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| Part 4
Christine stayed in bed the next day, too. She didn’t feel well enough to get up or do anything; and she was so exhausted... Most of the time she either tried to sleep or didn’t even bother trying and lay awake thinking, with the Phantom’s mask always in her hand or on her pillow. She took strange comfort in having it with her always, though Heaven only knows why, for it was a constant reminder of him. Not as if she even tried to forget anymore, like she used to. No, she knew it was pointless to even try to forget him, for it was quite impossible. Her mind constantly drifted from the present back into the past of the opera, of singing lessons, of sweet innocence! Yes, it was these thoughts she wished to dwell on, not her current troubles.
Sometimes, though not terribly often because it took more energy to actually think than to remember, Christine would look into the future. Often, she saw nothing but shadows and stormy, gray clouds hanging over a dreary street in a city. Empty shadows, as if there was nothing there to make them, just the shadows themselves. These shadows were black and depthless, having no boundaries but the very air she breathed. They frightened her, their darkness seemed to overwhelm her and cause a tightness in her chest, like something seizing at her heart. She tried to flee from them, but something, or someone, always held her back.
So she stayed trapped while those shadows surrounded her. She never let them get too close before she broke off the daydream; and then Christine would feel relieved that it wasn’t real, like waking up before a nightmare ends. After those dark thoughts, Christine would stop thinking of shadows and think instead of his gentleness towards her. Of course, there had been moments of sheer terror, too, but Christine tended to forget those. She thought of how gentle and loving he could be. He had played upon her emotions of hesitant affection, tinged with awe, fear, and submission all mixed into one, and turned it into something entirely different and new (and unrecognizable as well): love.
Christine grew especially teary-eyed at these moments when all she could think of was his gentleness. It made her long for him desperately, so that her heart burned within her breast and she felt an uncontrollable desire to see him again.
A few days later, a new emotion manifested itself: anger. Christine began to hate herself for ever having left him. She berated and questioned herself continually, and tortured herself by asking questions impossible for anyone to answer, such as "Why had she left", "Why could she have not understood?", or "Why had fate been cruel and teased her by drawing her away?". There were all these questions, but never any answers!
Christine had not realized her foolishness of abandoning him until a few non-descriptant months had passed of trying to forget, and already it was too late. But she found out too late that it was impossible to forget such a man as he: a passionate, gifted, many faceted man who, above all, desired her love. He’d cherished the small affections, any few displays of anything but fear. But it wasn’t enough; he wanted all of her, but she wasn’t ready to give him her entire heart yet. It was too soon. So she’d left him, thinking her love lay elsewhere.
Christine had often wondered what had happened after she left, but had not the courage or the heart to find out. Was he dead? Madame Giry didn’t seem to think so. Then where was he? He certainly wasn’t still at the Opera House. It would be too incredible to believe! But if he was not at the Opera House, and he was not dead, where on earth could, or would, he be?
Whatever had happened after she left could not have been good; and Christine was the one to blame. Christine, in her selfish and idiotic act had undoubtedly ruined not just her own life, but his as well.
Was life worth living anymore? Was everything all hopelessness? Or was there, in fact, still hope of a reason to live, as invisible as it was? Her life was nothing without him. She lived only because she had not yet died. But why didn’t she die, if not for a purposeless life?
This was something Christine puzzled over for a long time. She could only conclude that for some indiscernible reason, for good or for ill, fate had decided to keep her alive. So live she must.
******
Through all of her moods of depression, despair, and reminiscence, Christine ate hardly at all, barely enough to stay alive. Somehow, the depressed, morbid thoughts in her head didn’t agree with the food in her stomach, and she frequently felt a queasy sort of feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Over the course of just two weeks, Christine grew weak and lost weight at a rapid rate. Her now thin frame could not withstand even the slightest of drafts; she would convulse with uncontrollable chills and had to have heavy blankets piled on top of her trembling body.
The weight of all the pain and grief of the past five years was finally beginning to manifest itself in a dangerous way. Christine’s illness was very serious, if not already life-threatening. Madame Giry called in a capable physician to see her, but often examining her he announced that there really wasn’t anything to do but watch and wait; and pray.
Besides her being malnourished and weak from lack of food, and frequently having a fever, he could find nothing wrong with her. He could only conclude that there was some "internal problem", bleeding or such, but he couldn’t really be sure unless he cut her open.
Madame Giry had been silent until then and she told him that surgery would be unnecessary, for she knew now for sure what it was that ailed her. The doctor listened intently for her to reveal what it was, but she only said, "It is nothing modern medicine can cure."
Well, the physician had a lot of confidence in his prescriptions, and he was put out at her words. He left the house in an agitated mood of bewilderment and irritation.
******
The next day Mme. Giry went into Christine’s bedroom at noon as she usually did when she was home, and brought a small plate of food. Thinking Christine was asleep, she set it n the little table beside the bed and turned to go, when she heard a small voice say behind her, "No, please, I’d like to talk to you a moment."
Mme. Giry turned to see Christine weakly pushing herself up from where she lay on her back on the bed. Mme. Giry helped Christine prop herself up with pillows, and then she sat down on a chair next to the bed.
"Thank you," Christine said, a little breathless from her exertions. She waited a moment until she could breath normally, and then proceeded to talk.
"First of all, I’d like to know what the date is today."
"January 22nd."
"Christine sighed a little and licked her dry lips. All of a sudden she leaned toward Mme. Giry and exclaimed, "Mme. Giry, what is his name?"
Mme. Giry started at this question, and then said slowly, "The name that was given to him, although not by his parents, was ‘Erik’."
"Erik," Christine said, as if she were tasting it. "Erik," she repeated. "He does not have a last name?"
"None that I know of."
"I see." She was already lost in thought. After a moment, she shook it off and said, "Thank you for telling me."
Mme. Giry got up to leave, and at the door she paused to look back on Christine; her eyes were closed and her fingers around Erik's mask.
******
Four days after Christine found out what the Phantom’s name was, she took another turn for the worse. Her fever raged dangerously high and she became delirious at times, raving about stalking shadows. Without warning she became suddenly fearful and her face grew white. Meg would hold her as Christine clutched her tightly and began to talk wildly of shadows lurking around her bed, her breath coming in short gasps. Then, eventually, the mad look in Christine’s eyes would slowly fade away and her face would become flushed again as her temperature fell and she fell half asleep.
Christine’s hot or cold, mild or irrational moods used up what little health she had left in her. She was going mad. Part of the time she could talk and think rationally or she was able to sleep, but the other half was filled with living nightmares in her delusional mind.
Through all of this Christine still kept Erik's mask with her at all times, usually clutched in her small hand. This was one thing that never changed. It seemed as if Christine drw strength from it, like a delicate flower drawing its strength from the sun.
During the next few days Christine frequently asked the Giry’s what the date was. Often, she would forget in her present state and ask several times a day. She usually then fell silent and said no more the rest of the day.
Nor did she shed even one tear. After two months of crying, she’d finally run out of tears it seemed, rather like a well that had dried up, but which had previously been over abundant.
On one particularly stormy afternoon, when Madame Giry went into what had now become ‘Christine’s bedroom’, she found her huddled on the carpet in front of the glowing embers in the fireplace, tears streaming down her cheeks freely and unhindered. For weeks Madame Giry had not seen Christine cry or get out of bed by herself, but now here she was, her tearstained face in her hands, weeping like she never had before. Unlike before, when her tears were always of anger, misery, pain, and sorrow, they were now due to an overwhelming sense of helplessness.
When she heard Mme. Giry come in, Christine lifted her face and said in a choked voice, "Do you know what today is? I do; it is the day I have dreaded for months now: January 30th. Exactly five years! Five years of misery and torture and self-doubt. But no more! I’m going, leaving!
"Too long have I sat here," her voice trembled, "trying to forget; to go on, and be happy. It didn’t work, it doesn’t, and it won’t. So I must leave and try to preserve any little hope of happiness I have left."
Her shoulders slumped. "You were right," she said softly. "I cannot live like this. No, I would rather die. And I believe I will soon, if I don’t find a way."
Christine was silent for awhile and then asked, "Would you give me something to eat? I must eat now that I have determined to live awhile longer yet."
Madame Giry nodded, "I am glad you have finally reached your decision. You would not have lasted much longer on tears." She left and then returned bearing a plate of food.
Christine sat up against a nearby chair leg and devoured the food hungrily as Madame Giry stood watching her. When she had eaten her fill, Christine leaned back and sat there silently, unmoving. She gazed into nothing; an odd look crossed her face and she spoke softly to herself, although Madame Giry heard it clearly: "I don’t know why I love him... Who can tell? What man can delve into the mysteries of the soul and fully comprehend why he loves and hates? And if he were to know; would it not only result in scars?
"Yes, no one can know the soul and understand it completely! But what of the mind? Could I understand that? Do I dare try, as I long to?"
"I do not know what is in his past, nor do I know if I should! But yet... I need to know him. If I could only penetrate his impervious mind, then I might understand his heart."
Christine stopped. She looked up at Madame Giry standing there, then dropped her head again. "Perhaps then I could have a chance of finding him..."
Madame Giry sat down silently into a seat not far from Christine.
Christine looked up, her face full of determination, her eyes alive again. "And I will know!" she turned to look at Madame Giry. "I must know! I want you to tell me all you know of him, from beginning to end! Will you?"
Madame Giry sighed sadly, and looked weary as she spoke. "I was afraid that one day you would ask me that. Now it has come and I must with it as best as can be.
"I do not wish you to know all things; there are some things too terrible and frightening to speak of yet, and I do not like recalling certain things to my memory. But I shall tell you most of what I know, of which I found out by various ways and means."
And so Madame Giry sat back, closed her eyes, and though for awhile, collecting old memories and secretes guarded in the back of her mind. And thus she began the tragedy of the tale of Erik.
| | |
| The very next day, Christine determined to go see her closest friend, Meg Giry, and her somewhat mysterious mother Madame Giry. As she made her way through the bustling streets of Paris, she reflected on the previous nights’ thoughts of guilt and depression. She hoped that by talking to Mme. Giry it would alleviate the pain a little. It had helped her in the past, and had helped her understand certain things of the Phantom’s nature, too.
When Christine reached their small house, she rang the doorbell. There was no answer, so she rang again. Since no one came to the door, and she found it unlocked, she let herself in.
"Meg?" she called. "Madame Giry?"
There was no reply. She looked into the parlor and the dining room, but they were both empty. Christine decided that perhaps they were in the small kitchen at the back of the house, and so she went into the hallway, which also contained the doors to both bedrooms.
Christine was walking through the hall when, as she passed Meg’s bedroom door, she noticed that it was standing ajar. She stopped and saw Meg standing by her dressing table, her back almost completely turned toward Christine, but angled enough that Christine could see that Meg held something in her hands. She was looking down at it intently, and then all of a sudden she shuddered and a look of anxiety crossed her face.
"Meg?" Christine asked, opening the door all the way. "Are you all right?"
At the sound of Christine’s voice, Meg spun around, a guilty, somewhat fearful expression on her face. Her eyes opened wide when she saw who it was and whatever it was she held in her hands disappeared behind her back in a flash of white.
"What are you doing?" Christine asked curiously.
"Meg’s mouth opened but she couldn’t speak until Christine came forward.
"Oh! Uh, nothing! Nothing at all!" she smiled nervously. "I was just, um, you know, cleaning," she finished lamely.
Christine stared at her, baffled by her peculiar behavior and said, "Meg, what in the world is going on? What are you hiding behind your back?"
"I--can’t tell you," she stammered and then burst into tears and wailed, "You’re not supposed to know! Mama told me never to let you see it! She said it would only hurt you!"
Christine paled at this. She had a horrible feeling she knew what that meant; her heart almost stopped when she thought about it, but she had to know...
Christine almost jerked Meg’s hand from behind her back and then felt a tightness in her chest when she saw what she knew she would. For there, in Meg’s small hand, lay the Phantom’s white mask.
The Journey of the Mask
Part 3: Pain
Christine backed away from the mask that lay in Meg’s outstretched palm; never taking her tortured eyes from it, but somehow not daring to touch it. Tears began streaming down her ghostly white face as she sank into a nearby chair. She couldn’t speak, and could only sit there helplessly, as a hundred different emotions flooded her all at once; remembering things for the first time in years, things that she had purposely forgotten.
She had always remembered, of course, but over the years she had forgotten some things, things that she wished she could forget now.
Yes, Christine had always remembered, but not like this! And now, as she stared at his mask, details, words, motions came back to her as she remembered every moment she had been with him. Painfully she recalled every look he’d given her, every gentle touch, every song, clear as the day they’d occurred.
She remembered now like never before, and it hurt; badly.
Meg didn’t say anything as Christine wept, she only stood there, somewhat tearful herself, and feeling horribly ashamed at the grief she had caused her best friend.
After awhile, she went hesitantly up to Christine and tried to console her by saying, "It’s all right, Christine, really it is. You needn’t cry over it; after all, it’s not as if you loved him--", but that only managed to aggravate Christine even more, so she remained silent then.
Finally, Christine managed to choke out, "Where did you get it?"
Meg answered cautiously, "I found it--on his throne, after you and Raoul left. That’s all that was left of him; his cape and his mask."
Christine shook her head in a frantic, confused manner. "But why? Why would he leave it?" She seemed to be asking herself more than she was Meg.
"I don’t know..." Meg trailed off. "I’m really sorry, Christine. I didn’t mean to upset you."
Christine nodded her head wordlessly, again overcome by her tears. She stood up shakily, then said a bit nauseously, "I--have to go home now," and rushed out the door, letting it slam behind her.
Meg sighed and sat down in Christine’s recently vacated chair and wondered what to do.
******
Two days later, Christine lay in her bed, blankets piled up on top of her to try to keep away the chills which frequently threatened to overtake her body. She’d been trying to sleep for hours, but to no avail. Thoughts kept returning to her mind, ones she couldn’t easily ignore.
It was 1:30 AM. Christine was so tired she didn’t want to move; both her head and her heart ached. She was miserable from lack of sleep in the last two days, and when she felt so sick. She felt hot, then cold, and with both came the unmistakably chills of a fever.
Christine, in short, was feeling horrible, and all because of some bad memories provoked by a mask! Try as she might, Christine couldn’t stop seeing over and over again all the memories that had arisen in her when she’d seen his mask again. Why had Meg kept it? Of all things! What was she thinking?
Although, now that she thought about it, Christine wished deeply that she’d asked to keep it. It was the only piece of him she could have, and painful as it may be, she wanted it desperately. Oh, why hadn’t she taken it? She wanted it so badly...only to hold it, then maybe she could rest...
She needed that mask; now, and she would get it, no matter what the cost.
******
Christine stumbled up to the Giry’s doorstep and knocked loudly on the door. When no one came she pounded on it with her fists, desperate to get inside and get his mask--her mask.
Finally, she heard a voice inside saying impatiently, "All right, I’m coming!" She heard the sound of the bolt being drawn and the door opened revealing Madame Giry in her nightgown, hair braided, with a lit candle in one hand. When she saw Christine barely standing, looking bedraggled and feverish, she almost dropped her candle.
Mme. Giry quickly recovered from her shock, though, and helped Christine inside, closing the door behind them. She brought Christine over to a chair and called out "Meg! Come quickly and help me!"
Meg appeared in the doorway looking wide-eyed and frightened, but when she saw Christine in her helpless manner, she was shocked.
"Meg, get a fire burning," her mother ordered, "and get me some cool water. She has a bad fever and we have to bring it down."
Meg hurried to obey and began piling wood in the fireplace. Christine sat in an arm chair by the fireplace with a glazed look in her eyes. She didn’t seem to acknowledge anything around her, Meg building a fire or Mme. Giry bathing her hot face with a damp, cool cloth.
"Help me get her undressed and into a nightgown," Mme. Giry said to Meg. "Go get one of yours."
Meg ran to fetch a nightgown and then they undressed Christine and put on the nightgown. After they had resettled her on the couch, Mme. Giry asked her slowly, "Christine, when was the last time you ate?"
Christine was silent for a moment and looked as if she didn’t quite understand the question. Mme. Giry asked her again, and after a pause, Christine said in a dull, distant voice, "I don’t know."
Mme. Giry sighed and got up to get her something to eat.
After finally persuading Christine to swallow a few spoonfuls of broth, Mme. Giry and Meg helped her to her feet. She could hardly stand, so they had to support her. They brought her to Meg’s bedroom and laid her on the bed. After tucking her in beneath numerous quilts and blankets, and turning off the lamp, they were leaving when Christine asked in a small voice, "Can I have the mask?"
Meg gave her mother a questioning look and after she nodded, dug the mask out of her dresser drawer and set it on the little table beside the bed.
Christine reached out her hand from beneath the covers and gently touched it. She then took it and put it on her pillow beside her, where she could see it. She just looked at it silently, but after Mme. Giry and Meg had left, tears began to wet her cheeks. Christine cried softly like that for a long time, and then, finally, with the mask still on her pillow, she fell asleep.
******
When Christine awoke the next day it was already past noon. Lying there in Meg’s bed, she still felt sick and cold but not so exhausted now that she had finally been able to sleep.
She turned over onto her side and saw the mask still on her pillow. Christine hardly remembered how it had gotten there so early that morning after she had dragged herself out of bed and out into the dark streets of the city. As she walked by the occasional wild nightlife of Paris, she had been so tired it was no wonder her memory of it was vague.
But as Christine gazed at the mask, a bittersweet feeling came upon her. She felt almost content now that she had a small part of him, yet it wasn’t enough! She wanted to see him again, hear his voice possess her, feel his arm around her once more. If only...
Her sad thoughts were interrupted by a quick knock at the door and then Meg, cheerful as ever, entered with a tray.
Christine sat up a bit as Meg sat down beside the bed. She smiled brightly and, setting the tray on the bed, said, "I brought you some breakfast," and then after looking at the clock, "Maybe I should call it lunch. How are you feeling? Mother let me stay home from rehearsal today to look after you."
Meg uncovered the tray to reveal toast, eggs, and tea.
Christine felt revolted at the thought of eating. She pushed the tray aside and said wearily, "I’m sorry, Meg, it’s all very nice, but I couldn’t eat right now if I wanted to. I can’t stand the thought of food!" She turned her head away sickly.
Meg’s face fell but she said firmly, "But you have to eat something! After all, you’re ill and you need to regain your strength."
Christine didn’t say anything. Meg burst out, "I can’t let you starve yourself to death! Please, Christine, eat just a little!"
"Death," murmured Christine to herself. "At least then I could find peace..."
Meg was shocked. "Don’t talk like that! You can’t die!"
"It would be better than being haunted by a ghost the rest of my life!"
"Stop that! You must get over this--this morbid obsession with the Phantom! It will destroy you!"
"You don’t understand--" Christine began miserably, but Meg burst out:
"No! I don’t understand! I can’t understand why you persist in these thoughts! Why can’t you be happy with your life without him? Why can’t you just stop reliving the past all the time and leave it alone! Leave it be; it’s done! It’s over now!"
A distant look came into Christine’s eyes again and she murmured, "It’s over now..."
Meg blinked. "What?"
Christine sighed and came back to the present. "Oh, nothing." She looked down. "Just leave me alone," she whispered.
Meg pursed her lips, but took the untouched tray and left, casting one last disapproving look into the room before disappearing.
Christine lay back against her pillows and closed her eyes. She fingered the mask, and as she lay there, whispered into the empty room, "Oh Angel, where are you? Are you out there? Somewhere? Anywhere?
"Come back to me, my angel; soon, before I grow too weary to continue life without you... Come to me... Oh, please listen! I need you now, I cannot live without you!
"I didn’t mean it," she sobbed. "I didn’t really want to leave you! I just didn’t think. I know I betrayed you, I know how I hurt you, but I’m sorry! I didn’t see; I didn’t see!
"Forgive me, angel," she whimpered, "forgive this broken heart and come back to me... Come back to...me..." Christine felt drowsy again, and as her cries subsided, fell asleep.
******
"How is she?" Meg’s mother sat down at the kitchen table across from her daughter.
Meg sighed, "She’s distant. She wouldn’t eat anything, and when I told her she had to eat something or she’d starve, she just said something about dying.
"What are we going to do, mama?" she fretted. "we can’t force her to eat and she’s in such a horrible, depressed mood... I don’t see how she can get better like this! I don’t think she even wants to get better!"
Mme. Giry nodded understandingly. "She is broken, Meg; tired and stressed. We must be patient and not rush her. Time only heals because one forgets; but people like him are not easily forgotten.
"But we cannot help her until she wants to help herself, which is unlikely to be anytime soon while she still loves him."
Meg was shocked. "Loves him!" she burst out loudly. "What are you talking about! She cannot love him! How could she?"
"Calm down, child!" Mme. Giry said sternly. "Of course she loves him. Why else would she tear herself apart with thoughts of him night and day?
"It takes courage to love, Meg, it’s not for the weak. Christine has more in her than you might think." She nodded wisely. "She’ll pull through this; wait and see. She may choose to take the rougher road, but she’ll pull through."
******
Mme. Giry knocked gently on the bedroom door and then let herself in. Christine was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling in silent, despondent thought. She didn’t turn when Mme. Giry came in or seem to acknowledge her presence at all.
Mme. Giry brought a chair over to Christine’s bedside and sat down.
"How are you feeling? Any better?"
Christine made no response, but continued staring at the ceiling.
Mme. Giry cleared her throat and shifted in her seat.
"Christine," she said quietly, "you cannot keep living like this. To continue to pull yourself down will not help either you or him. You must choose between continuing your life and making the best of things as they are, or to go and look for him; find him and stay. You must decide how much you love him; what you’ll be willing to risk, perhaps everything you’ve ever known, to find him."
Christine didn’t move, but Mme. Giry saw tears well up in her eyes, and her tone softened, "I know you love him, child; I realize how hard this is for you. I’m sorry now that I didn’t tell you more when I had the chance. Perhaps it would have helped you to understand; perhaps you would have been wiser.
"It seems hopeless, I know, but maybe it’s not yet too late. There may still be time to return to him. Knowing the intensity of his passions, he probably still loves you and would take you back, though it may be awhile before he trusts you again."
She sighed. "Yours is a bond not easily broken, or easily forgotten."
Finally Christine spoke through her tears. "But where do I find him?"
"Follow your heart. It will guide you to him. It alone can lead you; you must do what you think it right." She paused. "But, you must rest first, and eat."
She got up and kissed Christine on the forehead. "Sleep now," she whispered, and then she was gone.
| | |
| Please bear in mind that I haven't edited this for a few years, and I haven't gottne the chance yet. So......yeah. Tell me what y'all think. Oh, and, BTW, it DOES have a plot! :D
This is a sequel to the musical, my first Phantom work which is my own creative idea. In this book there are a few things I'm sure you'll be surprised about and I'm not sure you'll like.
Warning: In all my books, Erik always wins! Even if it is in a rather peculiar way in which it seems no one won!
Anyhow, since I have the aspirations of becoming a full-time author someday, I need all the practice and criticizing I can get. So don't be stingy on the criticizing of anything! I don't get easily offended and I like it when people are completely honest, even if it does hurt a little! So enjoy!
Christine Daaé looked out the window into the dreariness of the cold ruin outside in Paris, France. Christine was young, about twenty-five, and possessed a beautiful voice, as well as a beautiful face.
Today, though, as it had been for the past weeks, there was a shadow cast over her pretty features; one that matched the wet, darkening gloom outside the window.
It was the same window she had been standing in front of for the last quarter of an hour, not seeing or hearing, just silently thinking.
Finally, Christine roused herself from her thoughts with a pensive sigh and returned to her armchair by the lit fireplace. She picked up her previously dropped sewing and made an effort to concentrate on it, but her hands shook so badly that she couldn’t hold the needle straight. She sighed again and gave up, placing it beside her chair. Her eyes hurt from lack of sleep and she was in no mood to embroider hearts and doves on a piece of cloth anyway, so she leaned back and closed her eyes. It wasn’t long before she fell asleep and then she began to dream...
Christine lay on a bed in a dark, musty smelling room. A music box played a tune beside her, and across the room was an organ, where the Phantom sat composing.
Christine got up silently and made her way over to him. He did not see her for she was behind him. At just the right moment, she tore off his mask and then let out a scream at what she saw. The Phantom, enraged, stood up and showed her fully his scarred, deformed features...
The scene changed. She was still in the Phantom’s lair, but this time, as she saw his face she didn’t feel afraid.
The Phantom was standing, waiting, looking at her as she walked over to him. Silently she held out her hand, which contained the ring, and offered it back to him. He hesitated a moment, then slowly reached out to take it. Their fingers touched, time seemed to stand still for that moment, then he spoke softly, "Christine, I love you."
Christine withdrew her hand and walked out, leaving him all alone.
As Raoul and Christine glided away in the boat, she distinctly heard the Phantom say, over the cries of the quickly approaching mob, "You alone can make my song take flight, it’s over now the music of the night!"
Christine awoke with a start, breathing a bit heavily and feeling more than a little anxious. That had been another frequently recurring nightmare. Over four and a half years had passed since that fateful night, but still those dreams haunted her... as he did.
The memory of how he’d pleadingly begged her to marry him drowned out all thoughts of her dream. And how coldly she had torn off his mask, revealing his horrible secret to everyone! His one weakness and she had displayed it, almost taunted him with it, to the world.
Christine pressed her eyelids shut to keep in the ready flow of tears that threatened to spill out. How many nights she had passed as such. Running every memory through her mind, remembering all of the things he had said to her... Her only one memory she didn’t regret was when she had kissed him...even if it was an unintentional goodbye; and how he’d loved her...
But she had been so cruel; and had regretted it for the last few years! She wished she could’ve seen him, really seen him, how he truly was. Not as some cold-blooded murderer as Meg had seen him; or a beast, but a man. A man who’d loved her like the Dickens, and who’d proved it--even though she’d been so blind then!--by sparing Raoul and letting her go. He would have given her the world had she asked for it; given her his very life! And all he’d wanted was to be loved, deformed or not, just pure, trusting love.
But she had denied him that; denied him everything important to him. The one thing in the world he needed most and she did not give him: love.
| | |
| Well, Julie said she'd copy/paste in my story (from what I have up on her site). So that will save me some typing time!! When it'll happen, I'm not sure. I have nothing else to say except that after reading some phan phic that I've found recently, my story has at least a plot!!!! Most of the stuff I've looked at had not point except to enable Erik and Christine to do things that they shouldn't. That SOOO ticks me off! *hisses* And ususally Christine is either a fluffy-headed dolt, or a whiny little kid! Honestly! Would Erik realllly love either one? She's got to be worthy of his love! SHEESH. Ok, I think my rant is done. :D
~~The Phantomess | | |
| Xanga
The Phantomess is HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Thanks to my new friend Annie http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=Annie_Elizabeth
I had the brilliant, stollen idea to have a blog entirely devoted to my
work-in-progress Phantom stories! So, I have about 40 pages written in
the one, but it needs serious editing (I wrote it some years ago!). So,
slowly but surely, I hope to edit it and post it for y'all to read. And
then you must leave me feedback! 
~~The Phantomess of the Opera
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