"Please! Please come back! Please! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please don't leave me here!"
She had tired herself out between screaming at him and unsuccessful attempts at escape. The bars were set too closely together to squeeze through and they were made of pure iron; she'd never be able to bend them even if she had the aid of a tool. Throwing herself against the sides to rock it and knock it over proved fruitless. It was so heavy it didn't even budge, as if it had been bolted to the floor.
The more she tried to escape, the more panicked she became. Her breathing came in quick gasps, spots danced around the edges of her vision until it tunneled, and her stomach clenched with nausea. Her hands wrapped around the bars and she held on as tightly as she could.
I'll never get out. I'll never get home. I'm going to die here. I'm going to starve to death, and no one will ever find me! Oh God! Oh God oh God oh God!
As anxiety crested and began to drag her under, she sank to her knees and let her full weight collapse forward on her thighs, then fell onto her side until she was curled up in the fetal position. She didn't have anything cold to press against her face or her neck, no water nearby, just the sound of overwhelming buzzing in her ears. She was vaguely aware of hot tears dripping sideways across her face, and her breathing grew more labored as it waffled between gasps and sobs. Three things… think of three things… One hand feebly stretched between the bars of the cage, reaching for help that wasn't there. "Please," she whispered. "Don't… leave me… alone."
Ultimately, she couldn't fight the rising panic any longer, and the darkness pulled her under.
Ang awoke disoriented and sore, and started to stretch her arms and legs outward before realizing she couldn't do both at once. Storm gray eyes snapped open. There were bars on all sides of her. Her impossible situation rushed back like a tidal wave and crashed over her head. Her heart kicked into high gear, drumming triple time against her chest, and she panted as sheer panic mounted within her. Stop it, Ang. Stop it! Now! Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Her breathing was shallow, too shallow, and she shuddered with each one. Her blood rushed through her ears until it was all she could hear. Darkness crowded in on her vision.
"Seriously, Ang! You've got to– to stop! You're gonna make yourself pass out again!" she scolded herself aloud, twisting about until she was able to slap her hand against the stone floor outside the cage, hoping the sting and shock of it would snap her out of it. Her brain scrambled for the exercises her psychologist taught her to use when a panic attack arose.
Three things I can see. Three things I can hear. Three things I can move.
It took several minutes, but her mind at long last gained control over her body and her heartbeat slowed again, her lungs didn't bellow as frequently, and she was finally able to breathe in a steady, even rhythm. Her eyes had teared as they usually did, an automatic response, leaving damp streaks on her cheeks. But at least the worst of it was over. She took a few more deep, calming breaths.
Now that her mind was clearer and she wasn't in danger of fainting once more, she was able to perceive that something in her surroundings had changed, and slender eyebrows drew together in confusion. Ang lifted her head and let it drop back again. She blinked and twisted her head to the side, glanced down toward her cheek. Instead of a dusty sheet, a thick, velvet pillow, intricately embroidered and decorated with golden tassels, had been slipped beneath her head in its place. She sat up quickly and took stock. She was covered with a soft, woven afghan. There was only one explanation as to whom and how, but why? The legendary Opera Ghost wasn't the type to set intruders at ease and comfort. He would sooner kill people that disturbed him if his persona in the book or stage play was any indication. Yet here were two pieces of evidence to the contrary.
The distinct smell of freshly baked bread distracted her from any further thought on the matter. She quickly looked around and spotted the source of the sweet, yeasty aroma: a polished silver platter sat on the outside of the cage holding half a dozen rolls that still emitted tendrils of steam, as well as several slices of ripe melon. Again, she glanced around before lowering her head to sniff at the plate once she drew it closer. It smelled safe; her nose didn't detect any signs of harmful tampering, not that she would have actually been able to tell. He could have laced it with arsenic and she would have had no idea until it was too late. She paused and straightened, still staring at the plate. This character – she had to keep reminding herself he was just a character, and that it couldn't be real – was depicted as a man that killed without remorse. Would he poison her? Drawing her lower lip between her teeth, she debated silently until the growl in her stomach decided for her. If she was just dreaming, then there was no danger in the food poisoning her because it wasn't real. Right? She took up a roll and nibbled at it. As she had observed before, it was still warm, and so soft that it practically melted on her tongue. Any other hindrances were banished and she finished the bread in a couple minutes before turning her attention to the fruit.
Half way through her third slice, she paused and lifted her head once more to look around. There was no sign of her masked captor, but that didn't mean he wasn't nearby. "Thank you," she offered quietly, and now she ate slower, keeping her ears strained on the sounds around her to pick up anything out of the ordinary.
With the plate cleaned save for a few crumbs, she set the pillow against the bars and almost happily lounged back against it. Her stomach felt pleasantly full now, and she let her lids droop closed for a brief few moments.
Something stirred her hair against her back, and she shot forward with a yelp, whipping around and pressing her back against the opposite side of the cage. There sat Erik, the frightening, infamous Opera Ghost, crouching balanced on the balls of his feet, one hand still slightly outstretched in the position it had been while he'd fingered a few pieces of her hair. His dark gaze stared at her through the holes of his expressionless mask. She finally breathed easier; at least it was him and not some gutter mouse nibbling at her. "You scared me!"
The Opera Ghost snorted derisively. "It is nothing new," he remarked, his native French origin ever apparent in each accented word.
"Oh, no. Not that like," she amended quickly, her features softening. "I- I only meant that you surprised me. I didn't know you were there."
For a long while, the pair stared at each other through the wall of bars. He was dressed in a gold waistcoat and cravat, under which was a pressed white shirt. Sleeves billowed loosely, the cuffs kept together by polished cufflinks. Both hands were covered in white gloves. Black pant legs strained across his thighs as he crouched there. Perched atop his head was a black silk top hat. The off white plaster came down to where she supposed his cheek bones ended, as well as covering his nose, leaving his mouth and jawline exposed. He was clean shaven, and besides a hint of red peeking from the lower edges of the mask, he seemed perfectly normal. He didn't have swollen lips as depicted in the famous stage musical, although he did wear a full mask rather than a half-sided one.
Finally, he spoke again. "What are you doing?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You are staring."
Ang relaxed some, sitting forward away from the cage at her back, tugging the afghan up toward her chest to hug it. "Um, I'm sorry. I tend to look at new people I've never met before."
Erik leaned forward, almost so that his forehead rested against the cage. "You are not frightened of me?"
She lightly shook her head. "Not really."
The answer confused him and he narrowed his eyes at her. "Why not?"
Shrugging her shoulders, she slowly answered, "Maybe because... I already know who you are."
"No one knows who I am," he scoffed.
"I think I know you better than most." Ang bit at her lower lip and glanced aside in thought. She'd read the novel once while she was still in school, and of course she knew Yeston and Kopit's version by heart, given how many weeks the production team had been working on it. Then there was the AWL movie that she was fairly familiar with. So what were the commonalities between the three? "For example, I know your name, and that you're a musician and composer. You're an illusionist and a magician. And you must have a pretty strong grasp of architecture and direction to find your way through all these tunnels without a map. And didn't you build a boat down here somewhere?"
He bristled. "How can you know any of that?" His eyes went a little wide, and for a moment, the Opera Ghost looked frightened, himself. "Are you a witch?"
"No!" she laughed softly, reaching forward momentarily to reassure him before letting her hand fall back in her lap. "I promise, I'm not a witch. But I don't think you'd believe the truth even if I tried to explain it to you. I don't even believe it." The conversation felt ridiculously normal, as if she hadn't recently fallen out of an America theater and into a book. Or a script. Or an endless dream. She still wasn't sure which. But that was neither here nor there; he was talking, and if she kept him talking, maybe he'd trust her enough to let her go. What else did she know of him, something that might set him at ease? She started humming a song from the Broadway musical, the one that the monkey music box played. He seemed to be intrigued, tipping his head this way and that, but not as if he was familiar with it. Ang stopped. All right; so she hadn't fallen into that script. She hummed a bit from the version she was working on, but his reaction appeared to be the same. And then a thought struck her.
"Oh! Have you started writing… oh, what was the name of it?... Um, something- something Triumphant?"
His expression twisted from curiosity to fury and he lunged at the bars, arm shooting through the cage, seizing her by the throat and yanking her forward until her chest and face were pressed against the hard metal rods. "Some cruel prank. Witch. Spy. Thief," he snarled, his voice deep and frightening as a demon's from hell. "I do not know how you discovered me or found out about my work, but you will never see the light of day."
Her arms flailed a little. She clamped both hands around the offending wrist before she gripped the bars and pushed back, an attempt to pull herself free from his grasp. "Not...a..." Her vision swam and began dimming in color as stars flickered in and out. "Please… please… Erik…" Hands reached for him, clawing at his arm to try and get him to relent. In a last ditch effort, her fingers splayed wide, the tips just able to catch the edge of his mask enough to dislodge it somewhat. A wail erupted from him as he flung her away from him, both hands slapping against the mask to keep it in place. He breathed heavily, a huddled mass akin to an injured and frightened animal.
Ang doubled over, hand against her neck, coughing and dragging in gulps of air. "I'm sorry," she said hoarsely.
He leapt to his feet and ran from where she was kept, leaving her alone as she continued to fight for air through her bruised throat.