Still, she made no sound, nothing beyond that continued wide stare. Could I dub it shock if I saw no other verifying proof of fear? …She was so beautiful… I could reason little else, but as the doorknob whined in its turning, I quickly put out the light and drew away.
Darkness was the thing to finally incite the gasp I’d been expecting, laden in her terror, and I had to fist my hands at my sides when they longed to touch her, to comfort her. It threw me from stable ground: to go from emotionless to reacting with compassion all in one solitary minute and all for one girl. I would have called myself pathetic if I weren’t so focused on the commotion quickly arising around the girl, …Christine.
Dozens of wide eyes were peering into the shadows, but I kept back and knew I remained unseen. Only she would know of my observing presence.
“Christine,” the little Giry called, jumping up and down in her place as if half a breath from bolting back through the doorway, “did the Opera Ghost haunt you? Oh, tell us!” Excitement overrode both concern and fear as she grabbed Christine’s arm and gave more little leaps.
My attention was solely on Christine, and as she lifted blue eyes back into the shadows, I knew she wanted to see me again, but I refused a yearning I equally shared.
“No,” she said after a moment, and I shivered merely from the sound of her voice. “There was nothing…only the dark.”
Yes, the dark… I was the dark, and whether she considered me a true ghost or deciphered me as a mortal man, I could not figure her out. She hid her true emotions so completely that I had no answer. All I could argue of this disconcerting encounter with utter certainty was that I was fascinated by every detail of her. …More than fascinated. I felt my reaction inside and out, and it was so complete and all-encompassing that I wasn’t sure whether to call her a blessing or a curse to bring such feelings into my life.
Lurking like the ghost they called me, I listened to a fluster of pink crinoline and tulle scurry out of the cellars, for the first time in my existence mourning the loss of other human beings. …Well, one human being. And why? I didn’t know the girl; I’d never seen her before, and if I chose, I never had to see her again.
But there were heavier thoughts I was afraid to admit because sense called them ludicrous. In that one moment and one shared stare, I’d seen something my right mind told me was improbable; I felt foolish even to ponder it to myself. But…in those blue eyes, I’d read a story; I’d seen beginning to end through one look. She was meant to be the inspiration of my greatest triumphs and equally my greatest tragedies. I couldn’t say how I knew; I just did. Our existences would be irrevocably intertwined, and she would either be my salvation or my damnation. It was impossible to say which. And I had a choice to make. I could leave now and never return, let ghosts die in infamy and preserve my heart with new armor or…follow the unpredictable pattern of a heartbeat.
No matter the path, I knew I was doomed. I was destined to be haunted forever. A ghost haunted… The irony wasn’t lost on my cynical outlook. I should have known callous hearts couldn’t stay that way forever.
Chapter Two
Christine~
“Christine Daaé, your arabesque is late! Pay attention, girl!”
The shrill sound of Madame Giry’s voice went through me like a lance full of disdain and disapproval in every consonant. That alone was a talent unto itself. Inflicting a physical reaction like injury with words, …or perhaps it was only so bitter and sharp to me because I’d never been on the derogatory end of disappointment before. I was accustomed to praise and affection, being told I was an amazement by an over-proud father. I was beginning to see that his opinion might have been biased.
Skipping a half-beat to catch up with the other ballerinas, I was determined to match them step for step, but determination only went so far. These were girls who’d trained since the age of three, and I was grossly inferior and unprepared in comparison. Ballet was not my specialty. It was last on a list of things I knew how to do, but recognizing the basic principles did not make me prima ballerina material. No, at this rate, I’d be fortunate not to be called incompetent and turned out of my job.
Madame Giry beat the next segment with her walking cane, striking it violently to the wooden floor in perfect rhythm and leaving me certain I was again behind the others. I cast her a nervous glance only to find her cold stare locked on my every movement. Cringing again, I hastened to catch up.
Despite the reproach in Madame’s eyes, I was well aware that the minute rehearsal was over, it would soften with an affection I didn’t feel I deserved. It was only because of a kind heart buried beneath the layers of stern disciplinarian that I was here. She had known my father. That point alone made me the equivalent of her ward after his death. No parents, no family, and if not for her extending wing, I’d have been tossed onto the streets, a pauper starving to death. She was the reason I had a position and a makeshift family among the ballerinas, …and I felt sure she was now regretting her choice.
“Ah, you are all a hopeless mess!” she suddenly shouted over the group, waving her arms to cease. “Five minutes, and when you return, I expect your heads to be as attentive as your feet!”
She barely finished before I rushed with the other girls in a mass of crinoline offstage. Better to bypass the brunt of her wrath as soon as possible. I was terrified that if I did not stay in the center of the gaggle, I would be singled out for extra attention, and though I knew she would do it with good intention, I could not bear further embarrassment in front of the other girls. I wanted to be their equal, but my limited expertise would always be my downfall.
My first day in the opera house as a cast member, and so far the highlight had nothing to do with fame; it was still seeing a ghost. After all, I couldn’t hope for praise for a talent I did not possess, so…yes, the ghost was the best part of my experience thus far.
Ghost… Was that what I’d seen? I had yet to decide. And Madame wondered why I was distracted and half a step behind! How could I focus on dancing when my head was so full that it left no room for choreography? A ghost… I’d been in the presence of a ghost. It seemed to be true, but when the ghost had been more surprised and agape than I had been, it contradicted the theory. A ghost in shock… That didn’t seem right, not if he was supposed to be the one frightening me.
“Christine.”
Meg Giry abandoned a throng of giggling girls and came to join my solitary stance. Now Meg was a trained and true ballerina. She was Madame’s daughter and couldn’t even walk without grace saturating her footfalls, as if every step were a part of some un-choreographed routine. I did not have that inherent talent, and it left me doubting that I’d ever succeed as a ballerina.
“Are you all right?” Meg asked with a bubbly grin as she tilted her golden head back and forth, more motions in her unrealized dance. “I know it’s a lot of dancing on your first day, but you’ll get used to it. Well,” she shrugged with a little wince, “after the initial soreness wears off. But…don’t worry! I promise it will get better!”
She meant to be encouraging and added an overdone grin, but I had a difficult time returning it. Meg saw me as a porcelain doll one step from shattering to pieces. Since my father’s death, she’d been eager to play makeshift sister and best friend, and although I appreciated her attempt, it did nothing to heal the wounds in my heart. Sure, I had an ally in a place where I’d otherwise be a stranger, but Meg could not replace the wholehearted adoration I’d always received from my father. He’d have filled my ears with his approval and convinced me that though I was not the best ballerina, I would be in time. Hard work, effort, and heart, he’d have said. Fill the part with passion, and no one would ever pose argument with that. Meg could have said the same words, and yet I wouldn’t have believed her.
A giggle suddenly fluttered past Meg’s lips, and catching my arm with her little hands, she pushed, “Or are you still traumatized from our lunchtime initiation? Oh, Christine, you know it was all harmless fun, right?”
Harmless? I silently questioned her chosen depiction. Being thrown into a cellar and forced to remain inside as a test of character and courage? Maybe it was harmless when ghosts didn’t materialize.
“I mean…the ghost is real, of course,” Meg went on in a flurry of anxiousness, “but he’s never hurt one of us. Not the ballerinas anyway. …Usually only the stagehands.”
She spoke it so innocently that it took me a moment to fully grasp her words. So…this ghost had hurt others before? I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to push the subject with Meg, certain I did not want to share my so-called encounter and have to endure the squealing panic as the story traveled the gossip chain. I didn’t want to be known as the girl who saw the ghost, especially on my first day!
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I decided as my memory flashed a vision of something that seemed like a man. My idea of ghost was spirit-like and transparent, and the creature I’d come face to face with had seemed tangible and alive. Unless it was all part of the illusion.
Meg suddenly clamped her hand over my mouth and shook her wide-eyed head. “Don’t ever say those words!” Her hysteria darted in frantic glances to the wings and then the rafters above our heads, and she held her breath a long moment before taking her hand from my mouth and concluding, “All right, I think we’re safe, and he didn’t hear you. But, Christine, watch yourself! If he ever heard such blasphemy, there’s no telling what he would do!”
“You just said he doesn’t harm the ballerinas-”
“Not usually,” she insisted in incredulous terror, “but we never question his existence. The ghost is real, Christine, and the opera house is his kingdom. We don’t argue with that fact, and things stay peaceful. Not holding hands, skipping through the flowers sort of peaceful, but uneventful and without accident or incident. The ghost is powerful. We need to be careful not to stir his wrath instead of his tolerance.”
In truth, had I come out of the cellar as ignorant as I was making out with no clue or proof that anything existed in the dark, I would have thought insanity ran rampant through the opera house. Because this unquestioning belief did not just live in the ballet. Every person in the opera walked around with tentative fear in their eyes, as if constantly on guard. Now after seeing with my own eyes, I understood why, but…the ghost man I’d encountered hadn’t posed a threat to me. …Perhaps I was just lucky that I’d frightened him first.
“Have you seen the ghost before, Meg?” I asked, casting my own glances about. How much did this ghost eavesdrop?
Meg nodded proudly as if ghost sightings were a badge of honor. “A few times actually. Once is for amateurs! I am practically a trained professional in dealing with the ghost.”
I could not justify the twinge of jealousy I felt, but…in some way, I liked considering I was the only one to actually see him. “And what does he look like?”
“Like a man, but that’s probably a projection of his once-human body,” she replied with exuberance, growing more excited with every detail. Obviously, the ghost was a delightful topic around here… “He wears a mask over his face.”
“Mask…”
My memory flickered with pictures of the stark, white shape fading into view. It had seemed so unnatural, peculiar and not at all ordinary, but…masks were costumes. It was unfathomable for a normal person to walk around wearing one: a point to confirm what I had seen was indeed a ghost.
“Why?” I demanded, knowing Meg would be only too happy to tell me.
“Well, we don’t know exactly. Our best guess is that his face is a mangled disaster, probably the very thing that killed him. And being anything of a gentleman, he wouldn’t want to wander the opera house with guts and gore hanging out, not with so many pretty girls to impress!”
It shocked me because though she spoke quick and animated, she was serious. A ghost out to impress girls by hiding the deadly wounds that had brought his demise… I had the urge to ask what he thought would come of his behavior. Was he looking for a mate to kill and spend eternity haunting with him? To think, my only worry the day before had been walking into an established ballet corps and not knowing the steps; now I had masked ghosts to worry about as well!
“So…what does the ghost want if he’s so committed to lurking about the opera?” I asked and wondered if a legitimate answer existed.
Meg paused and pondered, golden brows arching and lips pursing as her thin shoulders rose in a shrug. “To be in charge, I suppose. I mean…I’ve never asked.”
“Girls!” Madame Giry’s call pierced over every conversation backstage, and with another blameless shrug, Meg grabbed my hand and pulled me back onto the stage.
She could shut off musings of ghosts and return to pliés and pirouettes, but I… I had a difficult time even trying. My thoughts were now running deeper with more information gathered as my memory threw random images back into the forefront.
His eyes… They’d pierced me in a look. Their colors were unlike any I’d ever seen. One eye was blue, turquoise and bright, while the other burned in emerald green, both hues so vivid. Never before had I come across a human being with eyes that were not both the same color. Another point favoring ghost over man. A ghost could defy the principles of logic.
And the violent manner in which those brilliant eyes had assaulted me… Eyes were not supposed to be weapons, but his had struck deep and vicious even without a threat. They’d hit some spongy, soft spot within my being, a place I’d never realized existed to conceal it from attack. He had attacked and hit, firm and undeniable, and left a lasting mark in his wake.
A ghost… I had to remind myself that even if what I’d seen had substance, it wasn’t a real person, not anymore. Wasn’t it best to try to forget the encounter then? When nothing could come from it but being haunted, forgetting seemed intelligent.
But…as I moved my body in the same elegant motions as the other ballerinas, I felt that piercing sensation again. It knocked me off balance and made me jolt in my steps as it delved within and found that same unknown soft spot. A look, and it tore me open because I knew the Opera Ghost was watching me.
“Christine Daaé, pay attention!”
Madame Giry’s screech dragged me back to the present even as I yearned only to feel onward. But though my racing heart insisted what I knew to be real, the sensation evaporated away. It bothered me to admit I wanted to feel it again…
Rehearsal passed slowly onward, and though the surface of my skin tingled with anticipation, it went untouched. If the ghost still watched, perhaps he did it invisibly, for I felt nothing but a longing that humiliated me. I longed to be the focus of a ghost… Sense dubbed me foolish and immature.
As we were dismissed for the day and ballerinas rushed off to change, the summons I’d dreaded finally arrived. “Mademoiselle Daaé, a word please?”
I halted and cringed in my spot as Meg gave my arm a reassuring pat before escaping. Perhaps I should have considered it fortunate that at least the Madame hadn’t belittled me in front of the other girls. One positive in a sea of negatives.
“Yes, Madame?” I bid as I offered a dutiful curtsy before her.
“Christine, don’t bob like a servant girl,” she insisted, but I caught the hint of fondness in her voice and calmed even if only a little.
“Yes, Madame.”
“You know, Christine, when I agreed to take you on in the corps de ballet, I was under the impression that you’d been trained, but…that’s not the case, is it?”
I knew I couldn’t lie, and I ducked an embarrassed blush to be found out. “Not exactly…trained, in the formal sense of the word.”
“What other sense is there?” Madame pushed with a doubtful shake of her head.
“The woman my father hired to look after me as a child had been a ballerina in her youth, and…she taught me the proper positions and movements. I suppose that is informal training.” I offered it hopefully when I knew she had every right to berate me for the conclusions I’d let her believe. She’
d known my father when she’d been a ballerina at the opera in days when he’d been first chair violinist, but…that was a long time ago. She was not indebted to take care of his daughter.
Madame Giry huffed a heavy breath, and I lifted beseeching eyes as she sought a polite way to say what I knew she must. “Perhaps…the ballet is not the best fit for you, Christine. What about…costumes or backstage work? Or the chorus? I recall your father doting upon your beautiful voice. The cast is set for the next show, of course, but you could audition next season. Would you like to sing, Christine?”
Sing… I quickly shook my head. “No, I don’t sing. Please, please, Madame, don’t dismiss me from the ballet. I…I will keep up with the other girls. Please…”
This was about more than dancing. Being employed in the opera meant a roof over my head and a stipend. If I lost my position and had to wait until next season, not even Madame’s hospitality would be enough.
“Well…” I could tell she wanted to refuse, and if she did, despite my disappointment, I would understand. I was not a ballerina. That was not her fault; it was God’s.
“I will do all I must to improve,” I promised wholeheartedly.
“Yes, you will,” Madame agreed. “You have a rough road ahead, Christine. I expect nothing but perfection, and you will do everything the other girls do at their level. I will not be lenient on you or make allowances for your lack of proper training. You will prove to me that you can and deserve to be here.”
“Yes, Madame,” I replied with gratitude so thick that it brought tears to my eyes.
Madame looked me over head to toe, and though her sternness softened its rough edges, she was still solemn as she insisted, “Go on to the dormitories and rest. I daresay tomorrow will be a greater challenge than today.”
Scripted in Love's Scars Page 2