Welcome to Gaia! ::

"Thank you, Mlle," he said as he calmly fixed the mask once more over the right side of his face. He would not burden her with having to continue to look upon his horrible visage. It would haunt her nightmares now just as it haunted all of his.

The memory of the first time he had seen his own reflection had caused him to awaken screaming for years when he was younger. He'd lied to Antoinette, telling her that it was his memories of the Gypsies that made him scream and wake up trembling so violently that he could barely stand. He couldn't bear to tell her that it was his own face that had haunted him in the night. He knew why people were so repulsed by his horrible face because he shared in their repulsion. It was even more repulsive to him because he knew that every morning when he woke up it would always be there staring back at him every time he happened to catch sight of his reflection. Other people could escape from the horror that was his face even if they could never erase the image of it from their minds. He could never escape from it because ut was him.

Looking sadly at Christine, he sighed and said, "I am sorry for deceiving you. I am not an angel, and I am not a ghost. I am just a man. I am Erik." He bowed his head sadly. He couldn't stand to look at the expression on her face. More than ever, he felt like the opera house was just another cage, and once more did he feel like a freak on display.

He didn't even have to look at her face to know what her expression was. He could almost picture it just by listening to the sound of her voice, and he wished that the ground would just swallow him up so that he could escape her sympathetic look. She was looking at him like she would look at some poor animal that had been treated badly, and maybe that was all she saw when she looked at him. Maybe he wasn't even human in her eyes, and maybe that was why she forgave his deception.

People could forgive stupid, brainless animals. They didn't know any better what they did, so it was easy to forgive the things that they did wrong. "Come," he said holding out his hand to her but still not daring to look at her. "We must return--those two fools who run my theater will be missing you." God, just let me die. Let this nightmare that is my life end, he thought miserably.

((Since it seems whoever was found to be Meg has not shown up, I'm going to be using her still if that's alright.))

It had to be maybe eight or nine in the morning. The sun was shining through the small windows in the walls, making the beams of light pick up the dust particles in the air. The only sound in the ballet dormitories were snoring and shuffling of blankets and squeaking of beds as they tossed and turned in their sleep. Little Meg Giry, however, was not one of them. Her eyes scanned the sunlight-lit room with her deep hazel eyes. Everyone, including her mother who took up a corner by herself, was asleep. Christine's bed, which was the one to the left of her own, was empty. She'd never come out of her dressing room last night. Or if she had, wherever she went she hadn't come back from.
Still in her nightclothes, Meg tied a section of her fluffed blonde hair back and carefully pulled on some knee-highs so as not to get her feet dirty. Like a true ballerina she tip-toed her way to her mother's bed where on the metal headboard rested the ring of keys that most likely kept around 50 of the metal things on it. One, however, she recognised as the key to Christine's dressing room. It was the only shiny one in the set, having been tucked away in the Managers' office until a few months ago.
"Yes," She whispered, taking said key carefully off the ring and dancing her way right out of the dorms. Meg would unlock the door and find out just where Christine had gone last night. It was unusual for her to disappear, and even on the gala night when she triumphed over La Carlotta! Meg wondered if her friend had given in to the high life of Prima Donnas and had fluttered away with the first man who came to her door with flowers. No, that was impossible! Christine was Catholic (as was she and her Mother, raised on the Good Faith) and the thought of pre-marital sex or anything of the like was a sin in itself!
Getting down the stairs as quickly as her tiny dancer legs would carry her, Meg snuck past the working stagehands who were repairing anything that broke or bent last night during the performance and were making sure that nothing on the stage could endanger any cast member. More than once a loose nail would come up from the floorboards and get stuck in a dancer's shoe. The whole number would be ruined as one would fall in agony and the rest who followed fell around her. Like always, she secretly cursed the 'Phantom of the Opera' and even once or twice said so to herself. However, her Mother would always hear and she would get a sharp lecture about blaming something that didn't exist. But what about Buquet last night? Mother had seemed so frightened...
Shrugging it off just as she got to Christine's room, Meg inserted the metal key and unlocked the door without any delay.

~~**~~

It was that dream again. The dream where she was but a ballerina and looking for some fun at the Circus along with her fellow dancers. However, it twisted into a morbid dream than it had been in reality and soon Antoinette found herself sitting up in cold sweat. Her eyes were wide as she looked around to give minor inspection on her girls, but her breath hitched when she saw Meg's bed was empty. Suspicious, she grabbed the keys off the headboard and checked the keys. Christine's room key was missing!
"No," She whispered, quickly getting out of bed herself to slip on her clothes and tie back her hair in its usual bun. When that was done, the ballet mistress quickly ran down the stairs to catch up with her daughter before she found out.

~~**~~

The room was empty as it should've been. Numerous bouquets lined the room and gave it a pungent smell. The gas lamp on Christine's vanity was still aglow from last night. Going over to the table, she turned the knob so that the flame extinguished slowly. Doing so only made her notice more how odd the mirror looked. The glass looked like it had been slid aside like an Oriental door.
"What's this?" She muttered to herself, putting the room key on the vanity table as she slowly moved toward and now through the 'mirror'. Her eyes could not help but look into the glass remaining in view from the other side. Why, it was like a window! A one-way mirror; but who looked through the other side? Curious as to what lay beyond this damp and dingy road leading from the mirror, Meg started walking. Her stockings were getting terribly wet. Despite, there were torches every few feet, their handles crafted in the design of arms. How truly creepy! A rat travelled across her feet and Meg gave a shout of alarm, quickly extinguishing it with her hands as they flew up to silence her.
Suddenly she felt as if she were not alone and a hand grasped her shoulder roughly. Meg went to scream again but found it was only her Mother as she turned to face the one who'd grabbed her.
"Mother!"
"Meg, what are you doing here? Quickly, come with me. You don't belong here."
"Mother, where's Christine? Where does this road lead to? Tell me!" Meg shouted just as they were back in the dressing room. Antoinette turned to her daughter in alarm, her only answer being a desperate hug she gave the young blonde.
"Meg, never ask that. Christine is safe, I assure you. Go back to bed."
"Mother--"
"Meg, now!" The girl wriggled from her grasp, quickly taking her Mother's orders and moving out of the room for the dorms. Antoinette gave a great sigh and took this moment to sit on the small bench in front of the vanity. She stared at the key on the lace-covered table with weariness. Meg had seen who lived beyond that mirror years ago but was too young to remember. She'd been but an infant. Erik, in a way, had acted like a second Father for Meg. He'd get the girl new tights when a pair tore, paid for any medical assistance when she caught the cold once.. All just to get her angry, she was assured, but it had helped. A ballet instructor and Box keeper was not paid many francs.
For a moment Antoinette almost thought she could hear someone, or someones, coming up the communards-road which was where the mirror led to. Silently she waited to see if Erik was indeed bringing back the woman he'd stolen away last night.

((I know how you feel. I have the same problem in my own roleplay.))

It didn't take long for the sound of footsteps to become clear in the passageway. Automatically as the mirror shifted aside again after she'd replaced it Erik emerged with Christine. Both were eerily silent and she could almost feel an odd distance between them despite them both being so close in proximity. What had occurred down there?
She got to her feet just as Christine entered her dressing room. Dried tear trails adorned the young woman's cheeks and even her robe was dirtied. It was a bit odd to see Christine in any man's presence in such little outfitting, but she supposed she'd been caught off-guard last night. Erik told Christine something that Antoinette barely caught. Of course she knew he was asking her to be quiet about the whole situation. Now she was deadly curious.
Guiding Christine slowly away from Erik, Antoinette had the girl wait by the door to be taken to her bed soon. Her eyes shifted to Erik, who was still refusing to meet her gaze. It was common that he would do so when he did something wrong, but even the way he carried himself whispered to her about unknown things that she couldn't leave to her imagination lest they get blown out of proportion.
"I'll take care of her, Erik." She said finally, resting her hands gently on Christine's shoulders. "She's tired; I'll send her to bed now. You should perhaps do the same."
'Oh Erik, what did she do? I told you not to blind yourself...'

M. Firmin Richard was in a galantly gay mood, remembering last night's triumph a smile played across his lips, the Opera Populaire was looking particularly beautiful that morning. As he took out his keys tucking that morning's unread newspaper beneath his arms and opening the door to his office, Firmin was suddenly conscience of his mood and it was odd to him his business side had never allowed him to feel such pure moods before. This strict business man knew that if something looked and felt too good that it often was, not that this was a creed that he lived by, but it was an undeniable truth. So as Firmin opened the door to the office his eyes characteristically sought for something to feel sorrowful about. The door swung open and Firmin found it.

Walking inside and curtly shutting the door behind him M.Richard hung his coat.

Rather, he'd found a lack of it. Moncharmin's coat was not hanging beside his. Moncharmin had not come yet. Firmin scratched his chin, bushy eyebrows creasing, he had forgotten to worry about his dear associate last night and what a terrible misfortune for Andre, he hadn't thought of him since but for a few seconds, letting his partner persuade the patrons in means of lending more money their way. He hadn't asked of his "incident" in Box Five becuase Andre thrived in a competitive atmosphere and seemed quite capable of handling himself. Quite capable at any other time except now, Firmin corrected himself. They were still new, although he had to assert his authority of the opera as if it had been there for years, he himself never forgot he was new. In fact Firmin kept feeling like they didn't belong...and that wonderful mood that morning began to fade and M. Richard felt the anxiety from last night starting to slowly return.

And then it came back on him all at once as he turned to sit down. Yes he hadn't seen it when he came, checking to see if M.Moncharmin had come in yet, but now he did and the sight caused him to sit down abruptly. There on the table were two notes labeled "M. Moncharmin" and "M.Richard"....And I just had breakfast Firmin complained, feeling his stomach twist. Turning back he dug in his coat's pocket and found the note from last night. It was the same, the same skull wax seal, the same scribbled handwriting on the addresses as inside the previous note. Putting the old note beside the new M.Richard looked down at the table simply.

"Quite a collection." he stated sitting back in the chair and taking the newspaper from his arms and unfolding it. Just as Andre had fumbled with the note last night, Firmin thought that he would wait until his stomach had settled until turning back to it. Raising the newspaper to the level of his eyes he tried to read the headlines, feeling all the while that the two new little sets of skulls were eyeing his every move...M.Richard, without taking his eyes off the newspaper, addressed them condescendingly as if talking to two little children, "Don't worry I'll get to you, eventually." Two little starved children with their severed heads sitting on his table within the office that is. He shifted his newspaper.

That morning's headlines read Mystery of the gala night! M.Richard smiled triumphantly, the smile of course indirectly aimed at the two little skulls on the table( if M.Richard had not been looking so intently at the paper perhaps he would have seen that the skulls were smiling too). So M.Richard read aloud to the two severed children heads, gloatingly supposing it to be an article about Christine's triumph as a vocalist.

"Mystery of the gala night!!" he began again, making sure the two heard. The children cradled themselves in their blankets of parchment and red ink, waiting for uncle Richard to read more, smiling all the while. "Mystery of the gala night!! Mystery of....soprano's...flight?" Firmin was caught off the gaurd by that last sentence and he scanned the article briefly. The children grinned. "Mystified....mystified...." he ran through a few more lines. The children grinned. Finally Firmin hit the last lines of the article. "We suspect foul play." Lowering the paper he glowered at the notes, suspecting their mishcivious grins to the ones who wrote the article. "You dirty bastards."

The children laughed.

((If nobody claims the now dispossed bodies of Raoul and Carlotta I'd be happy to take one or the other, but hopefully not both, I don't want to have to have an argument with...myself.))

((*salutes* sorry about that, but much relieved ^^; and I suppose I must continue so she can come in then. I'm mixing up the lyrics here, mainly just to make it work.))

M.Richard consciencly confirmed that his previous good mood had completely dissipated. Slamming the paper on the table he picked up the two grinning notes. "First Carlotta..." he grumbled slidding one skull into his pocket,"and now Christine." he added, accompanying the first child with it's twin. He would wait till M.Moncharmin arrived. He hoped Andre was in a good mood when he came, for he couldn't wait to spoil it.

Now loaded with his two notes of sorrow for the day Firmin straightened himself, aiming to leave the office and head for the main parlor. As he did he felt his back crick...crack. He blamed it on the stress. "What a way to run a business!!" Firmin cried throwing his hands in the air. This was often an expression he used to express his dismay with M.Moncharmin's decisions or practices in the scrap metal industry but now it was reserved for this damned Opera; but just as M.Richard was about to make his exit, honorably wounded by two heads of read wax, his eyes strayed to the small locked bank in the corner. Of course, he hadn't checked the profit reciepts...for the next opera. "Still atleast the seats get sold..."

A casual observer might have seen Firmin cry triumphantly at a slip of paper in his hand, almost crazily remarking to...no one else in the room his triumph and of course very catiously replace the slip into a heavy gray bank and lock it. Now this casual observer would no longer be so casual, quite interested in the managers strange actions this loiter might be hidding just outside the door, or behind any stage pieces hanging in the hallway...anything to hide from the vengeful stare of the new manager as he jauntily came out of his office. They might notice that something still upsetted the manager while his eyes were alight with money, for many stagehands had noticed the manager's greed, but they might also see his eyebrows tightly knit in consternation as he pushed his way down the hall heading towards the main parlor. And if that loiter was very observant and had made a game of watching the managers before, they might see a slight limp in M.Richard's gait as he passed by their little hiding spot, as if there was something very sharp and painful residing in the managers coat pocket and everytime it rubbed against his body, pacing madly as it was, it seemed to cause him great pain. Of course seeing such a scene as this might cause the manager's even more pain...and anger, and that anger might be directed at the certian loiter to witness this becuase loitering was a dangerous business in the Opera Populaire and seeing something one shouldn't have certianly isn't something to get one's accounts settled over.

"What a way to run a business!!" was Firmin's cry, dashing through the halls. "Spare me these unending trials!" was his moan.

It didn't make any sense really, the world seemed to be tumutltiously crying about the vanishing act of their new diva and yet they still bought tickets. Well, Firmin certainly wasn't going to argue, it still brought in business, and a hell of a business it brought. "Half your cast dissapears but the crowd still cheers!" He walked in to the main parlor sweeping his hands dramatically. "Opera! To hell with Gluck and Handel It's a scandal! "Firmin sneered." That'll pack 'em in the aisles!"

But as M.Richard was having his little tyraid M.Moncharmin burst in waving a paper in his hand, for while M.Richard stopped thinking when money was in his palm M.Moncharmin's brain never did stop twitttering. "Damnable!!" He pointed to the headlines, "Will they all walk out?" For even if the multitudes flocked to their gates becuase of this charade, if there was no diva to perform when they got there it would mean...well that was one thing Moncharmin didn't like to think about. "This is damnable-"

"Andre please don't shout!"

Moncharmin glared at his associate, not liking to be reminded to take his own advice.

"It's publicity!!" Firmin quipped "Free publicity," he persisted," and the take is vast!"

"But we have no cast!" Andre growled, shaking the newspaper in associates face, quite certain that if he had thought about as much as he did he wouldn't chirp to the same tune.

But M.Richard only shook his head, as if to say he had had enough of his partner's outbursts, although it was quite fair for Andre to share in some outbursts considering it was usually Firmin having them. Firmin took out a letter from his pocket camly. "But Andre,have you seen the queue?" and he rather roughly place the letter in his associates hand. "Now you have one too."

((time restraints do not allow to continues, I post what I have in hopes that I will be able to pick up tonight, but I may not be able to continues till tomorrow morning.))

Christine looked up at Erik and nodded, she understood. He was trusting her to keep his secret and the way to his lair undisclosed in telling. She would not do so- betray his trust, or so she thought. She now turned her attention to Madame Giry. Biting at her lowerlip, she looked worriedly somewhat at Erik. If there was one thing she wished to do, it would be to turn back time, to stop herself from removing his mask. Curiousity probably would have still consumed her. Shaking her head, she looked up at Madame Giry. "I.. yes. I need to get some rest.." She stammered, afraid to speak at this point- for fear of her tongue getting out of hand, or more or less rants of the morning.

(Yeah, I'm suffering a bit of writer's block. Sorry for the delayed post- trying to get mother to take me to the 12:30 showing of Phantom tomorrow or sometime. X-x)