Hopeful Soul: A Phantom Story

Chapter Nine.

ERIK:

It was that dream again. The same one I have had for five continuous years. The same dream that one was a living nightmare for me as child. I remember the freak show like it was yesterday - when I was, and yet I still am le mort vivant. I dismissed everyone I knew as a child, including my mother. I could not tolerate any mention of her - that cruel, wicked woman. She was a poor soul, I had to admit. Having to go through birth only to realize your child wasn't the creature of God you one thought he was... what a shame - a waste of human life.

I adjusted the black sheet that clung to the silk-laden padding of the same colour coffin. It most likely didn't help my nightmares to be sleeping in a coffin, but I truly had no idea how to sleep in beds. For my whole life I have slept in either a coffin or some variation of a cage and have never felt the comfort that others have under warm bedsheets and thick comforters. I felt I didn't need that - as if it would spoil me.

The way up to the managers office was quiet as usual, but I had a note written for them that would change several things. Christine was not yet ready to be the lead, but she needed very little time to be in such a condition. Each day, I awaited the year the poor, old managers would retire. For what better time to celebrate a new star than an opening gala?

After the notes were delivered, I stalked around the catwalk and observed the rehearsal of Carmen. Christine was one of the gypsy girls in the Toreador piece, with Piangi playing a very odd version of Escamillo. He was a shameful character, but Christine was who I was more focused on. She tried hard in her role, but she was a more wholesome girl and could never really master the role of vulgar gypsy woman.

As I moved towards the edge of the catwalk, where Christine waited backstage now with the other ballerinas. She was speaking with her blonde friend when I thudded into someone. It was Buquet, the stagehand. He stared at me for a moment of shock and to get him away, I revealed my hideous facade. Not too long did I have to wait for the scream and he rushed down the catwalk, the other ballerinas looking up to the catwalk as he shrieked, "I saw him! I saw the phantom! O horror!"

The reaction was usual to me, but something else was different - the girls were coming to explore. Without haste, I hurried for the trapdoor that would take me five cellars down and another replaced it just in time. I was somewhat impressed with how quickly the trap could plummet and for that my work was admirable. Once in the cellars, I hurried to my underground home only to find the daroga waiting outside the door.

"There you are, Erik."

"Yes, daroga, here I am," I plucked the skeleton key from my pocket and let him inside first, "Would you care to tell me what you were waiting here for?"

He nodded, "Madame wanted to speak with you soon."

The key now hung on the hook and I slammed the door behind me, "Oh, that wretched woman."

"What were you doing, Erik?"

A large breath in expanded my chest and I set the wide-rimmed fedora on my coat rack, "What are you talking about?"

"You were out when I showed up. What were you doing?"

"It is none of your concern, daroga," I went into the red room and filled the samovar with water before setting in herbs, "Now, would you like a cup of tea, or are you going to just stand there and pester me for the rest of the day until I die from humiliation?"

My words, although harsh, finally earned a moment a silence. I set two cups on either side of the samovar and lit the coals before resting in my armchair. Ayesha laid on the ottoman just beside me and the daroga rested in the loveseat adjacent to the fireplace. We remained silent until he began question me again, "Were you with Christine, then?"

"In a... One moment. How do you know her name?"

"I met her for a moment, Erik. A very lovely girl, indeed. It is no wonder she is capable of winning your love."

With a sigh, I stood up to check on the brass samovar, which was now steaming, and cut two slices from a lemon. With a wedge on each porcelain glass, I poured in the tea and handed a cup to Monsieur Khan before taking a sip of my own, "Let's not speak of this. I would rather save my crumbling excitement for later."

"Fair enough, then," he said with a sip of tea, "Then another question."

"Oh, spare me, daroga."

"It is innocent," with a groan, I gestured, "When was the last time you had a proper meal?"

I never really indulged in full meals. There was always a bite of bread or a sliver of cheese or even an entire fruit. But I could not stomach an entire meal, "I have not eaten a full meal in years, daroga. I would rather not spoil myself with such luxuries."

He nodded, taking in the rest of his tea before setting the glass down on the end table, "Occasionally, I do not understand your logic. But I will not force my ideals on you, my friend. Take care of yourself, alright?"

"I care for myself as much as anyone else would. But you know that is not great."

"Yes, I know. Perhaps the tide will turn some day."