The Masque of Paris ( Phantom of the Opera )

Chapter 2 - Enter the Ghost (Updated)

            The moment my feet hit the main floor, I'm bombarded with tasks— both on stage and off: hurrying to be fitted, have my hair pulled for half an hour, swatches of pigment streaking my cheeks, stretching, and finally a brief dancer rehearsal with the madame.

            This season, the production is Amour Amongst the Elegant.
The story follows a woman who falls in love with a statue in her garden. She spends many evenings of her life admiring this statue.
Selene, goddess of the moon, grants the pitiful woman a wish. The woman's suitor statue comes to life.
There's an attempt to blend in with nobles during a ball, but the statue fails to mask his ethereal beauty from prying eyes.
In a dance with his beloved, the crowd begins to notice the cracks in his otherwise perfect skin. That's when the party realizes this man is not human.
The crowd swarms the statue and tears him apart, until he's nothing but a pile of rubble for his lover to cry on.
The final scenes show Selene revisiting the devastated woman, and gifts her peace from her broken heart by turning her into a beautiful statue. Before the curtains close, a man is seen entering on stage, entranced by the woman statue.
It is inferred by the audience that the events of the story will repeat itself with the newly introduced character.

Quite the happy tale.

and your's truly has a role in it. How cruel fate is to twist me like this.

           I would very much like my old job back. But instead, much like our protagonist, I have to be tortured by "what could have been".
Yes, instead I have the pleasure of being someone's dancing doll. The only sacrifice is my own desires. A profitable deal if I have ever seen one!

               In a usual season, I fill as an assistant stage manager and general backstage hand.
I ensure every artist's performance glides without a hitch. I flood into every corner of a show and help where I can: juggling scenery, hemming clothes, and gathering loose nails. The wings are where my attention is needed the most. And it is rendered most useless before an audience.

This is living, breathing art in the works. How can I be fulfilled in my part if I am the least effective in my current assignment?

            The stage candles front and center give me a bittersweet nostalgia. They beckon me like affectionate friends, flickering their hands to come closer. The view clears across the house into the furthest balcony. I feel my smallest here.

Once upon a time, this was all I ever wanted. But things change, and so do people. We cannot be our old selves, even when we so desperately beg to be.

So, to hell with dancing. Everything here has order. Everyone has a place. My place is now happily married backstage; my only role should be building, sewing, and sculpting, not running about for a stiffened rehearsal that tests my patience in more ways than one.

However, unfortunately for my present self, my manager, Monsieur Léfevre, fervently insisted I preform in a show again.
Conveniently, one had flittered onto his doorstep, along with the perfect cast listed inside.

He called me to his office some weeks ago and splayed his offer.
"Since it's been many seasons since your unfortunate accident, I believe it's time to put you on the road to your former glory."
I was stunned, but not yet opposed to the idea.

Monsieur Léfevre had not sung such sweet lies to me in many years. If anything, I was intrigued.

That is, until he revealed the proceeding opera I would dance again in.

As the title and premise spilt from his mouth, I could feel a flame take me over. A fire that was my treasured secret, and someone had taken a torch of it to show the world.

As much as I would have loved to refuse and storm out the door, I do not believe that would be wise for a vital reason :

to disobey my bosses would jeopardize my job.
And that's no fate I wish to tempt.

             Despite how superstitious it may sound. There are certain beliefs you simply never try, regardless if you believe it or not.
It is more of respect than anything, whether it is to the powers that be or your fellow performers. From forbidden words to strictly no whistling, we have a set of rules we are expected always follow.
Most superstitions are universal for all stages, but the Paris Opera House has a particular one that not many have;

Never disobey the things that haunt this place.

Much like a ghost, I am often present in the many corners of the Opera House. I am well acquainted and aware when... things are out of place in my theatre— or rather— when things are there that should not be. With my own eyes, I've witnessed the strange happenings beyond reason.

And for one reason or another, I have attracted the eye of a ghoul that — thus far— I have quietly coexisted with.

I know very well Monsieur Léfevre does not have an opinion on my acting or dancing, otherwise he would've pursued me many shows sooner. I have a sneaking suspicion that there is another factor at play.

Popular rumor has it that the opera ghost not only plans and orchestrates the show — from afar of course — but selects his ideal cast as well.
It is the damned phantom's fault I'm prancing on stage like a limp idiot and stewing in my personal resentment for everyone to see. Not only has it reopened an old wound, but gnashed out a new one.

And yes, call me foolish for believing in such a thing, but after breathing the opera air for so long, you would start believing in absurd things too.
Everyone here knows of the ghost and the havoc he creates, such as today—