The Shadow's Melody || The Phantom of the Opera || Book One

8. Fear Can Turn To Love Part One

I hadn't had the desire to eat or even live for years. But now as I went through the kitchen door I couldn't deny how excited I was to see her. I also couldn't deny how my mouth watered in anticipation for her cooking. Pretty soon I'll be fatter than Piangi was.

Last night she had called me the "Angel of Music". I almost felt ashamed that I hadn't thought of Christine for a while. I felt as if I was being disloyal to her. The reminder of her still created a pain in my chest. What shocked me was the pain no longer felt like a knife was being pushed through my hollow heart. Instead it felt duller and more fleeting. Truly, it was shocking.

Mélodie worried that her remark would send me plummeting back into my previous depression. Before it might have but now, the more I spent time with Mélodie, the more that glowing image I had of Christine seemed to fade.

When she had placed my cloak back over my shoulders and fixed the front to insure no cold breeze would penetrate the warm interior I couldn't help but stare at her.

Me - a monster, a murderer - didn't deserve her kindness. Yet there she was, making sure I was warm and fed. My own mother had never done such things. Neither had Christine. No one had.

Her light brown eyes had looked up into mine, "Better?"

I could only nod.

Her scent lingered on my black cape. Cinnamon. Such a warm aroma. Warm like Mélodie.

The sun cast a gold glow on her cream colored skin. There were auburn strands in her brown hair that seemed to reach out to the sun whenever they sensed its presence. The wind tugged and played with her curls. I couldn't stop myself from wrapping my arms around her and pulling her close.

Where is she?

Normally she is here by now, frantically searching the kitchen for something to cook. Darkness filled the silent kitchen as I waited.

After another few minutes I decided I would go up to the roof, thinking she may be there. She wasn't.

Days passed by and I watched her from the shadows. She looked tired, slightly burned out. She covered all areas of the opera house, sweeping here, dusting there, sewing this, sewing that. No wonder the poor girl looked tired.

I watched her sort through costumes high above the stage, away from all living things. Apart from me that is. If you can call me a living thing. With a face like mine I am more of a walking corpse.

I didn't say anything. She wouldn't know I was here anywa-

"Come out, Erik," she blew a strand of hair out of her face and looked directly over to me.

I suppose I'm getting rusty.

"They're all downstairs rehearsing, you can come out," she stood with her hand on her hip, waiting for me to emerge from the darkness. "Don't even try to pretend like you aren't there."

Well, then. That plan had failed as well.

I picked up one of the costumes that had fallen on the floor and brought it to her.

"Merci (thank you)," she didn't meet my gaze as she took it from me. Without saying anything else she went back to her work.

I broke the silence, "You haven't been coming to the kitchen. I've been worried."

She didn't stop shuffling through the mountain of clothing, "I know. I know you've been watching."

Perhaps I should go back to terrorizing the opera house. I could use the practice.

"I hope you have been eating," one of the many shoes she was carrying fell into the floor.

I picked it up for her, "I have. I wouldn't want to be scolded."