny arrived at the opera house that I finally stirred from my stupor.
oooo. ominous, no?
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