That was all. Madame Giry gave a firm nod and took her leave, disappearing into the wings and leaving me alone on the stage.
I felt my posture drop in a mixture of relief and defeat. I was no ballerina, and yet I had to prove myself to equal one. Had any other battle ever seemed so great?
As I lingered with the stage stretched out before my ballet slippers, I heard it for the first time. A voice whispering my name in gentle tones. It was so soft and delicate, …beautiful, and as I ran tentative eyes over the dark theatre beyond the stage lights, I prayed to see him.
But I had only shadows and that delicious sensation of his gaze upon me. Another point in favor of ghosts. No body, only a voice and a feeling, and it either proved ghosts existed or that I was losing my sanity. Crazy was definitely viable and only reinforced as my skin began to tingle and tremble as if touched.
Ridiculous, sense insisted, but I felt his gaze in the way one would a hand, trailing the sweeping neckline of my dance attire from shoulder to shoulder. I shivered and scanned more aggressively with my widened eyes.
Where was he? I had to see him and know if he felt what I did. Could he possibly share my surprise and equally my terror? Fear welled within my chest and carried out to my limbs, making me sway on my feet. This was…too much. I shouldn’t feel such things. No, they were too heavy to bear, and certainly shouldn’t be inspired by ghosts in masks. It wasn’t right; it had to be evil. Did not the devil tempt with fire? Because I felt flames lick across my skin and climb up my ankles and calves exposed by my skirt, and shuddering so hard I could barely stay upright, I suddenly let fear overcome and ran for the wings on its inspiration.
Hastening toward the dormitory entrance, I never looked back and prayed ghosts were confined to the main building for their haunts.
Well, I’d learned two mandatory lessons in my first day as a member of an opera company. One: ballet could not be faked or accomplished with only knowledge of its vocabulary and steps; one also needed talent. And two: ghosts were dangerous even if intangible. He could kill me with a look alone, and I was undoubting that I’d die willingly.
Chapter Three
Erik~
Chris-tine, Chris-tine, Chris-tine…
The name pulsated through my body like a reciprocated canon. I could barely take a single breath without the torment of its eternal letters. Chris-tine… Beating with my heart, becoming its song, and echoing in my ears until I suffered.
My God, what infection was this? It consumed and overcame like a spreading disease, worsening every second and anchoring its grasp a little firmer within me. Deeper, extending groping fingers like sharp-edged talons that sank into my living heart and clawed its fragile build. I was ripped apart inside and out by every emotion I’d thought dead or in my control and a host of new ones I bore no logic for.
Sense called it love, but I didn’t pin all my faith on the term. I loved music, but music did not try to eat me alive in its possession. This was beyond restraint. I preferred the concept of disease.
From one unanticipated earthquake in a cellar, my existence was forever altered. I couldn’t form a thought that did not have that infernal girl at its core. I was a man possessed, creating fantasies day and night of going to her, talking with her, being with her. I hated the world and humanity; why was I now entertaining notions of sharing my life with one of its members? It sickened me because I felt weak against this affliction.
I tried to play my music, to lose myself in the solace of cascading crescendoes and lush harmony, but still, she appeared. Her blue stare flamed behind the lids of my closed eyes, wide, innocent, such depth of color… I was the ghost, and I was the haunted one.
Chris-tine… My heart beat in her name over and over, torturing my waking and sleeping mind. I was only content when I had her in my line of vision, watching her from Box 5. As the Opera Ghost’s designated box, it had been reconstructed for practicality. I couldn’t very well make a visual appearance at every show, so I had altered its makeup, giving myself a seat within its shadows with curtains to obstruct the audience’s view of my shape. I was as invisible to them as a specter, and I used that advantage now to watch rehearsals with a shrewd eye fixed on Christine.
Oh, that girl… What was it about her? Was it merely a fascination because she had not shrieked in terror at my image? …No, more than that. I’d met her gaze in the cellar and felt, and that was enough to qualify her extraordinary makeup.
Emotions had spiraled out of my grasp in one shared look and had yet to be reigned back into equilibrium’s sphere. Every glimpse of her had them swelling again and making giddy waves in my soul. Was it any wonder I surrendered to the sensations when they felt so delicious and euphoric?
I’d never known pleasant emotions, and to have them all created and written for one girl made me eternally grateful for her existence. I felt alive for the first time in my life and wondered what it would take to have these emotions permanently emblazoned in my heart. How could I have her?
The ballerinas were running their third act number again, and my gaze was riveted to Christine as always. Only she existed for me. Her dark curls were bound in a ribbon, tied behind her shoulders. From my constant observation, I’d been intrigued by their soft, thick mass. I could not reason how they’d ever make a smooth and sleek ballerina bun. They were destined to be loosed and free. I considered putting my opinion in with the management and insisting the ballerinas’ hair be left unbound in the upcoming show, but…well, the Opera Ghost had never weighed in on hairstyles before. I wondered if such a detail would trivialize my reputation, but still… To see Christine’s curls free and billowing about her shoulders as she moved… The idea raced ripples of longing through my body.
I was so inexperienced at these feelings! I felt ignorant! They came and went as they liked with desire as the worst of all. …Desire. Dear God, what suffocation in a single emotion! It appeared and struck so hard, knocking my stability with its ferocious waves. I was its victim, and I detested the idea of defeat to anything.
Here was a prime example of unwilling possession. Christine made a pretty pirouette and then lifted one elegant leg straight toward the ceiling, and that leg could have kicked me with the reverberation desire gave. The curves, the alignment of perfect shapes. When she made such a motion, her tulle skirt bunched back and revealed more: hints of a perfect thigh just above the laced ties of her ballet slippers. And I burned to touch her! To run my bare hands up that elegant limb…only I would not stop where tulle rested. I would continue beneath its boundary…
I shuddered violently with my avid fantasy. Desire out of control like a raging wildfire, and I was as much its servant as my heart’s. And what would beautiful, innocent Christine say to such salacious yearning?
Realism was a cruel voice in my head. It posed everything I’d rather have forgotten. The disfigured Opera Ghost wanted to put his hands all over her virginal body… I could not reason that request ever going over well.
But…eyes did not need excuses, and I could watch her dance and burn alone. It was pathetic, but if it was all I’d ever have, I was obliged to take it. I gazed at her lithe, little body and succumbed to the thrill, letting passion’s fire smolder in my veins. It was tolerable alone when I had the distinct terror that if I ever touched her, I would be seared inside and out with a passion too great to hold in my hands.
I was mid-fantasy when Madame Giry’s shrill voice shattered every picture in my head. I cringed merely with its splintering timbre and knew the intense urge to strangle her to silence for interrupting my erotic endeavors.
“Christine Daaé, pay attention! You came out of your pirouette too early!”
My fault… Her every distraction was my fault. I gazed at her in pure lust and knew she felt its echo. It was in the subtle tremble she’d suffer, the glances she’d cast out at the empty theatre seats as if searching for me.
My Christine wanted me… I was certainly no connoisseur of desire, but I could say that for certain bec
ause for all the fear in the searching of blue eyes, there was curiosity. She wanted knowledge and understanding, but she expected ghosts. I had no guarantee that a mortal man in its place would be accepted, …let alone a mortal man that looked as if he’d climbed from a horror story into reality. What acceptance existed for that?
Rehearsal ended for the day, and as the ballet rats scurried offstage, Christine lingered, scanning the theatre again. A part of me ached to come into view, simply to gauge her reaction. Or…what if I appeared in Box 5 as a silhouette, nothing more? Would she give me that same pensive study she had in the cellar? Would she cower to fear this time?
Before I could make an attempt to learn, the little Giry rushed to Christine and grabbed her arm for attention. My gaze was riveted to that unconsidered touch, and I was jealous. I wanted to touch Christine, but I would be subject to suspicion and scrutiny while the little Giry could act without a second thought. I wondered how soft Christine’s skin was and cursed little Meg for the privilege to know. It didn’t seem fair.
“Christine, are you coming? Jammes wants to play with your hair and see what we can do…” Meg lifted her touching hand to poke at Christine’s disheveled curls, and my jealousy burst into an inferno beneath my skin. I wanted that touch as well, but I’d have been sensual and caressing when taking it. Meg was too busy making faces of doubt as she decided, “I consider Jammes brave if she thinks she’s going to make a bun that will stay put on your head, but,” Meg gave a bubbly giggle, “if she pulls your hair too hard, give me a sign and I’ll elbow her. I’ll pretend it was an accident.”
Christine grinned back, and yet as always, I caught dark shadows in the background. That girl bore a sadness within her that I had little explanation for, save overheard snippets about a dead father. I’d never known attachment to a parent to sympathize with her loss, but…perhaps if love was the base, such sadness was justified. I couldn’t help but wonder what happiness would look like instead. She’d probably be so brilliant if she were happy, a star eternally aglow.
“Tell Jammes that I will be there shortly,” Christine decided, and I hung on her words. “I want to stay and practice a little longer. I know I can get that last section right.”
Meg nodded understanding and bid, “All right, but if Jammes insists on using me as your substitute, you better be the one to elbow her. I didn’t want to frighten you, but Jammes is terrible at styling hair. Last time she did mine, I ended up with handfuls lost. I’ll let you imagine how, but I vowed never to let her touch my head again. If I must act to preserve you, I expect retribution. Avenge my future bald spot, Christine.”
A little laugh left Christine’s lips, and I had an urge to thank the Giry girl because it was genuine. “If you think my boney elbows are good enough to avenge you, then I shall fulfill my duty.”
“The bonier the better!” Meg excitedly declared. “Take a rib out if you can! Curse that Jammes and her ungentle hair-pulling!”
Another laugh and with a final wave, Meg ran offstage and left my Christine alone. Christine’s blue gaze followed her friend before trailing the empty theatre again, …searching for me.
But with a soft sigh, she turned away and began to dance. I could take no more. Lurking in Box 5 was tolerable when there was a stage full of tutus, but now…there was only Christine. I had to be closer.
With soundless stealth, I climbed down a hidden staircase in the wall and emerged at the back of an empty theatre, sticking to shadows as if they were a viable part of my essence. I couldn’t let her see me, but…to see her, I would have done anything.
She danced the same routine they’d just ended, and to watch her, exposed and vulnerable on the stage, I was overwhelmed. She truly was a beautiful dancer. No, her technique did not equal a prima ballerina, but that did not matter when it was only her and a wooden floor. She moved with a grace I knew she did not realize she possessed; it was usually stifled when the other girls were on all sides of her, victim to her internal monologue of doubt. Now I saw its true splendor and was awed.
My passion-heavy eyes traced the contours of her body, heat building within me and tingling my fingertips with the need to feel and outline her curves in slow, languid caresses. Beauty sparked desire, but dance fanned the flame and left me hungry to taste. I wanted; how I wanted!
She spun and lifted her leg, and I ached to run my tongue from ankle to thigh, to learn the flavor of her skin and brand her cells into my mouth. I wanted something that would last forever, an eternal imprint of her upon my body. Every urge felt perverse to the rational side of my brain, but desire was so new. I didn’t know how much to give, how much to take, how to fully feel it in a way that was morally standard. …Instinct told me not to care about moral and just possess.
“Christine…” My heart beat the name in its pattern, and I dared to let it touch my lips and taint my tingling tongue.
So sudden that I was startled, she halted mid-step and raised wide eyes to my observing presence, and it seemed not even shadows chose to be my ally anymore. I knew she saw me, and her gasp resonated the theatre and burned my ears. I loved it despite its inception of surprise because it was mine. For the first time in days, some detail of her was solely my own to have and keep, and even a gasp was a treasure.
She stumbled back an awkward step, her ballet slippers whispering along the stage floor, but she made no move to flee, staring fixedly at me as if willing me to tempt our fate and push events on a path already deemed to happen. I’d known all along; I could leave and try hopelessly to forget or let things spin forward. Obviously, I no longer had a choice.
But I kept back, a theatre of seats away, and tried not to show her how completely she shook me. We were suspended in an uncomfortable moment, the same we’d suffered in the cellar where time halted its seconds and needed something to propel it forward. Bravery was the missing key, but we both were lacking its inherent strength. We both faltered.
Escape and freedom, and I was compelled to take an easy route and continue our ongoing game of cat and mouse. Appear, disappear, and nothing significant would change, and I might have traveled the simple road had she not surpassed my petrified power and appealed in a soft sound.
“Are you a ghost?”
I turned the inquiry over in my head and pondered a suitable reply. Yes, but I suddenly longed to be mortal? Yes, but in name only? Yes, but I could vow to be anything she wanted if only she’d grant me a window into her life?
Answers were fighting for supremacy on the tip of my tongue, but when words felt like they gave too much away, I recoiled and sought something to hide my sense of self behind. I couldn’t show her a lusting heart and a damaged soul. So despite better judgment’s argument, I picked up the façade I used as omnipotent Opera Ghost and strolled the aisles of seats closer to her wide-eyed shape with never a single waver in my step. No, I gave not even a tremble away.
“Perhaps,” I replied with a nonchalant shrug. “Ghosts lurk in the dark shadows, don’t they? And haunt the place that houses their eternal souls?”
“I wouldn’t know such things,” she insisted, and her small, white hands clasped and wrung before her with their restless unease. “I’ve never encountered one. …Who are you then?”
I held my breath, creeping closer yet. I was still awestruck that my Christine was speaking to me. If I didn’t know better with my nerves twisting my stomach as proof, I’d have assumed I was in fantasy’s realm again. But apprehension had a distinct, unpleasant sensation and reminded me what I was beneath adapted bravado. No, this was real.
“Perhaps a ghost,” I decided with another shrug, pretending much more control over this scene than I actually had. “Or perhaps…an angel.” The idea had appeal; as soon as I said it, I found it a great improvement.
“I don’t believe in angels,” she stated, her blue gaze locked on mine as I lingered with rows of seats as my shield.
“No…?” I posed it doubtfully and surveyed her head to toe. “Isn’t that quite a cynical viewpoint f
or one so young? You could tell me that you have no belief in God, and I’d wager it a choice with merit, but this… Angels are a fairytale story, something to give a promise of hope for the lost, and you speak with such conviction.”
Christine blushed a soft pink, ducking her dark head as if a child being chastised, and I immediately regretted my matter-of-fact arrogance. Perhaps I needed to be softer, gentler. It was trial and error as my mind taunted how long it had been since my last legitimate conversation with a living human being. Not a piano’s keys, not a figment of imagination, not a dead body at my feet. And this wasn’t just a person; this was a young girl. She might not be shouting in terror at the appearance of a man in a mask, but that did not take away her naïveté or make her less innocent.
“Tell me,” I encouraged in tender tones. “Why do you have no belief in angels?”
Dark curls rippled with the subtle shake of her head and a quiver that only grew with my chosen approach. Casting furtive glances up from her anxious stance, she timidly revealed, “When my father died, he promised to send an angel for me, …to look after me, to keep me from being alone, but…it was a lie because angels don’t exist.”
“So certain.” I surveyed her yet again at this close proximity, making out more details than I was typically granted from my box. So very sweet… Skin I’d deduced as white showed creamy undertones, warmer and richer, complimenting the petal pink of her lips. She was an absolute artist’s rendition, and unable to stop myself before the words hit the air, I declared, “And what if I told you that I was the angel your father promised?”
Blue eyes met mine first with wonder. She wanted to believe so much, to claim blind faith and have this…me as her proof that she was not forgotten. But to my dismay, skepticism relit and colored her initial joy as she concluded with somber unease, “Angels do not hurt others, and you…”
I would have cursed the little Giry, perhaps chosen her as the next worth ‘hurting’, but…none of it was a lie or exaggeration. I could truly only curse myself for every sin I’d had my hands within. Even justifiable murder was still murder. So I did the only thing I could to keep an open door without a lock: I lied.
Scripted in Love's Scars Page 3