Hello again! I know, I know, for those who follow me, it's been quite a while now, but hey! I'm back. I hibernated. Now, with some coffee in hand, some inspiration in my head, and an itch I can only scratch through writing, I give you chapter eight.
A dear friend took me to see Phantom of the Opera live on stage, and it was one of the most awe-inspiring things I have ever done in my life. It was a night I will never forget, so for that, thank you.
Speaking of the live show, it was magnificent! Thus, I have and will continue to draw from the well of inspiration there.
So enough about inspiration, let's get to it! As always, those who review, thank you from the bottom of my toes, and happy reading! :)
~TPWG
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Paris, 1871 . . .
He walked briskly, wrapping himself in his cape as he went to the one place that he knew he could seek refuge without anyone else bothering him. He went underground.
Down, down, he ventured, deeper and deeper until he was positive that no one would find him. Here he could truly unwind, take his mind off of his own paranoia and think about the things that truly vexed him, things that consumed so much of his energy. He smoothed his wig back meticulously with both hands, a nervous tick that he'd acquired over the years. He adjusted his mask and ran a hand over the unmarred side of his face, slowly easing his conscience and his pain. His mind had been clouded lately, and this mental fog was damaging his nerves. In anger, he beat his clenched fists against a damp wall, cursing himself repeatedly for letting his mind wander to his lost, but not forgotten, angel.
"She doesn't NEED ME! Why won't you cursed thoughts just leave me be?!" Erik shouted angrily into the intricate tunnels, listening closely as his words echoed back to him.
"Perhaps, Erik, they don't want to."
Erik spun around fast enough to give himself whiplash as he raced to where the voice sounded from. Something about it seemed familiar. In the blink of an eye, Erik was towering over another man, a bit shorter than himself, Persian, that was looking onward at him with genuine concern.
"I suppose your temper has not 'mellowed with age', eh?"
"Daroga?" Erik asked incredulously, tilting his head to the side as if to get a better angle.
"Good eye. Glad you still recognize me, gives me some reprieve for invading your personal space."
"It might," Erik seethed, unsure of how to deal with this cumbersome intrusion. "Although if it's reprieve that concerns you, I suggest you have something rather important to tell me-"
"Important, eh?" The Daroga challenged.
"Earth-shattering," Erik glowered, grinding his teeth together and widening his eyes.
"Very well," Daroga complied, "Christine and the Viscount de Chagny are to be married tomorrow, and I thought you may have wanted to know."
"Me, want to know about that bloody Viscount marrying the one woman I loved? You must be joking. Besides, why in the burning blazes of hell would they invite me to their wedding? It's supposed to be a happy occasion, remember, Daroga?"
"Have you gotten dense? I didn't say they invited you, I just told you when it is." Daroga pulled an invitation out of his pocket in a nonchalant fashion that contained the pertinent details. Erik snatched it away from him and pored over it with sudden interest and care.
"I see your manners are still not quite where they should be."
"Brilliant observation, Daroga, now would you kindly shut up so I can read this?"
"My case in point. Exhibit A: Erik's atrocious-"
"I said kindly, why can't you leave me alone?"
"What, the Angel of Music can't have a Guardian Angel?" Daroga teased.
"Jury's still out on that one," Erik mumbled, his head in the wedding invitation. "How many people will be here?"
"Where? Here, there are only two of us-"
"At the wedding, dear Daroga," Erik spat, his smile a facade.
"Not sure. Hey, are you hungry?"
"Don't try to change the subject. How did you get this invitation?"
"I got it from a friend."
"And why do I ask you questions that I need answered?"
"Because you know deep down inside that you need me, Erik."
"Sure, if that makes you feel better."
"C'mon, say it, you need me."
"Hah! No, I won't."
"I'll help you immensely if you just say those three little words. You. Need. Me."
"You need me, Daroga. Better?"
"Not quite, reverse the order of your sentence."
"How do you think you can help me, Daroga?"
"I've done it before, have I not?"
"Indeed, but that was a long time ago. I may have bested you as far as help is concerned."
Daroga frowned for a moment. "So you think you can help yourself? Very well, I'll just leave you to your own devices, since you're perfectly capable of 'helping yourself' in dire situations," Daroga turned on his heel and started walking in the direction opposite Erik, counting down in his head and gradually slowing down until he said:
"Daroga!"
"Yes, my fickle friend?" Daroga smiled almost undetectably at his victory, and Erik quickly picked up on this.
"Alright, if you want to gloat, I won't even bother-"
"Oh, I'm not gloating, just happy that it is possible for you to ask for help. That's all."
"Alright, have it your way. If I'm ever going to let her go, it's tomorrow. The time is fast approaching, I realize that. Even so, can you HELP ME? The pain is practically killing me, I'm an emotional wreck, which is just plain not like me, and I'm having mood swings, and, and she - she's invading my mind, Daroga! You must understand, this isn't natural!" He buried his face in his hands and tried to moderate his rapid and unsteady breathing.
"Isn't natural, eh? Are you suggesting that you didn't seep into her thoughts, give her mood swings, stick her between a rock and a hard place when you tried to make her choose between her Angel and her lover?"
"How did you know about that?" Erik growled, his eyes lighting up gold in fury.
"I have my sources."
"You are unbelievable."
"As are you," Daroga retorted, his smile a bit smug. "Hell, they even call you the 'Opera Ghost'! What could be more 'unbelievable' than some Parisian folklore?"
"Enough!" Erik shouted, squeezing his eyes shut. "Enough verbal abuse for the day! As a matter of fact, why don't we pick up where we left off in the morning, maybe then I'll have had the time to build up an impervious wall of cunning jabs to divert your senseless derisions!" Throwing his arms down forcefully to his sides, he continued to stare the aging Daroga down in anguish.
"A wise idea," Daroga acquiesced, putting his hands up in mock surrender. "Especially since I'm rather tired, I need to be getting home."
Erik let out a defeated sigh and smacked his forehead with his sweating palm. "Do you not detect sarcasm?"
"On several occasions, I must act as if I don't - it's the only way I can get you to listen."
Erik removed his hand from his face and fixed both eyes on the Daroga. After a fleeting moment of apologetic glances, he bowed his head and looked at the ground. "Do you mind if I keep this?" He asked, holding up the pristine white wedding invitation.
"Nah," Daroga replied, "I've got several more lying around at home."
Erik looked on in disbelief, letting his eyes follow the mysterious Persian as he walked away, his footsteps echoing in the dank underground corridor.
"Until tomorrow, au revoir, Erik. And good night."
His words rang through the tunnels as he disappeared into darkness.
/\\/\\/\\/\\/\\/\\
New York City, 1872 . . .
Erik POV:
Reality and fantasy seemed to blend together, making them indiscernible. I didn't know if I was caged in a hallucination, or cloaked in a living nightmare. My past and present were getting jumbled together, and weird memories popping up at random was something that I know I didn't need. I couldn't separate my imagination from what was actually happening, and it was beginning to take its toll.
I hadn't kept accurate time, but I assume that I had been on the road in some way, running, for the past hour. My muscles were fatigued; my legs were burning from the inside out from carrying me so far, and my arms from holding this kid, which no substantial evidence has proven her to be mine. You know, besides the messed up half of her face. That little thing. Maybe it is beyond my grasp, but why or how she came about is a total mystery. I'm miserable. A veritable mess. Every glimmer of hope for redemption I have gets obliterated and I don't even get to apologize before getting forced onward to bleaker things. They certainly appear shinier at first glance. Unfortunately, novelty fades.
I wasn't quite keen on Nadir simply saddling me with her and leaving, either. To an extent it seemed very unlike him. He isn't the impulsive type. That's my job.
Then again, bringing her to me from wherever they were doesn't exactly convey irrational or impulsive behavior. I was last in France, and crossing the Atlantic, locating me, all while trying to care for a disfigured infant isn't what I'd deem reckless.
"Are you really justifying Daroga's actions?" I asked myself, afraid of the answer. "Maybe I am."
"Maybe I am."
/\\/\\/\\/\\/\\/\\
Ada POV:
"You know, your friend is a real challenge," I said, loud enough for the Persian dude to hear.
"He's your friend too, you can't completely dump him off on me."
"Why not?"
"I can't be held responsible for him all the time, he gets into too much trouble."
"That so? Well, that's perfect, now my ass is on the line because I vouched for him."
"For what?"
"For a job. He was musically inclined, I work at the concert hall here, I play violin in the symphony-"
"That explains the violin case."
"Pretty much," I replied, "I thought it would be a perfect fit, and now he's gone without a trace. Literally." I examined the window, running my fingertips along the frame to check for anything unusual and checking the glass for pressure or breaks. "He hasn't left any sign as to where he might be, or where he might go, yet I heard someone in here only seconds before we broke in."
"That's Erik for you."
"Once again, you speak like you know him, the question is, how well?"
"Better than I care to."
"Care to explain?"
"Not a chance."
I clapped my hands together and dusted them off on my legs. "We're really getting places, aren't we?"
"I see you wield the sarcasm."
"Of course, I'm not quite sure what I'd do without it."
"Naturally," the Persian replied, his voice smooth as the glass window pane in Erik's bedroom, old, weathered, but controlled and refined.
"What are you insinuating?"
"Merely that I do not even know your name, yet now we're partners in some sort of investigation."
I tossed this thought around for a moment. "The name's Ada LaRue."
The Persian straightened his astrakhan cap and offered his hand. "Nadir Khan. Pleasure to finally meet you."
"Pleasure's all mine."
/\\/\\/\\/\\/\\/\\
He maneuvered through the streets, his internal compass kicking in. If only it worked for spatial and emotional direction. He could have used that too at this point. He barely had time to watch his breath turn to ice as it left his lips; he was running too fast. However, he was quickly losing steam, and he knew it full well. His large brown eyes darted all around him, up, down, left, and right. He saw a little alley down the street to his right, so he ran and ducked into it, immediately slumping against the wall and letting himself sink to the ground in agony.
"Newton was right," Erik said, unwrapping his cloak and looking at the little face inside it.
"Eh?" The little face said back.
"You aren't familiar with Newton?"
She gurgled, then flashed him a toothless grin.
"He came up with three laws on gravity, the Law of Inertia says that objects in motion tend to stay in motion, unless acted on by an outside force."
She balled her fists and scrunched her forehead.
"Well, I couldn't run forever. That's the thing about gravity, it weighs you down." He poked the tip of her nose. "And so do you."
She stuck her tongue out at him, and he gasped.
"What was that for? Hmm?" He scolded.
She smiled in reply.
"You don't talk much, do you?" He sighed and rested her against his chest, using his free hands to slick his hair back and massage his forehead. "Guess not, little one."
Erik was cold, shivering from head to toe, out of breath.
For what, though? What was he running from? Why did he elect to leave in the first place? Now that he had left, could he go back? Not a chance. Never stop running forward. But why?
Erik drummed his fingers on the cobblestone street and hummed to himself, seventeen different thoughts bouncing through his head. He let himself drift off, and slowly let those seventeen thoughts weave together.
It coddles and it bites,
It gets inside your head,
It pushes you around,
It's never good in bed,
It warps any good thought you have,
Never thinking twice,
It splits your personality,
Into naughty and into nice,
Over time it makes you weary,
Makes you callused, burned, and bruised,
Makes the one good thing you had,
Leave you cold and feeling blue,
Never should you ask,
And never should it tell,
Of the stories that you know,
Of this Angel in Hell.
What am I?
I am Fear.
/\\/\\/\\/\\/\\/\\
So what did you think? How's my poetry? What was with that flashback? Let me know you loved it by leaving me a review, and as always, thank you for taking the time to read my work. Until next time, lovelies, au revoir! I'll try to keep the gap a little shorter this time around.
As always, thanks a bunch! :)
~TPWG