~Phantom~
Love Never Dies
"Beneath A Moonless Sky"
Christine:"Reality"
Together.
We were leaving the cold underworld of our past behind, tightly wrapped in each other's embrace. I could not have been happier. We walked out into the sunny streets of Paris and no one stared, no cared at all. It was though we were any couple in love. Though we were not any couple, and the streets through which we roamed stood empty. I turned to ask Erik where everyone had gone, but before I could utter a word, he let go of my hand.
"I must go now."
Panic engulfed me. "No, Erik – you cannot go! Do not leave me!"
Surely he would not leave, not now, not after. . . .
But he continued stepping backwards, the distance between us growing by the second.
"Please, I'm begging you, Erik – do not leave me!" I was sobbing, my heart being battered and broken within its cage.
He did not say a word. He smiled once, turned and walked away. There was nothing I could do. I tried – always, I tried – to move, to stop him, but I never could . . . I was infuriatingly frozen in place.
"Erik, please!" My weak plea was lost in the empty air.
He was gone.
I was alone, all alone.
Then I felt a flutter of movement within me. My hand instinctively rested upon my still flat stomach. I was with child, I felt it. I was carrying his child.
And he had abandoned us. So it was no longer I who had lost him, but also the child who would never know him. . . .
I awoke alone in the forbidding gloom of my darkened room, and quickly ignited the light upon my nightstand. Its orange glow relieved a mere fraction of the anxieties that held me in their icy grasp. I inhaled deeply, trying in vain to quiet the racing of my heart.
For ten years the same nightmare plagued me night after night. Yet, waking from it was far worse. That heinous nightmare was my reality.
He had left. Though not in the manner of the dream and I had not known at the time that I was pregnant, but he had still vanished and there was nothing I could do. I awoke that morning to swear my love, and had found him gone instead. I was by myself in the cellar's depths. I could make out the gold band, and the broken shard of ivory; they too, lay abandoned on the floor. All of us, unwanted.
Betrayed. Used.
Two emotions ruled me as I lit the lantern left for me and dressed: disbelief and confusion. I could not fathom how he had been able to leave; had he not felt what I had? I couldn't comprehend his actions – not till much later. With time came reflection, wisdom and experience. I realized he had left to save me. In his mind he was somehow sparing me. I had no idea if he was alive or dead, but not knowing ate at me every moment of every day. There was no way that the Comtess de Chagny could go about inquiring after the whereabouts of a masked man, whose surname was unknown. That would appear odd, to say the least, and if Raoul found out he would be livid. Neither Erik's name, nor his existence was mentioned in our house; even though it felt as though he was always lingering, still watching somewhere in the wings.
I was not whole without him. I tried every day to alter that, but I could not. What hurt the most was that it was clear he did not want me – whatever the reason, it was a fact. I would not search him out and beg, though how I could have accomplished that when I did not know where he was, or if he was still alive, was an impossible feat. Even if I had known where to find him, I would not grovel for his return. I was no longer that pathetic, fragile little girl.
I was a mother.
Gustave, my miracle.
He was indeed my miracle, for there was a time when it seemed as though he was perhaps not meant to be. Accident, upon accident beset me during my pregnancy. First a carriage accident, then a horrible fall down a flight of stairs – that broke my arm and a finger. Then, finally I tripped in the middle of a crowded street, which thus put me into early labor – two months early, to be precise. All of these 'accidents' had nagged at my ever present fears.
What if they weren't accidents, but signs? Signs which conveyed that the child I carried was better off not coming into the world. . . .
But I would not give in to my fears, for it did not matter. There could be nothing so wrong with my baby that it would ever cause me to believe it better off dead. Even if . . . even if it was clear that it was not Raoul's, and I would have to admit the truth that I had sworn I would never wound him with. None of it mattered, I would still love my child above all else.
My fears were unfounded; there was nothing to dread. My Gustave was perfect in every way. He was more than that – a child prodigy, like his father. I lived in constant fear that one day Raoul would figure it out. It was a sweet mercy of God that my Gustave was born with fair skin and blonde hair – he reminded me of my father in a way, just one of the many reasons he was named Gustave. Yet how his eyes had never tipped Raoul off was a plain miracle in and of its self.
His stunning orbs were colored the shade of fine honey with a ring of bright amber that surrounded black pupils. At first, that shocking ring of dark gold never left his eyes, but as he began to grow the brilliancy of the color faded and was only visible whenever Gustave felt deeply about something. Whether it be fear, anger, sorrow, or happiness – whatever the emotion, if it was strong enough, that elusive amber would burn bright.
I knew exactly where the unusual hue had come from – who it had come from – but I did not need to fret on it for long. The minute Raoul saw our son, right away he contributed it to the fact that his father had a quite radiant shade of brown and so naturally, that was where Gustave must have gotten the color from.
I never argued the fact; I simply nodded and said, "Yes, that must be where he gets it."
The first time Raoul held Gustave in his arms, the smile he elicited, and the happiness he had radiated, ripped at my heart. I vowed then that I would never reveal the truth to him – or anyone – there was simply no reason to hurt him if it could be avoided.
We tried very hard, both of us, to make the marriage a success. We fought so hard for so long and for a little while, after Gustave was born, things were tolerable, but they were never perfect. Erik haunted and shadowed our every thought and every moment, even in his absence. We had not left him behind. His potent presence was always there; a third, silent party to a marriage with room only for two.
Throughout my pregnancy I had remained despondent. I was lonely and miserably. I ached inside for what I could never have. And Raoul, dear Raoul, had tried in vain to give me anything and everything that I could ever have desired; not at all aware that he could never deliver the one thing I needed most. It was terribly unfair to Raoul to have wed a woman who was only a shell of what she had once been. He was fighting a losing battle and as much as I wanted to ease his frustration, I was incapable. I knew my deceit could never be forgiven, yet I can honestly say that at the time, I felt trapped into no other choice. What good would it do any of us if I revealed Gustave to be Erik's son, and not Raoul's?
It was not until Gustave arrived that I began to feel alive again.
He was the axis on which my whole world rotated. He was my little savior. From the instant that I held him, a new prolific sense of strength flowed through my veins. For the months that I was pregnant, I had felt unbearably lonely, but then I realized that I was not alone. I was responsible for another life, one far more precious than my own. My Gustave could not fend for himself, so I would have to. I would give him the world, if he so desired it.
I loved him instantly.
The very second I held him there was nothing but love for the fragile little life in my arms. I had been told that a mother's love is like that, but I did not understand it until I experienced it. I would have done anything for him, and I did.
He was a tiny infant – five pounds. We hired a nurse until he was three months old, by then it was clear she was no longer going to be needed. His development was extraordinary – in every way. He spoke at five months, walked at six, and began reading and writing – poetry so beautiful it that it never ceased to tug at my heart – at three years. His rapid mental development boggled our physician, who finally summed it up to the will of God. I knew it was more that. I knew that he was just like his father; brilliant in every way.
I had sensed his musical abilities early on. The moment he could talk, he sang. Gibberish at first, always almost copying something he had heard from me, but then he began singing melodies of his own, words all his own. They were beautiful. Such glorious sounds should never have be able to come from a four year old. Four was the year that he made me truly ache for Erik.
Two weeks after his fourth birthday, I sat at the piano and played a simple song Erik had taught me as a child – I had never been very talented when it came to playing, it had infuriated Erik to no end that I could sing as I did, yet was only a mediocre pianist – but Gustave was enjoying it so I went on. When I finished, Gustave begged, "Please let me hear you sing again, Mama! Please, just one more song!"
I was never able to resist him, his every want and desire I made a reality. I knew it was not healthy to spoil a child, but he was no ordinary child. He was his child and he would have the world if he so willed it. One day my Gustave was going to be someone of great importance, and I could not wait to see what he would become.
I sang one last song, to which he applauded exuberantly afterward, and then I stood. "Come, angel, let us go eat lunch. I believe Bridget has prepared a rather delectable meal for us. Then we'll be off to church to listen to the choir you love so."
As I made my way for the door, I extended my hand for him to take, but he had not been listening. Instead, he was climbing with the dexterity of a monkey onto the piano stool.
"Gustave, come with your Mama. It's lunch, darling. We must hurry or we shall be late to church." I gestured him forward, the same arm waiting to take his little hand.
"Go on, Mama. I'm not very hungry anyway. I'd rather stay and play for a bit."
Before I could argue with him further, his tiny hands began to stroke the ivory keys with the skill of a master pianist. I stood frozen in awe, half in the room and half out. It was not some mere imitation; it was something he had created within the genius of his little mind. A melody so rich and poignant, it brought me to tears the minute I heard it. I thanked God for the small mercy of Raoul's absence, for the scene would have surely revealed the truth.
He finished, smiling in triumph.
I could not speak. Tears fell heavily from my astonished eyes. Why I was stunned with amazement, I did not know. I should have known from the very start that if he had inherited nothing else, the one trait that would come through above all, was the gift of music.
I missed Erik so much in that moment, wishing more than anything I could be sharing our son's amazing gifts with him.
His cherub's face, that a moment ago had been alight, darkened when he saw my tearstained face. "What's wrong, Mama? Didn't you like it?"
Regaining what composure that I could, I smiled and walked toward him. I knelt down so I was face to face with him and said, "I'm fine, it was just so very beautiful, darling."
His little face turned red with modesty. "Oh, that? That was just something I heard."
"Where, my love?" I knew the answer but I had to hear him say it.
"In here." His dexterous little hands patted the top of his golden haired head.
God so much like his father . . . when Raoul sees how he plays, not just plays but the beauty of the music that effortlessly flows from within him . . . .
I took his small hands in mine. "Gustave, I want you to do your, Mama a favor, please."
"Anything, Mama." The love he shined on me was staggering; again, so much like his father.
I hated myself for asking him to lie, but I saw no other option. "Do not tell, Papa that you hear such things. Can you do that for your mama?"
His small brows furrowed in thought. "But why Mama, why must I lie to, papa?"
He was so damn smart. "Because Gustave . . . sometimes . . . sometimes we must lie to those we love in order to spare them the hurt that the truth will bring. If Papa knows about the music it will pain him. I wish I could explain it better, my love, and one day I will – I swear to you that I will – but I for now, you must take my word."
Still silent.
"We shall share your gift with him in time. You must give Papa time first though; you know how long it takes him to adjust to anything, Gustave. Your talent is one so great that I fear he would not understand it, and the not understanding would cause him great woe. Can you see, my angel?"
"Yes, and I don't want to hurt Papa, but does this mean that I can't play anymore?"
"No! Oh, not at all. You can play for me whenever you like, for as long as you like, but until we tell, papa, it must always be while he is away."
He considered it, his mind ever working, yet another trait of his father's – Gustave always thought before he spoke.
"Okay, Mama. For now, it will be our secret." The idea seemed to thrill him.
"Yes darling, our special secret." I hugged him tight, smiled and stroked his sun kissed hair, and loathed myself the entire time. I was a liar, and worse than that – I had coaxed him into lying along with me. I would pray for even more forgiveness than usual at church, I decided.
My poor innocent partner in crime.
It was three more years before Raoul heard Gustave play; I had put it off for as long as I could. Then his passion for music grew so great that I could no longer stifle it. We still had to lie, of course. We told Raoul that Gustave had been secretly taking lessons. He never asked who the teacher was or to meet him; he simply accepted it, just as Gustave accepted he would once again have to lie to his father about who he really was.
"I never expected him to master is so quickly, but he seems to have a real ear for it." I lied further, as Raoul watched and listened in wonder.
"With a mother whose voice is a gift from God, I am not surprised to find our son so naturally musically inclined." He smiled, strode to Gustave and congratulated him, seeming perfectly at ease with Gustave's gift.
He would never listen to the child play again.
There were times, fleeting moments, when I would find him inspecting Gustave, sizing him up, trying to find something, and in those moments I wanted to die of shame. It was no wonder we had drifted so far apart; it was hard to evenly steer a ship when it was split in two and hopelessly sinking.
Now, ten years later and things had only gotten worse. We were all drowning in a harsh sea of our own making.
A knock on my bedroom door pulled me back to the present.
I sat up. "Come in."
Raoul.
He was worse for wear, apparently once again loosing himself in brandy.
"Couldn't sleep either, I see." I hated when he drank, it made his usually sunny personality dark, irritable and noxious.
"No." It was best to keep to one word, one sentence responses when he was in his current state.
He stumbled his way in, closing the door behind him. "Nightmare again?"
"Yes."
"The one you refuse to tell me about? The very one you have had for ten straight years now?" he sat down with a dramatic plop upon the edge of the bed.
"Raoul, please–"
"Please, what? Why will you not tell me? What have you to hide . . . what are you so afraid of?" The hurt in his navy eyes outweighed the cruelty of his tone.
I could tell there was no escaping a fight, yet I would try anyway.
"Darling, I've told you before that it's nothing, just a childhood fear which I'm embarrassed to speak of."
He turned away from my lying face in disgust, placed his flaxen haired head in his hands and sighed. "Why, Christine? Why must we play these games?"
Silence.
"What nothing to say, little Lotte?" His voice was ice.
'Please Raoul, let's not argue. I promise, if you just give me some time-"
"Damn time!" He roared, jumping from the bed and pacing the floor; a caged petulant tiger. "I'll tell you about time, Christine! It is a never ending play of pain. Day after day, I wait for the wife that should have been mine to materialize, and she never does! There is only you – a ghost of the girl whom I loved."
He was right. There was nothing I could say.
He ceased his striding, slumped down on the end of the bed, and began to weep. I had never seen him cry; not in ten years of marriage had he ever shed a tear; not even when Gustave had been born. There was something gut-wrenching about watching a grown man weep. It caused my armor to crumble and I found myself pulling the blankets aside so that I could go to him.
I sat beside him and slowly removed the hands that were covering his face. He stiffened from the feel of my uncommon touch, but did not pull away.
"Raoul, please do not cry. You know that I love you. I may not be the same girl, but I do love you!" It wasn't a lie. I did love him. The problem was that there were all different kinds of love, and what I felt for him, not only paled in comparison for I felt for him, but I was not in love with Raoul. Once upon a time, very long ago, before that night, a part of me had been in love with him. But things had regretfully changed.
"Do you, Christine? Do you really?" A pathetic spark of hope brightened the gloomy navy of his eyes to the glorious azure I was so familiar with.
"Yes." No, not lying . . . just skirting around the truth a bit was all.
He needed no further words of encouragement. Before I could register it, his lips had mine in a devilish dance of desperation. He was begging for the one thing that I could not afford him. He wanted back that girl he spoke of; the one whose red scarf he had fetched from the sea when they were only children. But he was right . . . that girl was dead, and I only her shadow. I could not give him that girl, but I could give him me if he wanted me and perhaps alleviate some of his woes. I kissed him back with all the passion I was capable of.
"Christine, I love you, and I want you! God, so much so that there are times I feel as though I could kill you for not wanting me!"
In a rush of fury, he removed his jacket and his shirt, and then his demanding lips were again ravishing mine. I tried to give into the moment, but I felt as though I was betraying someone; a silly notion. And yet, when he opened the two top buttons of my nightdress, to kiss the skin beneath, I tensed.
The reaction did not go unnoticed.
"Do you find me so repulsive now, Christine?" He backed away, the hurt blatant in face and voice.
"No, Raoul – please, it has just been a long time. I am nervous – that is all." I tried to laugh it off, but it was no use. He saw through the façade. How I wished then that I had been a better actress than a singer.
"It's been so long because of you! Because you show me every day that you do not want me!"
He was absolutely right, though I would never admit it. I did not go out of my way to be near him any longer. The man he had become in the last two years was someone I cared not to be around. What pained me so severely was that I was part of the cause he had sunk so low.
"Please, darling I just need – I need some time that is all. We just need to take things a little slower. Stay, do not go."
"No." He put his shirt back on, grabbed his jacket and stood. "I'm done with this, Christine. I am so very tired of begging for my wife to love me, to not draw back in disgust from my touch! I cannot do this any longer."
I reached for him. "Raoul, please!"
He backed away from me as though I were diseased.
I had hurt him yet again, and his pain stabbed sharper than any knife. A tear fell from my welling eyes. Could I do nothing right?
"Do not, Christine." He said holding up a hand in warning. "Please, just do not. It's done, leave it alone. I am sorry that I bothered you with my presence. I am, however sure that there is someone out there who will not find my touch quite as revolting as you." He was hurting, and so he wanted me to hurt, too. I could not blame him for his stinging remark.
He opened the door with a great flourish and nearly knocked poor Gustave to the floor in his haste to flee me.
"Gustave! What do you want – what are you doing here?" Raoul was coarse and harsh; the drink made him angry at the world, and Gustave had still not grown used to his abrasiveness. He looked on the verge of tears.
"I – I had a nightmare and wanted to see if I could sleep with Mother tonight."
"Unbelievable! Two peas in a pod, I tell you!" Raoul turned to throw me a scathing glance. "Well, at least someone will get to sleep with you." He pushed past Gustave and disappeared down the hall, back to the brandy bottle, I was sure.
I quickly wiped the tears from eyes, not wanting to upset Gustave anymore than necessary, buttoned my gown back into place, and called him forward. "Come, my love – come to me."
He closed the door slowly, and with his head hung low made his way to the bed where he climbed in under the covers next to me.
"What's troubling you, my angel?" I stroked his satin like hair, wanting desperately to sooth the anxieties that played on his little face. He laid his head on my chest, gladly accepting the comfort.
"I had the worst nightmare, Mother. It was so very dreadful that I couldn't fall back asleep. I decided to come to you but when I went to knock on your door . . . I heard you and Father arguing. So I stood there. I know that I should never eavesdrop, but the way Father speaks to you lately mother . . . well it – it angers me." His little hands, so capable in any task they had ever taken on, clenched into fists at his side.
He had his father's temper at times, of that there was no denying. "Easy now, Gustave. You know that, Papa does not mean anything he says or does when he has had too much to drink."
I continued to caress his head and hold him to me, and as I did so I saw his hands relax, the anger subsiding.
"Do you love him?"
Must he always be so perceptive?
"Of course I love your father, Gustave. Why on Earth would you ever ask such a question?"
His tawny brows furrowed. "Because of what I heard Father say about you not wanting him."
"Gustave, I told you that you cannot listen to anything your father says when he is–"
"Yes, I know, but . . . he looked so sad, Mother. It may not be true, but I think that he thinks that it is." This troubled him. Not only capable of remarkable accomplishments, he also held more compassion and love within in him than anyone I had ever known.
"I do love your father Gustave, truly I do." I did not want to lie, but he was as of yet, too young to understand the complexity of the love I felt for Raoul.
"Sometimes . . . it seems as though you do not love him as you love me."
There he had me.
"No, my angel, you are right. I do not love him as much as I love you."
"Why, Mother?" This seemed to both please and pain him.
"Because you are part of me, you are made of my flesh and my blood. I held you within me. I will never love anything as I do you, not even your father." I smiled and kissed his cherub's cheek.
"You really do love him, right?" He asked, still perturbed by the idea of his mother not loving his father.
"Yes, I do. But you, Gustave – you are my life."
He smiled widely. "And you're mine, Mother. But please promise to show Father that he is loved, too. I know that he loves you very much. That is why he drinks, to ease his pain."
Really . . . must he always be so damn perceptive?
I laughed; I had to for otherwise I would have cried. "Yes, my love – I promise to show your father more affection, alright, satisfied?"
"Yes, Mother."
How one so small could be so vastly wise beyond his years, was baffling.
"Now, my little man – tell me about this dreadful nightmare you had."
"I'm not sure that I want to tell you anymore." He dropped his gaze from mine and stared at his hands clasped upon his lap.
"You know you can tell me anything. Whatever it is, it would never sway my love for you. So, please Gustave, tell me." I smiled, wanting him to confide in me.
"It was so odd, mother so very odd." He paused, I waited for him to go on, but he did not.
"What was so odd about this dream, darling?"
"It was as though I was there, like it was real and not just a dream. It felt like I was in someone else's mind, and not my own. The things I saw, such hurtful, horrible things, Mother. I didn't just see them, I felt them. All I wanted to do was escape and I could not. There was nothing I could do to stop any of it." I felt him shudder beside me.
With baited breath I asked, "What was the dream about?" His behavior was truly beginning to make me uneasy.
"Mother, I'm really not sure you want to hear it."
"Please Gustave, tell me." I never before had to coax him in such a manner; he usually came to me for everything, and never before had hesitated to speak his mind.
Finally, he relented and spoke. "I dreamt about you."
"Me?"
"Yes, and Father, before I was born. I saw you sing on stage for a full theater, all those people in the audience loving your voice as much as I. You were you young and so very beautiful." A wide smile filled his face. "That's when Father fell in love with you; the first time he saw you perform on stage. He hadn't seen you since you both were very young. When Father heard you sing, you stole his heart."
He paused, his face suddenly darkening.
"What is it, Gustave?" My mouth was so dry, my voice so hoarse that the words barely left me.
"There was this man. . . ."
My, God! How can he know all of this?
Somehow I held myself together enough to ask, "What man?"
"A man with some deformity to his face." He looked up at me, calculating my reaction. Whatever he saw there made him secure in continuing. "I couldn't see his face clearly, only for a moment when he removed . . . something, I couldn't tell what it was. The rest of the time his face was a blur. This man – he was in love with you, too. Only . . . when I felt what he was feeling . . . Mother the love that this man felt inside for you, it was so strong. That bothered me, but before I could blink, I was angry. So angry that I wanted to hurt something, or someone; but it wasn't me, it was that man. He was filled with anger because you were going to leave him for Father, and that he couldn't allow."
Once again, Gustave was silent, recalling a dream, one that should never have been possible for him to have. He looked into my eyes then, seeming to search for something within them, perhaps a sign that I was not simply dismissing all that he said as nonsense.
I smiled and kissed his forehead. "I'm listening, darling. Tell me everything; it might make you feel better."
"That man . . . he did terrible, horrible, awful things . . . and they were all done so that he could keep you. He tried to kill Father and the evils that he spoke to you . . . He knew his voice was as good a weapon as any – at least on you, and so he used that, he used anything he could think of to keep you. He tried to win you every way that he could think of and when that didn't work, he went mad." His eyes welled with tears.
"Angel, what is it?" He was upset and so I was upset.
"He was hurting so badly, Mother. How he didn't die from the loneliness and sorrow, I do not know. He was a dreadful man, but at the same time . . . he wasn't. He only wanted to be loved . . . by you. To him you were everything. What he felt then, I could understand. Because you, Mother – you are everything to me, too." He smiled sadly at me once then dropped his gaze back down to his hands.
The tears I fought so hard to hold back broke through their confines to course down my flushed face. There was not one thing I could do to stop them. Gustave did not notice my tears for he was lost in the events of his vision. I wiped away the tears as fast as they fell.
"He took you then, down below into his world – it was unlike anything I have ever seen, Mother. It was so strange and dark, and yet . . . sort of beautiful. You didn't want to be there though, not like that – you wanted it to be your choice. Somehow he knew that, because that was what he made you do.
"Father came to rescue you, but he wasn't clever enough, or fast enough. Before Father was able to blink that man had a lasso around his neck, and there you were, crying, begging for Father's life. But he was so crazy by then, so insane with his love for you that he could not just let you walk away. You were going to have to make a choice. Him or Father. And Mother . . . again, I felt sorrier for that man, felt more kinship with him than I shamefully did with Father. He couldn't bear the thought of you leaving. I could understand that because . . . I don't know what I would ever do without you." The intensity with which he said that frightened me.
So very much like his father. . . .
"But he did let you go, even though it hurt so badly he wanted to die." The amber rings in his eyes were alight with intensity" He loved you enough to let you go." He seemed profoundly amazed by that, as though the idea completely escaped him.
I did not want to endure another moment of this if it was not necessary, so selfishly wanting to sped the torture up, I said, "Well, it was only a dream, darling; a dreadful one, but a dream none-the-less." I tried to smile through my tears, but I could never hide my woes from Gustave for long. His small hand gingerly wiped away the tears that clung to my damp cheeks; saying and expressing more love in that one gesture than all the words in the world ever could.
"I've made you sad, Mother. I am sorry. I did say that I didn't want to tell you about it."
"No, my love, it is not you who has made me sad, I am just sad for you. I am sorry you had such a wretched dream, but it is not you. I always want you to confide in me – no matter what it might be about. It is just . . . sometimes you remind me so of your father." At this, I smiled with genuine warmth.
That brightened his mood. "Really, I do? But Father's always saying how much like you I am."
I prayed – as I was about to lie – that one day God would forgive me my weakness.
"Yes, you are like me in many ways, but not all. There are times when you remind me of him so much . . . it takes my breath away."
He smiled, but then his brows once again furrowed in deep concentration. Something was still troubling him, I could tell.
I sat up a little more in the bed, pulling him along with me, and turned to face him. "Was there more that you wanted to tell me, angel? More to the dream?" While I didn't relish hearing it, if it would ease his discomfort then I must.
"Yes, but I'm afraid to tell you. You might not like it." He whispered, again not meeting my gaze.
"I told you before, Gustave that there is nothing in this whole world which you could ever confess that would make me love you less. I said it and I mean it. Now. . ." I lifted his chin, forcing him to look into my eyes; I wanted him to trust me. "Tell me the rest."
"I know that I told you before how the nightmare was odd because I felt like I was in someone else's body, and how I was able to feel and not just see the things going on around me, but the oddest part about it all was that I felt more similarity with that man than I have with . . . anyone. Even stranger still was right after you kissed that man, Mother. He . . . he looked at me."
"Looked at you?" The hair on my neck stood on end.
He stared right at the spot I was standing, he squinted a bit, but he didn't say anything. Then he turned back and. . . ."
"And? . . ."
"He let you go, and it killed him to do it. Oh, Mother the pain, the terrible ache that he felt – it was the worst thing I have ever felt!" He hung his little head and wept.
"Shh, don't cry! Oh, sweetheart, it's okay! It was only a dream – just a dream!" I took him in my arms and we rocked to and fro.
"What's wrong with me, Mother? Why would I dream such dreadful things, and why would I feel so close to that man – who did such awful things – does that make me just as horrible?" He sobbed with more intensity, his true worries coming to the surface.
I stroked his back. "There is no rhyme or reason to a dream, darling. They do not reflect, or mean anything. They are a series of subconscious fears, anxieties and troubles that are mixed with all the things we have ever absorbed in our lives. All those components are then woven into a story, that we, ourselves, are unknowingly the writers of."
His tears had stopped and he confessed, "I've had many dreams before, Mother – and many nightmares, as well – but none ever like this. This was the strangest thing that I have experienced."
"Only a dream, my love, it was a dream and nothing more."
"You're sure?" He pulled away from my embrace and searched my eyes. He was looking for the truth; he only wanted me to confirm that he was not crazy, that it was not just an ordinary dream but something else . . . and I could not give that to him. I would have to look into his pleading eyes and lie, again. One day I would confess the truth to him, but for now I had no other choice.
"Gustave, I promise you that it was only a dreadful dream and truly that it was nothing more." I kissed his warm cheeks, and leaned his head back down upon my shoulder. Having him in my arms was a heaven that I had never known would come with motherhood.
We lay there in silence for a while, yet inside I was terrified. I could not fathom how he had dreamt what he had. There was absolutely no way for him to know any of it, let alone the intricate details which he did. He was told that Raoul and I had met as children and knew each other all our lives. He knew that I was orphaned, yes, and that I lived in the opera house where I sang for a short time before marrying his father, but that was all. End of story.
Yet, he knew. How could he know?
Was he even more extraordinarily special than I could ever have thought, conjuring up the truth in some kind of telepathic way . . .?
"Mother?" I had believed him asleep.
"Yes, darling?"
"Reality . . . what is it exactly?"
"What do you mean, my love?" I looked into his eyes and saw a war of some kind waging deep within.
"Reality – the world in which we live, it can't be altered, right? I mean there's no way to ever change events that have happened, is there?"
"I'm still a bit confused, darling. Where is this all coming from?"
"It's just that – I know you say what I experienced was only a bad dream, but Mother – it felt so real. I almost wonder if someone, somewhere, fooled with time or changed reality, or if what I saw was the alternate to the one that we are in."
There were times that his mind had thoughts and ideas the likes of which I could never have contemplated. This was one of those times.
I hated myself for not being able to tell him that it was true, ever bit of it, but I could not. Yet, I could also not let him believe that there was such a thing as an alternate reality. He needed to learn now that we must do the best with what has been given to us because that is all we will ever be afforded. Reality, as much as we would all love to change it, cannot be altered.
"You have a marvelous imagination Gustave, but no; I do not believe that what you experienced was anything other than a very bad dream. Reality, unfortunately, is what it is. We could no more modify the sky's natural blue to purple, then we could bring the dead back to life. They are unchangeable."
"But why not? Why can we not change these things?" He was angry again, that betraying sphere of amber burning bright within his eyes.
"Because there are just some things in this world, Gustave, to which we can never change, no matter how badly we might want to. We must always live for today and never take a minute for granted, for it is all we are given. Once an opportunity is lost, it is gone. Always promise me that you will live your life to the fullest, do you understand?" I had not realized how hard my grip upon his arm had become until I looked down and saw. I released him, instantly. I hadn't meant to get so impassioned, but I knew the cold and lingering effect of regret and it was not something I sought for my son.
"I'm sorry, my love. I didn't mean to – I'm sorry."
I realized then that I had only spoken to him of the negatives, and not the positives. I smiled and added, "But of course, your mother is quite silly, and forgot to say that there are good things about not being able to alter reality."
He was curious. "Like what?"
"Love, for an example."
"Love?"
"Yes." I smiled. "Once someone loves you it cannot be changed. Love never fades, it never dies and it endures all. Nothing can alter love, not even death."
"I do not like death." About that, he was adamant.
I laughed. "No, nor do I or anyone else, for that matter. But we must believe that death is not the final goodbye, and that we will all see those that we love again in Heaven."
"I hope there is a heaven – I hope that's a reality."
Again I laughed, but lightly this time, a touch of sadness coloring it. "Me, too, darling . . . me, too."
I brought him back into my arms and he remained quiet for a while, while he took it all in.
"I prefer dreams." He concluded, out of nowhere. "With dreams there are no rules and anything you can think up is possible. I do not, however, enjoy nightmares." He laughed and I laughed with him.
"No, sweetheart, nor do I." In fact, I hated them.
"I suppose reality isn't so bad, though." He relented with a dashing smile. He was so handsome; God help the young girls in a few years time.
"Oh no and why is that?" I asked, as I tickled him, eliciting squeals of delight from my prisoner.
"Because you're in it and I love you and you me."
I stopped dead, tickling forgotten. He looked up at me and the shimmering amber rings burned with love.
God, I am so lucky to have him.
"Yes, darling, I too, agree. As long as I have you life is wonderful. Now let's get some sleep, shall we?" I smiled and bestowed one last kiss upon his cheek, and turned out the light.
In the dark, I reflected on my reality. I was twenty seven years old, no longer following any of my dreams and miserable in a life I had never imagined would be mine.
Yes, I thought. I agree with you, Gustave, dreams are more appealing. . . .
*Author's Note: I know this was a long one, but I hope you're enjoying where I'm going with this. I'm going to loosely stick to the plot of Love Never Dies, but Gustave is my version of him, as are all the other characters. I'll be adding my own little twists along the way, too. Thank you all so much for taking the time to read, comment and favor the story :)!
A huge THANK YOU to my beta, Grayskies29 – You're the best ;)
-Shannon
Oh, yeah . . . I OWN NOTHING! LOL ;)*