The Scars That Connect Us

Chapter One

I turned and walked my way back through my personal maze, not even paying attention to what I was doing, because knew the way so well. I was distracted, thinking about if I had a soulmate. I turned 18 six years ago, I wasn't even in Paris, yet, I didn't even give it much thought. I just figured that I didn't, that's what people always told me, plus, if I had a soul mate, wouldn't they have written back, or have they just not turned of age? If I did have one, they must know I exist because I write on myself all the time, a musical master piece that would be to good to not be written down at that moment should I forget later, little notes to help me remember things, even the smudge marks from when I'm writing or painting or composing.

I shake my head trying to push the thoughts away, thinking about it will only make it worse for when I die alone. Of course, no one could love me, how could anyone love a face that even my own mother couldn't love. A face that put me through all of the horrors of my life, the face that gave me the scars that run almost every inch of my body. Scars that leave the Phantom with phantom pains of my own. A man who killed without thought and didn't care of the horrors he brought upon other people until it was to late.

No one could love him, and I had been so content with that, but then she had to go and ask that stupid question, and now that's all that's on my mind. I sat at my piano, hoping that some music would rush to me and help me clear my mind, but nothing. I sat for what felt like hours, looking through compositions, sitting there, staring at the keys, playing simple scales, just in hopes that something, anything would come to me but nothing. After loosing hope of that, stood up and went into my main room and grabbed a book, hoping maybe that could clear my mind of this frenzy. I could see the words on the page, but they weren't registering in my brain. The only thing I could think of, through all of this was, what would it be like to have a soulmate.

Someone who could love me, who could look upon this face and truly love me. Someone who would hold me through the night, and keep me sleeping with no more nightmares. A woman who could look past what I've done, and see what I'm capable of in the future. A muse who would inspire my music and my paintings. A woman who would hold me tight and never let me go. A woman who would pillow her head on my lap, and look up at my face, my full face, in adoration, not a single drop of disgust in her eyes.

I scream out my frustration, these were all dreams, illusions that would end up killing me if I don't end them first. The more you dream, the more disappointed you get when it all turns out to be a lie. My mind is trying to destroy me, from the inside out.

I threw my book across the room, watching as it hit the opposite wall then fell to the ground. I could still hear it echoing as I stomped over to the lake and climbed in the boat. I pushed off the shore and flew across the water to the other side. When I got out of the boat, I stalked my way through corridors barley used, paying a little extra attention so that I wouldn't lose where I was going. I could tell I was going the right way because as I approached, I could hear the ballet rats giggling getting louder and louder. I walked up to the hidden spot I have behind their wall and just listened in to their conversation.

It was way past bedtime, but none of us really payed any mind to the time as Vivian told us about her soulmate.

"Oh it was truly wonderful, he was breath taking, and as I approached, I knew it was him because the feeling in my chest just got tighter and tighter. I felt like my heart was going to explode right out of my chest." She was probably exaggerating, but none of us cared as we pushed her for more details. Each girl giggling out questions for her over top of each other trying to find out more answers. Meg, me, and some of the other younger ballet girls sat on Megs bed a little away, but still listening intently.

"His name is Jacob, he's got the most beautiful hazel eyes, and flowing brown hair." She had a dreamy look in her eye.

"Perfect for grabbing and pulling?" Her friend, Charlotte laughed out implying something that I understood was sexual because of the playful glint in her eye, but not quite understanding why. Vivian picked up her pillow and launched it at Charlotte, hitting her in the face, all the while Charlotte just laughed.

"Write something" one of the other girls cried out, "See if he replies." We all gathered closer to see as she wrote on her arm and his reply as he instantly wrote her back. We all giggled loudly, astonished at seeing soulmate magic in action before quickly quieting as we heard Madame Giry's footsteps approach. We all jumped in a bed, not worrying if it was our or not and pretended to be asleep. The door creaked open and light spilled in, outlining Madame Girys menacing figure in the door way.

"I know you're up girls, and I know soulmates are interesting, but they won't be so interesting tomorrow when you're all drained as I push you twice as hard because of it. Go to sleep." Her figure disappeared and the door creaked close as she left. We all rose, going to our respective beds.

"I wonder what it's like," Meg whispered to me as I got in my bed. She turned on her side to face me as I did the same, "To have a soulmate I mean, especially if your the older person in the relationship. The younger person will start getting your messages the second your 18, but you have to wait to know they're real. A wait spanning from days to months, to maybe even years, just for that perfect person to come and fill the void in your heart."

"My Papa used to say, that if you live past eighteen, you have a soulmate, even if you don't know them, there's someone made for everyone." I said back.

"Your Papa must have been very wise," she said before yawing and closing her eyes.

"He was" I said to myself. I still miss him. I think about him everyday. His laugh, his music, the good times, and the bad. I don't have many memories of him because I'm still young, but what I do remember helps him live on. And I know he still watches and cares for me, for he sent me my Angel of Music, here to teach me and let the music live on through me.

I pull up my sleeves, looking at the writing on it, trying to make out the music that lies there in the darkness. I run my hand down my forearm, tracing those words that I know reside there, then again across my covered diaphragm feeling the numbers that I've memorized so, but the number that has no meaning to me and the words only bring on confusion. Through all of the writings that he has written, through all of the music and notes, these were the only two that stayed through it all. I know I have a soulmate, I've had one for as long as I could remember, but I could never communicate with him because of my age.

I turned to the edge of my bed, reaching under it, feeling for my fathers leather violin case for comfort before I fall asleep once more without a kiss on my forehead.

"My Papa used to say, that if you live past eighteen, you have a soulmate, even if you don't know them, there's someone made for everyone."

Those words echoed in my mind as I headed back down to my home. Going up there was supposed to make me feel better and clear my mind of things, not make things worse, but as I made the trip down the second time, I could feel as the hope resonated through me. I've lived past 18, doesn't that mean there's someone out there for me, a Yin to my Yang, or is this all just wishful thinking.

Of course, it's all wishful thinking, this is advice coming from a dead man, what can he know, he's dead.

Though this dead man did find his soulmate, and with her, he created the perfection that is Christine, and without this dead man, I would have no more reason to live in life.

Deciding that there was nothing more to do about this, I changed out of my day clothes, picking up my resting ones. Before I put them on, I looked down at myself. I could see the scars covering my stomach, disappearing into my breaches, before reappearing on my thighs and down my legs. I run my fingers over the numbers right over my diaphragm, the numbers that bring me back to a time I wish I could forget. I hold my arms out and look at them. The smudged writing of music and notes from the past days still can not cover the words running down my forearm, 'Le Mort Vivant' the living dead. I decide that I should get a bath and wash off all of the writings, start with a new surface tomorrow before covering it again.