Disclaimer: I do not own POTO. Love it with all my heart, tho!
Please comment, and enjoy!
Christine was very disagreeable.
Not that she meant to be, for indeed she tried very hard to be most agreeable. But, to her great misfortune, Christine could not be the slightest bit charming.
The green table cloth reminded her of vomit, which stole away her appetite almost instantaneously after taking her usual seat, the second chair on the right. The candles which lit the grand dinning hall reminded her all to well of the fire that had almost destroyed the Opera Populaire, her home.
This thought is what made Christine want to melt away and hide under the vomit colored table cloth. And that thought had almost made her laugh.
Afraid of candles, she thought quietly to herself. You must be going mad.
And indeed Christine did believe she must be going mad, for when Raoul took his usual seat, the first chair on the right, and gave her his ever present warm smile, she did not smile back.
This took poor Raoul off guard, and his usual charm slipped as he furrowed his brow at her in question. Christine wished she could explain the strange disagreeable feeling inside her. She was about to attempt when the Vilcomtess entered the room, and sat down with a pluff as her silk violet dress squashed down into her chair at the head of the table, nearest to Raoul.
The Vilcomtess de Changy was a very extravagant lady, and sat very high in the social pyramid of the Paris aristocracy. She was well respected, wealthy, and accomplished. The Vilcomtess had good breeding and was good at light conversation, everything a gentlewoman should have, or ever wish to be.
But, she was also Raoul's mother, which meant Christine had to be very polite and agreeable in her presence, which was most unfortunate considering Christine was not feeling at all agreeable.
The Vilcomtess was not happy at first to hear of their engagement. Raoul had told his mother a few nights earlier, and she had not taken it well.
"An opera singer?" She exclaimed as if as an insult. "Being patron is one thing, but marring an opera singer?"
Christine was not angry, for she knew that the role of Vilcomtess took on a heavy responsibility. It took good breeding, charm, and respectability. Christine had none of these things.
She lacked good breeding, for her parents were long dead and she had no dowry to offer. Christine was blessed with song, but she knew nothing of the history of music, nor how to play the piano-forte.
And with her new disagreeable behavior, any charm Christine had once possessed must have vanished as though she was wretched since birth.
Though it pained Christine deeply to admit, she had no respectability. Not after the Phantom of the Opera. Yes, Christine was still virtuous. But to the world she was the Opera Ghost's play thing. His little whore. Some said he would seduce her and force her to sing for him until her voice gave way. No matter that these rumors weren't true, it didn't matter that she was still pure. No, Christine was a scandal and should be shamed and frowned upon by all who meet her.
Perhaps that is why I am so disagreeable, Christine thought silently.
"Good evening, mother," Raoul's voice broke Christine out of her trance.
The Vilcomtess smiled warmly at her firstborn and heir, then turned her blue eyes on Christine.
Christine wore a pale pink dress Raoul had bought her as an engagement present. It was beautiful but simple, and soon it became Christine's favorite gown, and often chose it for family dinners. She wore no jewelry, except her engagement ring.
The ring was quite extraordinary. It was a beautiful large diamond on an elegant silver band. It sparkled in the candle light as Christine dipped her eyes down to look at it. It had not been her first ring. Raoul had given one to her several months before, but she had lost it the night of the dreadful opera fire.
Christine shivered and looked back up to find the Vilcomtess's gaze still fixed upon her. Christine swallowed, and her fingers laced together in her lap.
"Good evening, Christine," the Vilcomtess's silver up-do piled high above her head, it reminded Christine of the wig used in El Mutto worn by infamous soprano La Carlotta. This thought, too, brought up bad memories and a sour expression came to Christine's face. She hastily wiped it away.
"Good evening, Madame," Christine replied, trying in earnest to sound sincere. The Vilcomtess pursed her lips in a tight frown, (Christine was not sure it was a frown, for it could have been her disagreeable state making her think otherwise) and then once more slid her gaze to Raoul.
"Have you thought anymore on plans for the wedding?" She asked her son, her cold tone brisk and even. "I assume you would have informed me, but it does not hurt one to ask..."
Before Raoul could answer, the butler and footmen brought into the well furnished dinning hall, several plates of rich and delicious food. The butler, Potre, held a silver plate of rolls which he held first for the Vilcomtess, then for Raoul, and at last bent down next to Christine.
Christine reached a pale ringed hand and plucked a roll from the plate as quickly as she could, without dropping the bread onto the floor, a placed it with satisfaction on her own silver plate.
Raoul spoke up.
"We had not, mother. Christine had wished that we be married in the gardens here, at de Changy Manor." He said, side glancing at his bride-to-be, allowing her to add on.
The gardens at de Changy Manor were quite extraordinary and lavish, such as everything was associated with the Vilcomtess. The grounds were extensive, and a gravel path wined along the rolling green fields. Well tended flower gardens, and the occasional flower patch, were placed mathematically and perfectly in rows. A few grand fountains and statues were styled after the Grecian gods from the Roman times. One statue in particular, always took Christie off guard no matter how many times she passed it on her walks with Raoul. It was of the goddess Aphrodite who, Raoul had to explain, was the goddess of love and beauty. Aphrodite wore nothing but a stone blanket which did not cover much of anything, and in fact, revealed a profuse amount of Aphrodite's otherwise bare limestone body.
Raoul also had to explain that this was a favored style, and was not meant to be inmoral.
Christine was determined that Aphrodite must have been very immoral.
"My Mother and Papa were married outside, Madame," Christine whispered, looking down at her once again intwined fingers.
"Outside? Good heavens, no! You shall be married in a church, by a priest," Exclaimed the Vilcomtess, as a footman placed a cooked fish on her plate. She grabbed a knife and fork and began to gracefully cut into the scaly skin.
Could one cut gracfully? Christine wondered.
"And of course Christine will buy her wedding clothes at Merri Vera," the Vilcomtess continued a-matter-of-factly. The footman was bending over Raoul now, giving him an identical cooked fish. "For it is the best place for one to buy wedding clothes. Yes, it is all settled then. Christine and I shall go in the morning. How does eleven sound?"
The footman bent over Christine and placed a cooked fish on her silver plate, next to her roll. She turned her face to look at the footman. He wore the same black waist coat and white tie that the other footman wore. They always reminded Christine of penguins, not that she had ever seen one, of course, but her father had once brought home a book full of drawn pictures of animals of the world.
The footman walked back to his place, and Christine's eyes wandered back to her silver plate.
The fish looked so pitiful, laying there dead on her plate.
Poor sea creature, Christine pitied. I wonder if you knew your sad fate, to be eaten.
All that gained was more fowl feelings in the pit of her belly.
Christine began to wonder if penguins ate fish...
Then she realized with a cold blur, that she had not answered the Vilcomtess.
"T--thank you, Madame," Christine stuttered, snapping her eyes back up to the lady. "I would be honored."
Raoul clenched his teeth, probably at Christine's push over reply. But, she was in too disagreeable a state to argue.
The footman came one after another, filling each of there plates with helpings of mouth watering foods: cheeses, fruits, vegetables, and for dessert, a chocolate mousse.
Christine hardly touched any of it, all the talk of the wedding--her wedding--stole her appetite. (Not that she had much of one, the vomit colored table cloth stealing most of it)
Her wedding.
Christine loathed any reminder of the wedding, wearing Raoul's ring was quite a vexation to say the least. She pretended it was nerves, but she new it wasn't.
It was the fact that she'd have to give up singing.
The Vilcomtess de Changy attended operas. Not sang in them. It was highly impractical, as she was often reminded by the present Vilcomtess.
But singing was everything to Christine. Singing brought her life. Singing helped her say things she never dared say. Do things she never dared do. And even make her feel things she never dared let herself feel.
Desire.
Passion.
Love.
Christine did not feel any of these raw, heart-wrenching thrills around Raoul.
She glanced through the corner of her eye at her husband-to-be.
Christine knew she loved him, she felt it every time he was near. She felt safe, warm around him. Yes, she loved him. But not the passionfilled, urged yearning love that music brought her.
Music made Christine gasp and writhe with lust, a craving for more. More melodies to flood her thirsty heart.
With Raoul she simply felt...nice.
Looking down at her plate, Christine took a small bite of the tender fish, pushing it around her mouth with her tongue, then chewing it far to long before swallowing.
Raoul and his mother continued on light conversation, but Christine paid no mind to what they spoke of.
Occasionally, Raoul would ask Christine how she felt on the subject they were speaking. She would just politely nod, and agree with whatever the Vilcomtess felt.
All through out the dull evening, Christine sat, lost in thought yet not thinking at all, in the same disagreeable mood she had begun in.
After dinner, the three made their way down into a well furnished sitting room on the third floor. (The evening parlor, not to be confused with the morning parlor, luncheon parlor, and afternoon tea parlor)
A footman poured them all a glass of fine red liquid, but Christine barely took one sip of the velvety rich wine.
She felt she must stay for a conversation at least, hoping to not look as though she was avoiding them. But, the Vilcomtess did not seem to notice Christine at all, and Raoul seemed to have forgotten that she had not smiled back to him at dinner.
And so, Christine exclaimed she was tired, stood, curtsied, and bid them goodnight.
Raoul stood and offered to walk Christine to her room, but she politely stated she knew her way to her bed chamber.
_________________
Wandering the dark halls, Christine languidly made her way to her room.
It was a nice little room, and Christine rather liked it. A pearl colored, canopy bed sat against the far wall. Parallel to it was a warm hearth with glowing embers, which never seemed to die.
With somewhat of her disagreeable state gone, Christine sat in front of the small, white trimmed vanity. She studied her reflection in the looking glass, and tilting her head slightly to one side.
Her unruly mess of chestnut curls were pinned neatly to the top of her head. Christine had never worn her hair pinned up while at the opera, but the Vilcomtess insisted Christine do it for it was what proper young ladies did.
Frowning ever so slightly, Christine unpinned her hair. Her chestnut curls tumbled down her back, cascading like a waterfall against her pale pink gown.
To apathetic to grab a brush, Christine raked her fingers desperately though her hair, trying to tame the knots.
Unsuccessful, she dropped her small hands into her lap, and slumped her shoulders.
Staring once again into the mirror, Christine thought of the mirror in her dressing room, the one her Angel of Music had appeared in.
Christine scoffed. Her Angel was no more than a wretched man.
A broken, hideous, wretched man.
Oh, She was a fool! To believe that an Angel of Music sang to her from Heaven, who inspired her voice. It was laughable, least to say.
And so Christine laughed. She laughed at her foolishness and at her innocence. She laughed at the mask her Angel had worn to hide his hideous scars. She laughed at how his voice was so ironically beautiful, it needed no mask, no, indeed it was raw, passionate, lustful, desire filled--
And then Christine was crying.
Crying for her Angel who would never come, and crying for his beautiful voice. Oh, his voice. Just to hear it once more, feel it flood her ears and her foolish heart, and let it drown her in it's passion.
Tears were streaming down her face now, spilling onto her pale dress. She did not care, for she had not cried since the night she left him, left her Angel.
This must be why I am so disagreeable, Christine thought. This must be why I am miserable...
She needed his music, to be lost in it. To be succumbed and seduced in its dark tantalizing pull. She needed to see his blue eyes, his eyes that both threaten and adore, those eyes that reflect all the cruelty and heartache of the world. To feel the rush and the thrill his music brought her. She needed--
She needed him.
Christine gasped.
The man was a murderer! He had lied to her, tricked her, seduced her with his music. And only with music, for he, the infamous Phantom of the Opera, was terrified to touch her!
Christine stopped crying so suddenly, like rain stopping abruptly after it had thunderstormed.
She rose to her feet, feeling very exhausted and used.
Christine knew she should ring for a maid to help her undress, but she didn't. After all, she had spent most of her life dressing and undressing, and found the need for a maid a tad impertinent.
She awkwardly twisted her arms behind herself to attempt to unbutton her dress.
Christine succeeded with enough unbuttoned to slide the pale pink fabric down.
She was left standing in her corset, chemise, petticoats, pantaloons, and wool stockings.
She then, too, began to remove these arrticles.
When she was finished, Christine slid a silky white night dress over her head. She loved the way it kissed her bare skin, hugging loosely around her curves.
She reached for her dressing gown and slid her thin arms into it. She tied the gold colored rope at her waist, the thick materiel already making her warm.
Christine took one last glance into the mirror, hoping to find any evidence of her tears long vanished. To her dismay, her pale face was puffy, and unattractive red splotches surrounded her brown eyes as if to swallow them whole.
Christine groaned. Her dressing gown was now making her uncomfortably hot, and slowly began to regret putting it on.
She blew out the few candles that lit the bed chamber, and when they were all blown out, the room was still lit ever so slightly. The glowing embers gave off just enough light to see shadows and colors of obstacles in the room.
Christine was so extremely warm now, that she shuffled her way to the window in order to taste the cool night air.
Her hands reached up in vain to open it, and when she tried, Christine found it already ajar!
Hardly giving it a second thought, she prided the rest of the way open.
In one gulp, the cold air rushed into Christine, making her moan with relief. She relaxed into it, feeling the air co her warm body. It seemed almost to wash her disagreeableness away, and a smile broke over her lips.
She sighed happily, and turned toward her bed, the comforter looking inviting. She did not close the window and, Christine felt a tad silly for only just realized that no one would see her, she tied her dressing gown and threw it on the floor. It landed in a crumpled heap beside the bed, and Christine stepped over it as she crawled under the soft sheets.
Christine felt at that moment that this must be the closest feeling of peace she may ever taste, here in this room, the moonlight and the burning embers glowing shadows across the floor, the cool, sweet night air blowing gently through out the quiet bed chamber.
Yes, this is the closest feeling of peace Christine would ever sample.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and her breaths became deep and full. Christine was on the edge of slumber, ready to fall into a deep dream...
...Until she heard a voice.
His voice.
He spoke her name, sang it. Christine's eyes opened, and she sat up, fear beginning to eat away at her insides.
The sound of her Angel's voice sent her writhing and arching with desire, the bitting fear turning into passion. She gasped, and wiped her head about the room to find him, but he was not there. His voice sounded close, in her ear perhaps, and she could feel his breath on her neck. But he was not behind her, nor, it seemed, anywhere else in her room.
Christine face contorted into confusion, and she wanted to call out, tell him to show himself to her.
Then, her Angel screamed.
All gentle and beautiful tones gone from his voice, all kindness and love disapeered. He screamed her name with agony and pain, it echoed though out her room, piercing her heart and sending a feverish, cold chill through her blood.
Christine cried out in harmony with his screams. Something wet and sticky fell down from her face and onto the sheets, but she paid no mind the salty fluids which now blurred her vision. Her mind was fixated on him, and his screams alone.
They reminded her of the monster he was, the monster behind that porcelain, white, half mask.
Her nails clawed into the sides of her face, in vain attempt to block out the horrid screams.
Blood was now falling upon the sheets, staining the pearl white comforter, it dripped from her hands, it clung to her hair, but she drove her nails in harder.
Christine, then, realized her Angel was screaming her name.
Screaming it with despair and brokeness, in a way he never had. There was something else in his voice that Christine could not name. Or rather, she could name it, but she was terrified to.
Her Angel was screaming her name with hate.
Christine could not bare it a second longer, it was killing her. Blood and tears mixed, her soul and heart clashed.
It had to stop, she could not breathe! Christine cried out again, hoping to drown out his screams.
Stop, stop, stop!
She ripped the skin of her ears with her clawing.
Stop, I am dying!
Christine moaned in agony. She tasted blood.
STOP! Please, I beg you!
_________________
Christine's eyes snapped open.
She sat up abruptly, the blood rushing quickly to head, blurring her vision.
When the dizzy spell cleared, Christine saw that she was laying on the floor beside her vanity.
She wore her dressing gown, the candles lit, the window shut, her sheets unturned.
It was all just a dream...
Christine must have fainted for the heat, causing her mind to play cruel tricks into her dreams.
She rose to her feet, tore off her dressing gown, and scurried into the bed. She didn't bother blowing out the candles.
As Christine lay in the well lit bed chamber, she felt at that moment that this must be the furthest feeling from peace she had ever felt before.