Soul Consumption
Chapter One
Disclaimer: I, sadly, do not own Phantom of the Opera. It belongs to Gaston Leroux.
Author's Note: This is my first PotO fic. Therefore, whomever reads… please, hold nothing back. Criticism is asked for. Also, it will bridge off of the original novel, with a spice of the musical every so often. The title will most definitely change. Read, review, and thank you.
Every time Christine walked past the framed piece of newspaper, her stomach and heart did small flips inside of her chest. And sadly, she had to walk past it every single day. And she had been, for over two years now. It brought back the guilt every time her eyes happened to glace upon it, every time a guest asked Raoul or herself of it. And her guilt was not some small, harmless thing. It blossomed into a large oak tree, its branches sliding through each limb, each muscle, each nerve.
Two years ago, Christine had been in town with Raoul. He had gone to buy a paper while she did a little shopping. However, as he paid the young boy working at the stand, the headline of the Epoque caught her attention. Even though they had fled the memories of Paris, the news still reached the small little town outside of the busy city. Shock rushed through Christine's body like lightning. When Raoul saw her stare of horror, he whispered her name, but she did not hear it. The three printed words continued to be spoken in her mind by some unseen force.
Erik is dead. Erik is dead. Erik is dead…
Her emotions had been still painfully raw, and any stitches she had placed upon her heart burst upon reading those words. Guilt flooded her, like a dam being broken. For days, she was drowned in it. If only she had stayed… if only she had been able to do something for the pitiful, dark angel she had encountered in the walls and dungeons of the Opera House. If only she could have given him what he wanted… the only thing he wanted.
And Raoul's triumph, his utter happiness at the reported death of the monster that had almost ruined his life and his love, did not help extinguish the burning pain of her guilt. But her fiancé didn't take her pain into heart, even if he did see it swimming in her blue eyes. Instead, he hung the newspaper clipping in the front hall, next to the door, in a beautifully carved frame. Even upon her pleading, he refused to take down the trophy.
"He is finally dead, Christine!" Raoul had cried, his eyes flashing in emotion. "He can no longer haunt us! We no longer have to live in fear. We can purely live, my love. We can live."
Christine, however, did not hold his sentiments. She had been haunted since the day he had freed them with tears in his brilliant golden eyes. She had cried with him, kissed his deformed face. And then she had left that dark, dingy lair of Erik's with her love, and as Raoul said, with her life. But she also left that darkness with a promise. A promise to return, to bury her Ghost with the golden ring he had gingerly placed upon her finger as a symbol of the undying love his heart held for her.
However, that small promise was not completed. Upon Christine's explanation, Raoul refused to let her leave the house. "You will not be a slave to that… that thing," he spat, his cheeks flushing with anger. "I refuse to let you! It is over! Over! You are mine, do you hear me? My finance! Not his! Let him rot in Hades where he belongs! He does not deserve your eyes to be upon him. I refuse it!"
"But Raoul, I must do this!" she had cried. "I will never be free if I don't!"
"But Christine," he said softly, taking her face in his hands. "You are free. He is dead. All the power that pitiful creature held over you… it has died with him." There was no more talk of Erik between them after that. Raoul forbade it.
Christine never made it to the funeral of her Ghost. And now, two years after the dreadful news of Erik's death, her heart had still not mended, and the gold band still rested on the ring finger of her right hand.
She was back in the dark, damp lair that was Erik's. Everything looked so, so familiar. The tables, the candles, the furniture. They all sat in the same place as if nothing had ever happened. And him… he was where she knew he'd be.
Erik sat as his organ, his head moving with the passionate music he played. His fingers danced across the keys gracefully, as if he had been born to play such heart-wrenching pieces that made your skin crawl and your blood run cold.
He didn't notice her standing there behind him. He didn't notice when she was standing mere inches from him. Or maybe he did? She couldn't tell. His eyes were closed, his lips open as he took in sharp breathes, as if playing took the very oxygen from him. The mask still adorned the side of his face, hiding the disfigurement that she had not feared.
Suddenly, the music stopped. "Why do you visit me? You are unwelcome here."
His voice startled her. She took a few steps backward, unable to control the sudden harsh beating of her heart inside of her rib cage. "I…"
"Just leave, Christine," he said softly. He didn't look at her. He didn't so much as smile sadly, or even grimace. His face stood stoic, so unlike the expressive features she remembered.
"But, Erik. I need to…"
"To what?" he snapped, now turning on the bench to face her. His eyes blazed with gold fury. "To apologize? Do you expect me to except such a thing!"
"He wouldn't… he wouldn't let me come," she replied weakly, wringing her hands together. Her heart gave another flip against her ribs as Erik stood.
"He wouldn't let you come," the Phantom mocked, his usually beautiful voice laced with anger and malice. "He is not your keeper!"
"I wanted to come," she said softly, finally looking up at him. When their eyes made contact, a shiver went down her spine. She saw the same quiver reflected in his eyes. "I really did. I wanted to see you one last time, I wanted to cry to you once more, to tell you how sorry I was! I wanted to bury you with this ring!" She held up her right hand up for him to see. The golden ring shimmered in the candlelight.
Erik's hard features softened ever so slightly. "It makes no difference," he said softly.
"But it does!" Christine cried, moving toward him. Her stomach tied itself into knots when he stepped away from her, as if she were going to strike him.
"It does not matter, Christine," he repeated, turning away from her. "There would have been nothing here for you to bury."
Christine sat up quickly, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. The dreams were relentless. You would think I would be used to them by now, she thought, turning to glace at the other side of the bed. The pillow was dented, but no body rested there. The sheets were cold.
"Raoul?" she called softly, as she slipped from bed. She noticed a figure on the balcony and made her way toward the slightly ajar door. Raoul stood near the rail, his arms resting upon it. Christine frowned. His feet were bare, his shirt thin, and the night chilly. She could see the goose bumps marring the skin of his arms. He stared up at the sky, his eyes seeming to search the stars for something he couldn't fine. "Raoul?"
"I do not understand it, Christine," he said softly. He tore his eyes away from the stars to glance at her. "Are you still not free from the past?"
Christine felt the color drain from her face. "What do you mean?" She stepped toward him; he stepped away. The vivid picture of Erik stepping away from her in her dream slammed into her mind.
"You call his name in your sleep almost every night," he said helplessly, his face full of betrayal. "I do not know what to do anymore. How am I to react to that, Christine?"
"They are nightmares, Raoul," she said softly. It wasn't completely a lie. They always left her scared and helpless, just like any nightmare, but she was never scared because of the man accompanying her in the dream. Her fear stemmed from the guilt she felt when she woke up, that she soaked in like a sponge, at the very mention of him. "Do not doubt where my loyalties lie, Raoul. I beg of you."
"But I cannot help it," he said quietly, "when it is that thing you dream of at night." Christine started to speak, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand. "No matter. Let's go back to bed."
No more words were spoken as they both climbed into bed. When Christine woke up that morning, Raoul was already gone for work.
That afternoon, it was chilly and dreary outside when one of the maids came to announce that Christine had a visitor. Christine walked cautiously to the window, peering out to see who would have traveled to see her. The sight made her heart catch in her throat. She hurried to the door and threw it open, ignoring the butler that stood bewildered beside her.
When Meg Giry walked up to the door, Christine was overwhelmed with nostalgia. She threw her arms around the dark haired girl who she had not seen since the night she and Raoul had left the Opera House for good, two years prior The tight embrace was returned, and the two young women pulled back to look at the other.
"Christine! You look lovely! It's been so long!"
"I know. How are you? How is your mother?" The two girls sat next to each other on the cushioned couch in the living room, hip to hip, as they clasped hands.
"I have been doing well. So has mother." She smiled brightly. "I'm dancing at a theater just outside of Paris. I'm the lead! It's so exciting! Mother lives there with me. She did not want to stay in Paris after the incidents at the Opera House. But, as it is opening again soon, I think I will go back. It's hard to get over such memories that form in that place." Seeing Christine's tightening features, she quickly changed the subject. "And you? I hear that you are engaged!"
Christine's cheek flushed as she nodded with a small smile. She was still trying to get used to the thought of being Raoul's wife. The ring on her finger suddenly felt heavy on her hand. "Raoul asked me about a month and a half ago. We're to be married later this year."
"That's wonderful, Christine! And you've been well? This house is absolutely beautiful," Meg gasped, loosening one hand from Christine's to wave it around her. The house had three, rather large floors. Paintings of landscapes and family portraits littered the high walls, and the tall windows let in the dim light from outside. Each room was furnished in such a way that was fit for a queen.
"You should see the garden," Christine said with a smile. "It's nice to be outside of Paris. There's so much more room to breathe." And to forget.
"Oh, believe me, I understand. The town I'm in is not so pretty or as full of greenery as this, but it is relatively small compared to Paris. And relatively calm."
Meg's bright smile lit something in Christine. Memories flooded back, but she tried to push them away. She didn't need to remember anymore. She needed to forget, to move on. Could she blame herself forever? However, it wasn't possible to forget. Not with Meg's next sentence.
"Oh, speaking of Paris, I have a very old message from you. I hadn't a clue how to get in touch with you until you wrote to me recently, so I was never able to deliver the message to you." At Christine's nod, she continued. "Right after you left Paris, there was someone at the Opera House, asking for your location. I didn't tell him, of course. I didn't have much time to speak to him, either, as I was hurrying to leave and catch a train."
Christine felt the color slowly drain from her face? Could it be? Was he… alive? "And who was it?"
"The Persian," Meg said, her dark eyebrows arching. She didn't notice the sharp breath Christine let out. "He kept saying that he needed to get in touch with you, that it was urgent. I waved him away, with his talk of some important promise. He didn't even know you! I didn't even know who he was at fir…."
Meg's words fell upon deaf ears. Christine felt herself grow lightheaded. My promise to Erik, she thought as her heart constricted and her head swam. He knew of it. He came to have me complete it. A new, more powerful wave of remorse pulsed through her veins, turning her skin icy.
"Christine? Christine, are you all right?" Meg placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. Christine flinched before looking her friend dead in the eyes. She was silent for a few moment, but when she did speak, her voice was soft and determined.
"Can you get me to Paris?"
Meg stared at her as if she was a madwoman. "Paris? What do you want to go to Paris for? There's nothing left in Paris for you, spare an Opera House you don't wish to go back to."
"I… there's something I need to do there," Christine stuttered. How could she explain? How could she describe the sudden pounding of her heart? She didn't even understand it herself.
"What about Raoul?" Meg said, blinking in confusion. "Do you plan to tell him of your departure?"
"He doesn't need to know. He would only attempt to stop me, but I cannot be stopped this time." Meg's doubtful look made Christine grasp her friend's hands tightly. Her blue eyes pleaded with the ballerina. "Please, Meg! I need to go there. I need to finish something or else it is going to consume me."
"I believe, Christine Daaé," Meg said softly, her forehead etched with lines of worry, "that whatever you plan to return to has already consumed you."
When Raoul returned home that night, Christine did not greet him, as he was accustomed to. A maid, her cheeks flushed in anticipation and anxiousness, shakily handed the Comte de Chagny an envelope. Raoul's name was scrawled over the paper in curvy, feminine handwriting. Upon opening it, Raoul's skin paled at the first few, and only few lines that decorated the otherwise blank sheet of paper.
My dearest Raoul,
I do not think I have to explain to you where I have gone. I only need assure you that I will return to you when I have completed the purpose of my journey. My soul cries out to me from some far off place, and I must go retrieve it so that I may finally be free. Until then, you mustn't come find me. Please, Raoul. I beg of you, let me do this myself. It is the only way.
Love,
Christine