Thank you so much for reading this! I hope you enjoy it. As always, credit goes to Andrew Lloyd Webber for his beautiful score, and to Susan Kay for her heart-wrenching novel. I do not own the characters from the Phantom of the Opera. Please please review!
(January 2019) Yikes! I finally finished editing this. It took a lot longer than I was expecting, but I'm much happier with it now.
I'm sorry to say that in the process, most of the inline comments disappeared from their spots. It would mean so much to me if those of you reading (or re-reading) would comment lots and fill up that empty space again!! <3
Christine
I pressed my hand to the unassuming glass of the mirror; but instead of encountering the firm resistance typical of solid objects, my hand slid through the pane. This was crazy. I was having a hallucination fueled by sleep-deprivation and too much reading. I retracted my hand and pinched my arm. Nope, this was no dream.
I scanned the room—deserted except for stacks of props.
With a thrill I hadn't felt since a poem of mine won the school's contest, I touched the glass for the third time. Like before, the reflection of my fingers disappeared as they slid into what should have been an unyielding barrier.
The mirror had behaved normally until a minute ago. I'd been struck by the mysterious urge to find the mirror and touch my reflection, which led to the first, but not last, shock of the day.
I should have told an instructor. I should have walked back to my dorm, taken a cold shower, and crawled into bed. Instead, I threw caution to the wind and, for the first time in my life, ventured into the realm of risk and uncertainty. I stepped into the mirror.
Half an hour prior...
The tarnished mirror, with its ornate gold scrollwork and immense stature, deserved to rest in a king's palace, not the crummy backstage of a college theater. A few of my fellow crew members and I had discovered the relic in a thrift shop and snatched it up.
It may not have been gracing the walls of a palace or grand opera house, but starring in our production of The Phantom of the Opera was better than collecting dust in a storage room; at least here every passerby slowed to marvel at it—marvel at our good fortune in acquiring it, at its regality and timeless elegance.
I was particularly proud, being the one who had noticed the curious covered shape and released the mirror from its dustcloth prison. Staring at the find, I'd felt I had finally made a worthy contribution to our production, which happened to be of my favorite musical. Being a props crew underling was hardly the most rewarding position. But I was hopeless at singing and, regrettably, one must be able to sing to perform in a musical. Still, I was grateful to be able to participate in any way.
I assisted in the school productions as frequently as I could, which was often; my next-to-useless creative writing major didn't require an extraordinary amount of effort, I had few friends, and I hadn't exchanged more than pleasantries with my family since leaving home three years ago. To fill the extra time I volunteered in the theatre department, listened to music, and read so much that I felt like I belonged in another time.
Currently, I was tucked into a backstage corner reading my loved copy of The Phantom of the Opera. Two girls in converse jogged past with armfuls of costumes.
"I'm taking off in ten minutes," called the director from somewhere onstage. "You kids are welcome to stay longer, but remember to turn the lights off when you leave."
In my book, the mysterious Phantom wandered the opera house's halls and dreamed of love. In reality, the cold plaster of the wall pressed into my back.
To my right, a door banged shut. The last students still trickled out of the theater though rehearsals had ended an hour ago. Two more pages and I would join them. (But when was it ever just two more pages?)
A feeling of unease, hardly noticeable at first, intensified until I snapped my book shut and got to my feet. What was wrong?
Perhaps if I sat in the storage room for a few minutes, I would calm down. The dusty props and soft lighting always brought me comfort.
Once I'd stepped into the room and closed the door, I knew I'd been drawn here; the discomfort in the back of my head vanished the closer I got to the mirror. Looking at the image of myself, I longed to reach out and touch it.
Except my fingers passed through the glass like it was quicksilver. I pulled them back with bewilderment. I tried again, with similar results. Where my fingers had entered the mirror, I felt a vague tingling, but that was all.
Feeling lucid and light, I knew somehow that the mirror was a gateway I could walk into. I didn't question the impulse that directed me forward.
I took a deep breath before stepping through the liquid glass, but it was hardly necessary; I emerged almost instantly on the other side of the strange portal.
Traveling back in time was the stuff of stories like the one I held in my hand, but certainly I had travelled somewhere. I wasn't in the theater, or my dormitory, or any other place I recognized, but a room bursting with giggling girls scurrying around to get ready. Ballet shoes and lace whirled past me like an exquisite dream. I blinked and rubbed my eyes, but the room and its occupants stayed visible.
I spun around, expecting to see a mirror, or a window, or a doorway that looked into the storage room I'd come from. But all I saw was a peeling wall. I touched it; it was solid.
Confused and overwhelmed, I sank to the ground.
Around me, ballerinas chattered and fiddled with each others' hair. No one seemed to notice the weird girl who'd just walked through a wall.
"Christine, stand up! Someone will trip over you." A petite blonde girl hovered near me, and it took me a moment to realize that I was the one being scolded.
Nothing made sense. None of this was possible. I must have hit my head or something, and in a few minutes I would wake up with the director kneeling over me and telling me how worried sick she had been...
"Just don't let anyone step on your costume," the girl warned, and busied herself lacing up the back of another dancer's corset.
I looked down and, sure enough, I was clad in a gold and red outfit that matched the ones the other girls wore. I still clutched my book in my right hand.
A thought began to blossom in my mind as I looked at the cover where a stage was set for Hannibal and rows of ballet girls danced, wearing outfits identical to mine. I couldn't have been transported into this story, could I? What other explanation was there?
I was freaking out, but I still had enough clarity of mind to realize that if I were right about where I was and these girls saw my book, they would be almost as shocked as I was. I stuffed it behind the closest dresser.
Just in time. The activity in the room swelled; I was pulled to my feet and spirited out the door with the other girls, through endless halls and crowds of people in old-fashioned working clothes, to the stage of the theater where a woman was singing in haughty soprano. There was no doubt anymore: I had been transported from my normal college life to a drastically different world. Somehow. My heart beat fast in a panic.
Half of the woman's extravagant dress was tassels. The other half struggled to contain her flesh, which brimmed over the neckline and wobbled as she sang a piercing scale.
I winced. My sympathy went out to the poor saps two feet away from the woman. With difficulty, I tore my eyes from that disaster and drank in the rest of my surroundings; a sea of red velvet seats stretched to the back of the room, balconies of burnished gold honeycombed the walls, and instruments in the orchestra pit caught the light of candles and flashed it back to us.
Indeed, the theater was breathtakingly beautiful, but the song was approaching its end and my time was running out to decide how to react to all this. Stay quiet and avoid drawing suspicion? Announce to the room that there'd been some kind of mistake? With one final scan of the space, I assigned names to those people whose identity I surmised: the woman singing must've been Carlotta, and I had been called Christine, which meant that the blonde girl was Meg, my dearest friend. My mind swam with the impossibility of it all, and I thought I might faint from the cacophony of noise and color.
Meg cast me a concerned glance, so perhaps I looked as ill as I felt. Good. Maybe I could get out of dancing. I was a terrible dancer.
The ballet girls stepped into position at the edge of the curtain, bouncing on their toes in anticipation of their entrance. Swept up in the flood, there was little I could do but play along and hope no one asked me to sing.
Our cue came before I could protest or think, and I moved instinctively along to the rhythm of the music, dancing as if I had practiced this routine countless times. I had a glimpse of memory like a forgotten dream—a rehearsal on a bare stage—and that spark of memory opened the floodgates for more to come crashing down on my poor, unsuspecting mind. There I was, teasing Meg for her headache the morning after she'd tried absinthe. And another: singing in a dusty chapel, a velvety voice speaking from the walls, a rush of pride at its praise. I smelled rose perfume and candle smoke and felt wallpaper crinkling under my fingers.
The surge of foreign memories made me stumble, and I nearly crashed into another chorus girl. But I regained my footing and continued to dance. As long as I didn't overthink what I was doing, the Christine in me could dance. I let her take the lead, relieved and not a little surprised. The song ended, we held our poses for imaginary applause, and a sternly-dressed woman led two men onto the stage. They must've been Madame Giry and the new managers of the opera house.
So far we were following the events of the Phantom of the Opera musical. At least I knew what to expect. When Mme. Giry and the managers finished talking to the conductor—Monsieur Reyer—they greeted Carlotta, who displayed her displeasure with arched eyebrows and loud swirls of her scarf. I couldn't hear what her tantrum was about, but if my memory served, she felt she had been slighted.
The managers, Andre and Firmin, flattered and cajoled her. No, no, of course they knew of the magnificent la Carlotta, prima donna of the finest opera house in France—pardon, the world! She could not walk out and deny them the pleasure of hearing her angelic voice. Why, she could sing them something now! If the lovely lady didn't mind granting them a sample of the aria they would be privileged to hear tonight?
Appeased, Carlotta glided to center stage with her arms open wide. M. Reyer played the opening notes of a song on the piano and Carlotta began to sing.
I stood in the back of the group of chorus girls, nervously hugging myself. If this place that I was in truly followed the story, and my presence hadn't drastically altered the universe, a backdrop would fall on Carlotta, and I would be called to sing her aria. That meant that the Phantom was somewhere in the rafters right now, watching us. And could I sing like Christine? I could dance like her. We would find out soon enough. I decided that until I had a clearer head to consider my situation, the best course of action for me would be to play along with the story exactly. Good thing I had it memorized.
Just when I had given up expecting a disaster, there came a sound of rope sliding against wood, and a backdrop crashed to the ground, nearly missing Carlotta. I scoured the darkness above like everyone else in the theater, but I looked for a man, not a ghost.
"He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!" Meg cried, taking my hands fearfully. I wanted to reassure her, but remembered my silent promise not to reveal myself, and assumed what I hoped was a terrified expression.
Chaos ensued. The minutes passed in a blur as Carlotta had another fit and stormed out of the theater, and the managers started a frantic search for a replacement. I closed my eyes as if this could all disappear.
"Christine Daae could sing it, sir." Madame Giry, a regal woman who bore a resemblance to Meg, pointed me out to the managers softly.
I swallowed and opened my eyes. It seemed like a hundred thousand gazes were cast in my direction. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks.
"A chorus girl?" asked M. Firmin incredulously. "Don't be silly."
But Mme Giry was not phased. "She has been taking lessons from a great tutor."
"Just let her sing," said M. Andre. "We don't have any other options."
They bid me sing the aria that had been Carlotta's downfall; I hoped it wouldn't be mine as well. I prayed my voice was Christine's and not the one from my real life. I prayed I could remember the words to the song in my fear.
The first strains of music drifted up from the orchestra pit; my time had come. Stepping forward timidly, I began to sing. "Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye..."
To my immense relief, it was clear from the first notes that my singing voice was beautiful. The music soared from somewhere deep inside me and carried me away into my own world. My confidence grew with every note, and I strode farther onto the stage. The world around me disappeared. As the song lifted from my throat, I recalled a few hazy memories—of lessons in a dark room, the sound of someone critiquing my stance, instructing me to repeat a scale. They spurred me on, these snatches of Christine's memory, and I sang for the Phantom who I hoped was listening, and who I hoped approved.
When the song ended, it was hard to believe I was still surrounded by people. But I turned, and there they were, staring at me with faces of amazement, shock, and pride. Madame Giry looked proudest. Meg seemed pleased but faintly puzzled.
The managers almost ran the few steps to me and suddenly were studies in courtesy. They praised my talent and beauty, assured me I would be well paid for taking Carlotta's role, and escorted me to a large private dressing room where I was to wait for a fitting.
I had done it! I had secured the role! Now that the trial was over, I felt sheepish for having doubted myself. Whatever twist of fate had brought me here clearly meant for me to take Christine's place, and singing was a crucial part of that.
A quick glance around the room showed a vanity covered in bottles and powders, a dresser in the corner, and dominating one wall, a large, ornate, gold mirror.