Angel...
Christine stared at the darkness outside her window, the few visible stars twinkling back at her through stray clouds. The absent moon left her dank cell in pitch black, which brought her some comfort. Tears streamed across her face as she struggled not to move too much. Every tiny shift of her skin against the rough straw mattress sent searing shocks of pain through her body. She tried to remember how many days it had been, but time already grew addled in her mind.
Five days? Maybe six?
A small sob jerked at her shoulders, drawing a fresh cry from her lips. Every inch of her skin radiated heat, its surface glowing red. It sent a shiver through her body. Christine could still feel the searing hot water enveloping her as the nurses filled the tub. They ignored her cries of protest. Her screams renewed after several moments, when they hoisted her from the bathtub and dropped her in a neighboring one filled with ice cold water. The nurses held her down as she thrashed in desperation to escape the freezing bath. The cycle repeated itself nine more times that day. Halfway through it all, Dr. Lebeau appeared to witness the "treatment." That's what he called it. A treatment. Christine had never known such agony.
Erik... where are you?
She closed her eyes to send more tears across her face. "You said you'd always be with me." The whisper lifted from her lips with nary a sound. "Angel..."
When she opened her eyes, she wasn't in the asylum anymore. The bright walls of the Opera surrounded her, every candle flickering with light. The gilded statues and rich red window treatments filled her heart with renewed warmth. Confetti and rose petals littered the white marble floors and staircase. Stray masks lay here and there along with an occasional lost shoe or glove. The scent of champagne and roasted meat hung in the air.
The Masquerade.
Christine smiled and climbed the grand staircase one step at a time, her hands clutching the length of her white gown. What she found on the landing looked exactly as she remembered it. A swath of grey ash stained the red carpet from where the Phantom had thrown his trick of flame at the managers' feet. Not far from there sat the discarded score of his opera, its leather cover gleaming in the candlelight. After the man dressed as Red Death had taken his leave, the crowd dispersed into chaos. Christine watched the managers flee without hesitation, their champagne flutes tumbling from their hands to shatter on the marble floor. She stepped around the broken glass and stooped to pick up the opera score. It felt heavy in her hands and cool to the touch. With it clutched against her chest, Christine continued up the stairs and towards the doorway that would lead to the upper foyer.
She blinked.
The grand mirror of her dressing room appeared before her. A heavy scent of roses filled her nose. Christine glanced around at her old quarters, a light smile on her lips. A princess costume lay on the vanity's stool, its matching tiara sitting atop it. She looked down to see the leather bound score still clutched in her arms. The mirror's image shifted in a swirl of ethereal mist behind its silver surface. Her breath caught as the specter the dancers called Red Death appeared before her. The red suit he wore hugged every line of his lithe frame, its matching crimson cloak extending out behind his feet. She took a step towards the mirror as he captured her gaze. The full mask shaped like a human skull obscured everything but his chin, giving him a severe aesthetic. He truly looked like the embodiment of Death himself.
But Christine wasn't afraid. She reached out to touch the mirror with one hand. Instead of mimicking her motion, he held up the engagement ring that had until recently laid against her chest on a silver chain. Christine's smile flickered with guilt.
"Do you want this," he asked her.
Christine shook her head.
"Why did you wear it?"
She swallowed and leaned into the mirror. "Raoul proposed to me. Who am I to refuse him?"
He stared at her, unmoving and silent. It unnerved her.
"Angel..."
"He is a distraction," he snapped. "A common pig who will disrupt your career and turn you into his-"
"His what?"
Her own words startled her. Never before had she dared to interrupt the Angel of Music, let alone challenge him. But tonight, something gave her a newfound courage. His eyes narrowed to regard her with annoyance and a hint of wonder.
"His property."
"Isn't that what a wife is to a husband?"
Her Angel shook his head once and dropped the Vicomte's ring at his feet. The darkness swallowed it whole. He reached for the edge of the mirror to pull the glass aside and took a step inside the dressing room. Christine faltered on her feet at his sudden movements, but didn't move away. As he wrapped one gloved hand around hers, she shivered and gazed up at him. The skull adorning his face should have alarmed her, but the gentle eyes behind the mask set her at ease. He traced her cheek with his other hand and urged her closer.
"No one owns you, Christine. No one should be property." He spat the last word out as though it were laced with poison.
"But I-"
He shook his head and pressed a finger to her lips before allowing his hand to drift down to the score in her arm.
"This is my gift to you. Rehearse well and practice everyday. Your role is more challenging than past ones."
A sharp knock at the door made them both jump. Christine could hear a muffled voice shouting her name. When she turned to look at her Angel again, the memory diffused and blew away from around her like a rush of wind. The warmth around her hands faded. She shivered and blinked several times.
Darkness.
The harsh straw mattress stabbed her burned skin with a thousand needles, drawing a rough cry from her throat. A scream down the hallway shocked her out of her sleepy stupor. When she sat up, Christine could see the first traces of pink on the horizon outside. Somehow she had slept most of the night. Her Angel's words echoed in her mind, bringing tears to her eyes.
"You were right," she whispered. "I sold myself to him. And now... I'm here."