Bring Her Home

Hello all,

This is probably one of the most intense chapters... Or thorough rather. I'm sorry for the delay. I went to New York and saw Les Miserables! If you may know, I base my characterization of Erik slightly on Ramin Karimloo's portrayal of him in the 25th Anniversary stage production of POTO. Since my junior year of high school (I am now a freshman in college), I've gone through many traumatic events and I've now grown an emotional attachment to Ramin and his music. It was an emotional experience for me to be able to watch him live, especially with such a show like Les Mis. I did do the Fangirl thing and wait at the stage door in the cold New York weather. I met most of the cast, but I was especially excited to meet Earl Carpenter. He was a former Phantom on the West End and that particular night, he was playing Javert. He was a sweetheart and I even got a picture! Anyway, I waited some more and since it is a rarity for Ramin to go to the stage door after shows, I prayed and hoped that he would come out that evening. To my utter disbelief, he came out and made his way down the row and finally he was standing in front of me! Ahhhhhh. I have no words to describe what an amazing experience it was. He makes me want to wake up in the mornings, to push through the hardest nights, even when everything around me is telling me to quit halfway through it. He's my inspiration for everything I do and to meet him was just an out-of-body experience.

Anyway, the next week was midterms and as you know, that was busy as well... I tried to update, but it was chaotic enough as is. I hope this update makes up for it.

I love you all.

Thank you for sticking by me all this time.

You have truly made my life,

A

The nightmares started a week after Christine was released from the hospital and admitted to the rehabilitation center. Meg knew very well that Erik was going to leave her, she just didn't know how to tell Christine without making the situation worse, so Meg just didn't tell her. Night after night, Christine would ask Meg about the professor and if he would be returning to take her away from the ward like some knight in shining armor. Meg never answered her. The blonde ballet dancer would just insist on Christine eating more cornbread. It was always the special in the cafeteria. Christine hates cornbread now. With two weeks under her belt, Christine began to seriously wonder if the former composer was ever going to come back for her. She would dream of him and it would be so vivid, that she could practically hear his voice, see his face. He would call to her and without a second thought, she would go to him. That was until he started calling upon her in a vaguely familiar cemetery and she would wake up screaming for help. No one was there to help her, though. She was alone in a room with too white of walls and too itchy of a blanket. The recurring nightmare of the composer chasing her through the cemetery plagued her for the four weeks she was at the rehabilitation center and even now, she finds her mind wandering to the ghostly images of the masked man standing atop the grand cement angel, never actually knowing if she's dreaming or if it's her eyes playing tricks on her. Nightmare or not, the sad reality that she would run back to the masked man ten times over again - no matter how far he chased her and how brutally he hurt her - was entirely true, and that is what scared her the most.

"Christine?" The green eyed girl turned slowly to meet the mismatched eyed composer as her mess of curls fell gently down her back. She was exhausted.

"Hmm?" Erik smiled softly at the tired girl as she drifted in and out of sleep. Rising from the piano bench, the composer glided gently towards the lethargic girl, careful not to make any loud noises.

"Why don't I take you to bed? It's too late for you to go all the way home now..." Christine could have sworn that Erik was singing, his voice was smooth and silky - intoxicating, really. "I'll call Meg tomorrow and make sure she knows you're safe with me..."

"Mmmmmkay..." Christine continued to force herself awake enough to answer the former professor as he knelt in front of her. He was as tall, maybe even taller, than her even on his knees. "Am I going to sleep down here? In the lair?"

"It would be much easier, but I can carry you upstairs, if you'd like..." The angelic touch of Erik's fingers grazed Christine's cheek as she nuzzled into his tender grasp. She was content for the first time in a long time. "What do you want to do, kitten?"

"I want to stay up and listen to your music." Erik laughed slightly, only to realize that Christine was serious. "I don't want to go to sleep, Teacher."

"Why not, kitten? You can barely keep your eyes open..." Falling forward, Christine rested body against Erik's chest. His arms never failing to catch her in a protective hold. "Kitten, let me take you to bed... You need sleep..."

"No!" Christine's nimble fingers found the nape of Erik's neck as she fondle the tiny black hairs, whining ever-so-slightly about the extreme dislike towards going to bed. "I want to stay up with you, Erik."

"Kitten, you're halfway asleep and it's already... Three in the morning. You can listen to my music tomorrow, Christine..." Scooping the dancer's body up with ease, Christine acquiesced with no fight. She was exhausted from ballet class. "Tell me, do you want to sleep down here or do you want me to take you upstairs?"

"I want to sleep anywhere you are." Erik hummed in response, making his way down the narrow corridor. The last door on the right was his bedroom. It was smaller than the upstairs one, but still livable. "Erik, I don't want to go to sleep tonight."

"Why not?" The composer stepped towards the bed, laying Christine down on the bed. Her tired eyes met with Erik's in an undeniable wave of sadness. "Christine, what's wrong?" Immediately, Erik sat by Christine as she began to cry - weep. Capturing her trembling body in his, Erik tried thinking back to anything during the day that could have spawned this sudden sadness onto her. "Kitten, tell me what's wrong..."

"If I sleep..."

"If you sleep?" The green eyes were clouded with tears as Christine painfully met with the masked man. He was just as pained. "What will happen if you sleep, Christine?"

"The nightmares... They'll come and get me... I don't want them to come, Erik!" As Christine dug her fingertips into Erik's arms, the composer took a deep breath.

"Christine, as long as I'm here, nothing will get you... Nothing will ever harm you. You're safe with me," Erik paused as he let out the air in his lungs. "Even if I am the one in your nightmares... It's just a dream. I'm never going to hurt you, ever..." Erik brought Christine's chin up with his hand, trying to ensure that she knew about his seriousness. "Christine, I will never hurt you."

"But... The nightmares-"

"Are just dreams, Christine. I am real. Me, Erik. I am real. The man in your nightmares, the man at the cemetery, is not me and he never will be. I promise you, those are just dreams."

Silence fell over the two as Christine pulled away from the composer. Curling up into a ball against the lavish pillows, Christine shook her head slowly. She tried so hard to believe Erik, but nothing plagued her more than the thought of the masked man chasing her through the forest of sculpted angels. The image of the raging fire behind his eyes as he spoke to her with such mystification and gentleness, made her quiver with fear, yet step closer in pure curiosity. He called to her as if he knew her for years and she went to him, like she was his for a lifetime. Nothing scared her more than the way he echoed her name. It was celestial, yet frightening - as she imagined the voice of an angel would sound. As he repeatedly whispered her name from an unknown headstone, it grew louder with a melody so familiar, yet so unattainable. It was only the melody a composer could sing to her. The, "R," of her name rolled off his tongue with such ease that it seemed to trickle down her spine and seep into her skin, leaving its mark on her bones as he finished her name with a breathless, "E." Christine could practically hear it now as Erik stared at her with confusion through the hole of his porcelain mask. The composer had been calling out to her since she went into a daze. With a slow blink, Christine reached out to Erik and gently pulled off the white mask. The composer had no objections. The dancer only wanted to see if the fire that consumed his soul in her dreams was real - if the fire had found its way into reality. She was miserably and unfortunately misinformed when she was told that they were just dreams.

"Where's the little shit?! The one with the curls?" Mama V screeched at the top of her lungs as she made her way down the line of girls. "The puny one with the giant green eyes, where is she?!"

Mama V was a large lady and smelled like the last time she showered was the French Revolution. She had red hair and a lot of freckles. Her temper was the worst, really. She hated the girl with the curls, but at this point... Who didn't?

"If someone doesn't tell me where that little shit is right now-" Suddenly, the waddling penguin was rudely interrupted by the slamming of the door behind her. Turning slowly, Mama V met angry eyes with the curly haired girl. "Well, if it ain't Curly. Thanks for joining us, girl."

"Sorry Mama V... I..." The penguin rolled her eyes, indicating that she was not interested in her excuse. "I'm sorry."

"Well, if Hitler was sorry, would that fix what he did?" The curly haired girl shook her head. Mama V huffed in response as she eyed the line of girls that range from the ages of three to eighteen. She hated children of any age. "Listen up, everyone except Curly here, better get on her merry way and continue on their schedules... Or I'll be very angry. No one wants to see Mama when she's angry, do they?"

"No, ma'am!" The multitude of girls echoed back to the headmaster as they all filed out of the bedroom, leaving Curly and the Penguin alone at last.

"Mama V..." Curly began with the quietest voice. She couldn't have been more than four years old. "I'm sorry for being late."

"Apology not accepted, Curly."

Curly knew what was coming. After all, it was her fault that she was late. She had lost track of time in the city and next thing she knew, it was sunrise and Mama V would be waking up the troop of girls. Curly liked getting up really early, while it was still dark outside, and escaping to the city to watch the ballet dancers in the studio. She wondered why there were dancers in the studio so early in the morning, but she also figured that if she was ever going to make it to that age... She would be in there all day too. Curly doesn't remember much of how she got to the all girl's home. She doesn't want to remember, but she hopes that one day she can escape for good. Mama V doesn't like her at all, but she believes that Mama V is just tired all the time. She doesn't mean to hurt Curly, but sometimes... Mama V does and Curly can't say anything. Like that one day where Curly accidentally broke a plate while washing dishes. Oh, Curly remembers that day very well. Mama V was livid. She grabbed Curly by the arm and pulled her upstairs and spanked her hard across the face and thighs. Curly didn't cry though. That wasn't until Mama V grabbed the iron from the fire. She told Curly, "Are you scared?" And of course, Curly said no, but there were tears in her eyes and she felt like she couldn't breathe. Once the hot iron hit her leg, Curly screamed in pain. Oh, the pain was insurmountable. The only thing Curly can remember from that day was Mama V whispering in her ear before letting her go... "Face your fears or they'll get you while you're sleeping."

A few weeks after her burn healed, Curly managed to escape again, but this time she took a different path. Curly was never good with directions and she managed to get lost in a cemetery. The headstones were large, much taller than her, but some were small and unique. There were foreign names that she couldn't even try to pronounce and there were easy names that made her mind wander. Surprisingly enough, she wasn't scared to be in a cemetery. She found it calming. With a few more steps, she found another tomb that was quite large. It was gated, but unmarked. She thought it was strange that it had no name, but it was so grandiose. Her curiosity got the best of her and she walked towards the unmarked crypt, only to awaken the spirit within.

"Child, what are you doing here?" The voice was a man's. It was the most magical, most kind voice Curly had ever heard before.

"I'm... I'm lost." She replied, tilting her head in awestruck wonder.

"Lost? In a cemetery? My child, what are you doing out this early in the morning? Shouldn't you be in bed?" Curly smiled gently at the tomb, not really knowing where the voice was coming from. For all she know, it could have been God himself.

"I was going into the city and decided to take a different route. I got lost on the way and ended up here... I like it here, though." Curly smiled again as she approached the steps, biting her lip in anticipation.

"How old are you, child? You can't be more than seven." Curly held up five fingers and wiggled them with joy. The voice laughed back with Curly. "You are quite young. Where do you live?"

"The all girl's home on Boquet Avenue." Curly could feel the tingle of the scar on her thigh acting up as she spoke about her living space. It was hardly a home. Curly paused, trying to think of a way to phrase her question. In defeat, she looked up at the unmarked tomb again. "Sir, are you real?"

"Of course, I'm real. You're talking to me, aren't you?" Curly nodded in agreement. "Child, what is your name?"

"I don't have one. Everyone just calls me Curly, because of my hair." The little girl shrugged her shoulders and sighed. "What's your name, sir?"

"My name? Oh, I don't have a name." The voice paused for a moment, leaving Curly in extreme anticipation. "You can call me whatever you would like, Little One." Curly looked around the graveyard once again for a man, but saw nothing that even resembled anything lifelike. All she saw were headstones and cement angels. Looking forward towards the unmarked tomb, the little girl smiled widely.

"Is this your tomb, sir?" The voice laughed a deep laugh, only to make Curly stumbled backwards. "Are you d-dead? Are you a ghost?"

"If I were a ghost, we would not be speaking like we are now." Curly pulled her lips into a tight line. "This is not my tomb, for I am not dead. I am a man, just as you are a girl."

"Can... Can I see you, sir?" The voice laughed again. "I want to see you. I promise I won't hurt you." Curly waited another moment, but the voice didn't respond. With a defeated sigh, Curly turned on her heel and made her way down the steps. It wasn't until she was about halfway down the isle of gravestones that she heard the voice again, but this time it was deeper, more demanding.

"Where are you going, child?" Curly froze in her tracks as the booming voice called out to her. "Won't you turn around to meet me?"

Curly smiled to herself knowing that she got her way. There was something about this voice that comforted, although it frightened her as well. As the little girl turned around, she was wildly surprised. It was as if her mind was playing tricks on her. The voice personified was a man, a very young man who she didn't imagine to be at all. He was dressed in a black suit and had a white mask on, she wasn't sure why. He was very tall, much taller than she was. His hair was jet black and his stature was regal, mystical almost. The voice wore a black cape that draped his lean body ever-so-perfectly. His shoes shined in the sunlight and the chain of his pocket watch glimmered in Curly's eyes. She was astounded by the whole of the voice. He looked like a magician and as he stood in front of the unmarked tomb, he stared intently at Curly as though she was his final act.

Three Weeks Later

"Keep them closed, no peeking." Christine shut her eyes tighter to make a point towards the composer as his firm grip led her blindly into a room that smelled like paint. "Step up, Christine. Don't worry, I've got you."

"I don't like surprises, Erik." The composer smiled only knowing that his former student was unaware of his smiling. "Can I open my eyes now?"

"Not yet, kitten. We're almost there, I promise..."

Suddenly, the air turned frigid and Erik's voice was thrown elsewhere. It seemed as though he was miles away from where she was. Christine didn't like it. As she stood awkwardly - what was seemingly alone - she could hear the movement of feet and tiny whispers in the distance, but Erik's reassuring hand was no long with her. Stumbling backwards, she conveniently found that there was a seat beneath her. The seat was scratchy and had a spring to it. Christine's immediate thought was that she was in an auditorium. The echoing of her breathing and the throwing of Erik's voice were all symptoms of the typical acoustics of an auditorium. Christine could do nothing, but wait.

"Erik?" Christine called out into what seemed like an empty whole of cold air. "Erik, are you there?"

"Christine, do you trust me?" His voice was yet again, in another location, closer to Christine, but not in conversational distance.

"I... Of course, Erik... What's going on, Erik? I'm scared, Erik..." Christine's voice shrunk to that of a child's. Erik had only heard this voice one other time and that was when he had to awaken her from her nightmare. He knew very well that he had to get a move on things. With a deep breath, the magic began.

"Okay, open your eyes, Christine. You never have to be scared with me."

As Christine's eyes adjusted to the bright red stage lights, she gasped in amazement. The scenery was majestic - like it came straight from the Universal Studios backlot. The subtle hints of gold and touches of green that encompassed the sublime perfection - that was the setting of the surprise - it was in that moment when the company of dancers draped in crimson and black, that Christine knew without a doubt, she had entered the master's mind.

"W-What is this?" After moments of awestruck silence, that's all Christine could muster up with saying.

"Do you like it, Christine?" The curly headed girl nodded slowly, not really certain of how she should have reacted. "This is the set of my new opera. I wanted you to be the first to see its first dress rehearsal." Erik stood proudly at center stage with a sea of actors and dancers surrounding him, guffawing at the fact that the composer himself would even stand within three feet of the company. He was the ring leader, the genius behind it all.

"Your new opera? Erik, I... I have no words. It's all so... So... So mesmerizing!" Christine clapped her hands like a small child. She felt strange doing so, but that was her first instinct. As her eyes scanned the landscape of utter brilliance, Erik beckoned Christine with the curve of his finger, drawing her in closer to the magic, making no sound. It was truly in his eyes that the real mystification came. With one quick glance, she was his and Christine knew there was no looking back.

"It's called Il Muto." Christine continued to look curiously around at all the dancers, who remained silent. She figured that they didn't know about their relationship. "It's about an Italian Empress who is having an affair with a man, who is disguising himself as the maid." Erik smiled gently at Christine, as he paused awkwardly to pull on the bottom of his jacket. "The maid... Or the man who The Empress is having an affair with, is a silent role... and will actually be played by a woman... It's a comedy, you see..." The composer walked around the stage, scratching the back of his neck. The curly headed girl didn't notice.

"Did you write the music for it?" Christine already knew the answer, but the question passed her lips before she could stop it. Erik's answer was nothing less than she expected.

"The, uh... Main reason why I brought you here was not only for you to see the full dress rehearsal, Christine... But, I brought you here to ask you..." Christine froze in her tracks. Her thoughts raced to the first possible question.

Marriage. She was only nineteen. She wasn't ready to be married. She still had three years of college left and she was certain that Erik wasn't ready for marriage either. Christine didn't want to turn around and face the composer. To say no to him in front of all these people would be inhumane of her. It would be as if she was kicking a puppy or even worse, kicking André. Christine didn't want to think about it anymore. As the young girl turned around, she was thoroughly relieved to see that Erik was in fact not down on one knee, preparing to ask for her hand in marriage. The composer was staring at Christine relentlessly with his mismatched eyes with a brand new pair of pointe shoes in his hands. Suddenly, it dawned on Christine that Erik had brought her here to introduce her to the opera, in order for Christine to begin practicing, since they were already at the first full dress rehearsal. With a shaky breath, Christine stepped forward and eyed the pair of pointe shoes as if she had never seen a pair of pointe shoes before, but they both knew that was a horribly, dirty, filthy lie.

"I want you to be the maid, Christine. I want you to dance for me in my opera." Christine almost dropped the pair of pointe shoes as she listened to the composer's request. She didn't think that she was talented enough to earn such a spotlight.

"Erik... I don't think that's a good idea-"

"There you go again with the whole idea that Erik's ideas aren't good ones!" In unison, the whole company - along with a now frightened Christine - flinched at the composer's roaring voice. "What is so bad about Erik's ideas? Does Christine not want to dance in Erik's opera? Is Erik's opera not good enough for Christine?!"

"Erik... I didn't mean it like-"

"Tell me, Miss Daaé!" Christine shut her eyes tightly, hoping that this was another nightmare. "Is the stage not your home? Christine has always dreamt of dancing across the stage in front of thousands, has she not?" Christine slowly nodded as she bit her lip in an attempt to prevent tears from flowing down her cheeks. "Did Christine not run away when she was a little girl to watch the older girls dance in studios? Did Christine not imagine that the stage was as good as a home as any?" Erik inched closer to the trembling girl as she clung on to the pointe shoes with all her strength.

"I... I just... I didn't know you wanted me to be the dancer for your opera, Erik." Christine tried to sound as calm as possible as she looked up at the now completely calm composer.

"Oh, Christine..." As silence filled the space between them, the composer fell onto his knees and wrapped his arms around the ballerina's waist. He could feel her quiver at his touch, flinch as he grasped her t-shirt. He was in an undeniable state of shock. "I'm so sorry, Christine... Please... Forgive me..."

"Erik, I... I think I should go, it looks like you have a lot of things to do." At that moment, Christine knew her answer, but she didn't want to tell Erik yet. It was true that she dreamt of being on stage all her life and she considered the ballet studio her home, but she didn't want to be brought to her home - her haven and sanctuary, like this. She was afraid.

"Christine, please... Don't go..." As Christine pulled the composer's body off of her, the sound of the pointe shoes hitting the stage echoed loudly throughout the theater. Erik remained on his knees, with his palms pressed against the cold hardwood floor. He wouldn't dare looking up at her. With a final disappointed sigh, Christine began walking away from the weeping composer and his flabbergasted company, not quite knowing where she was headed. All she knew was that this stage was not her home and that was not her Erik.