Author's Note:

1. I do not own Phantom of the Opera.

2. This chapter was late AGAIN and I am so sorry.

3. Potential trigger warning: there's a self-harm discussion in this chapter. The line break at almost the end of the chapter is where it ends. I really, really, REALLY don't want to upset any of you, and it's not graphic, but I just wanted to give everyone fair warning. And I swear I'll make the next chapter happier.

42

Erik watched Mademoiselle Abbots silently, crossing his arms over his chest. The girl let her head drop back to the table with a thunk once more. "Really, I am going to have to insist you cease in your attempt to give yourself a head injury."

"Shame. I was going for a spinal."

"Really, mademoiselle. You have sustained enough injuries thanks to the fop."

"Can I get a amen…?"

Erik stayed quiet, eyes flickering back and forth over her bare stomach. Pulling out bandages, he slid them under her back. Mademoiselle Abbots let out an annoyed squeak. "You can tell me while I change the bandages."

Her neck twitched like she was going to thump her head again. Erik growled.

There was a long moment of silence.

"It was grade 10. I was fifteen. I don't know what the education system's like here, but there… ya know, it's a transition period."

Her voice was hesitant, quiet. Erik wanted to ask for the definition of "grade ten" but decided not to interrupt, looping strips of cloth over the stitched up wound. "How old was Sam… nine? Anyway, she was in… elementary, I guess, getting bullied at school, little girls being pricks, the whole nine yards. I was doing… okay, I guess. I was on two different volleyball teams, I was doing well, coaches thought I'd make national in a couple years, probably varsity."

For a moment, the only noise in the lair was the girl's breathing. Erik tugged at the bandages and started weaving them together to secure them. "I guess things got worse the next year? I had rivals on the teams, girls who were better than me and didn't want to be replaced, girls who were worse than me and who were jealous. I suppose it was kind of a standard thing, heaven knows I got jealous enough. My marks in school were always good, I could balance volleyball and studying pretty well. But I had trouble focusing, trouble sleeping, started losing interest in things. My parents only noticed when my grades started to drop a bit. They weren't pleased."

"Did they…" Erik gestured at her bandaged abdomen.

"Hurt me? Hell no. My parents are awesome. They were just… disappointed. Angry, I guess, since they thought I just wasn't putting in the effort. They wanted what was best for me, and they loved me, but it was… it wasn't exactly what I needed, I suppose. They tried to motivate me, up the pressure, give me incentives. But Sam… Sam was doing much worse than I was. She was going through some mental stuff, anxiety, suspected OCD – obsessive compulsive disorder, if you're wondering, hell, I keep forgetting you have no idea what this stuff is – and of course the bullies. So most of the attention was with her, for therapy, and talking, whatever she needed. She was the priority, and I was not."

Mademoiselle Abbots had shut her eyes, brows furrowing as she spoke. Erik finished with the bandages and brought over a chair, sitting down next to his patient. "I don't understand why I need to tell you this, I'm obviously fine."

"I would disagree. Speaking can sometimes be helpful."

"Is that why you talk to yourself sometimes?"

He had not expected the question. "… Yes. I suppose it is."

The young manager grimaced. There was a long pause. "… Because Sam was the priority, and I didn't want to take any attention off her, I hid almost everything I was thinking. I tried to be the good child, the smart child, the responsible child. I tried to be perfect, to make it easier on them, I guess. So I'd just shove everything away, try to not feel it. I'd get so angry that I'd start scratching my arms, often without realizing I was doing it. If I was angry enough, it'd leave marks. Long ones. Occasionally I'd draw blood with just my nails. They didn't notice for a couple months. When they did they thought I'd go further, so they made sure I didn't have anything sharp, no razors, no knives, whatever. Not that I'd keep kitchen knives in my room. Obviously."

"Or swords."

"Or swords. The modern age isn't exactly the right setting for a good duel."

"Apologies for the interruption. Continue."

"… they started checking my arms. Whenever I was visibly angry or upset. They monitored me as often as they could, but with Samantha the way she was, they couldn't watch me all the time. They talked with me occasionally, told me I was free to talk to them, that they were there for me, that hurting myself wasn't a healthy way to deal with it. I'd always agree and deny that I was doing it. And because I didn't want to bother them or worry them or anything, I'd hide any impulses I had. So instead of using my arms, I'd scratch my stomach."

"I used my nails, sewing pins, sharper edges of credit cards, whatever I had that they wouldn't suspect me using. Mostly it was my nails. On the outside I was perfectly normal. I graduated high school with honours, got a 4 on the advanced placement art exam, was still on both volleyball teams, played nationally, got a fair number of scholarships, was accepted into the University of Calgary no problem. Didn't make the U of C volleyball team, though, I wasn't good enough of a player for varsity. I seemed happy, the parents thought I was level. I was the reliable, level-headed one. But my coping mechanism started leaving actual scarring. It carried on into my first year of university. The only reason I wanted to do anything was because I had to, I didn't want to get out of bed, didn't want to leave the house, and never socialized. My parents were always pushing for me to get connected, to hang out with people, join clubs, but I never wanted to. I didn't really care about anything."

She exhaled shakily. Erik reached out tentatively, black gloves hovering over streaky blonde hair. He drew his hand back as soon as he realized his error, and Mademoiselle Abbots did not notice.

"Generally the marks I made went away after a couple of days. That year none of them did. I had to be super careful to not show my stomach, not that it was too difficult. I just had to wear long t-shirts in the summer, no bikinis. I stopped trying to act happy. I just couldn't keep ut up anymore. I didn't feel like I could ask for help, so I self-medicated with what I had. I watched a lot of movies, spent a lot of time on Tumblr. Lots of Netflix." She paused. "It just occurred to me that you have no frame of reference for any of those."

"If we are continue to work together on my opera, there will certainly be time for you to explain those terms in greater detail. Do not concern yourself with my understanding for now."

"Okay then… Well, Mom and Dad would get super angry, tell me things like this wasn't how I was meant to live, that I needed to try harder, that I needed to be connected, that my attitude was a choice. I didn't have a job yet, so there was pressure there too. It always came down to me not trying hard enough. To be honest I was thinking… thinking about ending it." Seemingly forcing her eyes open, she laughed hollowly "This must sound like such a joke to you. It seemed like a joke to me too. I hid it. And every day I had to literally force myself to get out of bed, and every day I had to fight myself., bargain that I'd end it tomorrow, I'd end it tomorrow. I put all my energy into art, into fashion design, into building miniature sets, reading plays. I got more scholarships, did screenwriting courses, woodshop, fashion, art. I poured every bit of me that wanted to live into those courses. I got pretty good at what I did, was an A student. My profs recommended I go into sets and costuming, and one of them, not sure who, gave my resume to Theatre Calgary. The rest, I suppose, is history."

"And your…. Injuries?"

She smiled sadly, holding up her index and middle finger in a V-shape. "Clean two years now. Not like it goes away. There'd be days I wanted to, obviously. I tried to replace it with other things."

"You never told your parents?"

"Hell no. Best not to worry them, I thought. I went to therapy a couple times, lied to Mom and Dad about why. I didn't feel like I could after all that... tell them, that is." Her breathing steadied out, the rhythm deep and even. "It's not a fight you can win in a day. But I had a job, I could work in a variety of plays, I had summer work automatically, I could get shipped off to other theatres when I was needed, I even was able to work with the Alberta Ballet on tours a couple of times, that was fun. And I've got my own place now, so I don't have to lie about it if I actually do need help. I have privacy. It's nice."

"You appear to be in a good state at the moment."

"I have bad days. Everyone does. But yeah, I try to focus on stuff that makes me happy. Try to cope in better ways if I get upset. Try to calm myself down before I get to that point. I've always been fairly outgoing, so I can interact fairly well even if I don't want to. Can portray normality. Fake it till you make it, I guess."

Erik frowned slightly from beneath his mask.

Fixing her blue eyes on his green ones, Mademoiselle Abbots started to laugh, real, amused peals echoing off the stone walls. "Not everyone's mask is made of porcelain, my friend," she smirked, reaching out a finger to tap the cool white material on the side of his face.

They sat in silence for a time afterwards.

"I should let you rest, you need to take time to heal," Erik announced, standing up and awkwardly adjusting his vest.

"You didn't need to listen to that. But thanks I guess." Mademoiselle Abbot's voice was slightly hesitant, but there was more of her quirky attitude in her tone now. "You're the first person to have heard that, actually."

"It was my honour, mademoiselle."

"Ya know, after all that, you know you can just call me Kayla, right? Or is this like some sorta Regency era stuff where you can't call chicks by their first name?"

"I believe that Regency is an English term."

"Yep. But the point remains the same. I kinda just bared my soul or whatever. I think we've reached that point."

"Very well… Kayla."

"Thanks, Erik."

With a nod, he left the room.

He had only ever called Christine by her first name once, he realized. On the day he made his first mistake. On the day she had taken off his mask. Without her permission. Meanwhile Mademoiselle – Kayla, rather – had freely given her permission. And she touched his mask. Technically speaking she poked it. But he had not been taken aback by the gesture. It was strange. He did not have friends. Even Antoinette was not really a friend, more like a strange surrogate parent. Kayla was different. A good kind of different. Erik walked out of the tunnels and onto the walkway over the lake, boots thumping over the stone as he strode over and sat next to the model of the stage. Having an ally in the opera house above would be useful. Having a friend to collaborate with would be even more so. Even if it would take some getting used to. Glancing up at the piles of her sketches scattered over the top of the organ, he did not bother to hold back his smile.

The young stage manager trusted him now.

Kayla Abbots would prove very useful indeed.

Author's Note: So... hopefully that wasn't too bad for all of you? This is something I struggled with myself and something I kind of had in mind for Kayla for a while. And let it be known I'm not saying this is a good habit, it's not, but it exists, and if any of you have problems with this, I'm always here to talk. *hugs*

I'd like to thank E-man-dy-S for the guest review and Young Cosette for the review (I'd have thanked you by PM but yours is disabled. Apologies).

Oh, and leotheturtle on Tumblr asked if I had a picture of Kayla's dress from the Masquerade. I do have a couple sketches, even though I changed up the colour a bit when I wrote the chapter. Is that something people would be interested in seeing? If so, I'll post it on Tumblr or something like that.

This one was later than I had promised everyone, and I apologize. My body's a little messed up and I've been having a lot of doctor's appointments and bloodwork and such. It's not fun. Nevertheless I promise I will work hard on this next chapter and it will be fluffy with the stage crew and Erik and rainbows and butterflies and mAYBE I'LL ACTUALLY GET IT POSTED ON TIME.

Thank you everyone for your patience, I love you all.

Hugs,

Tierney