Chapter 9: The Lines That Started It All

Well, hello there!

This chapter's dedication is split three ways:

1. MaggiePershyn for giving me this chapter idea as we recited the movie for the second time.

2. Social distancing, for giving us the time to do so.

3. TahiaHartman for writing the book (The O.G.) where this all went down (sorry?)

PotO ≠ mine

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The only thing worse than being helpless against a nightmare is choosing it because the alternative is worse.

The lines from the last short story I'd ever typed surfaced in my memory. I'd lied. There was something worse than choosing a nightmare because the alternative was worse; choosing a nightmare not knowing if the alternative is worse or not.

We were a few weeks into our rehearsals for Il Muto. My mind kept returning to the lines I'd said a few weeks ago, the lines that might have been what brought me into this mess in the first place: "he told me I'd be protected by an angel; an Angel of Music." It was a complete and total lie on my part. Christine's father may have said something along those lines once, but certainly never to me.

I'd caused Raoul to worry about my security, Meg to worry about my sanity, and Carlotta to attack me any moment she had. She'd taken a liking to referring to me as "the little toad," which changed my interpretation of the line in the movie—Erik's comeback was less of a witty remark and more of a well-thought-out (though relatively harmless) revenge plan.

And, for once, I was free. I had to keep my secret, granted, but other than that, there was no plot to adhere to. I was able to live again, the way I'd lived for years as Christine Daaé before the movie began. I was myself again. It was refreshing.

I hadn't gone back to Erik's lair—home, I corrected myself, however humble, it was a home—but I had continued my voice lessons the way I'd taken them before, and he still spoke to me as the "Angel of Music." The only difference was that Carlotta, who had hardly noticed me as an individual before, now hated my guts.

"Why?" she screamed again, "why you always looking at Christine?"

André and Firmin were hilarious in their desperate attempts to keep up with her.

"Signora," André pleaded, "we weren't looking at her, we were looking at your... beautiful costume!"

"You do look truly spectacular in it," Firmin agreed.

"No, I 'ate it! I 'ate my costume, and I 'ate you, and I 'ate your precious little-"

"Toad, yes, we know."

"Hmph!" Carlotta huffed.

"S-Signora," André stuttered, "could we please return to our rehearsal? We have much work to do and v-very little time." His wide, fake smile made him look like a fool, but it seemed to work on Carlotta.

"Fine, fine, continuiamo."

The orchestra began again and we continued the scene we were rehearsing, where the countess is finally caught.

My love, what have you done? Piangi roared in his thick accent.

Why, just having some fun! She responded, giggling. He glared at her and she sang at the top of her lungs: Guess who's finally won!

You mustn't shout, now, must you? Piangi's character replied, Do you want me to trust you?

He continued, circling her in his strange, overly dramatic way.

I left you for mere hours

And look what you became!

(Shame, shame, shame!)

To whom do you point the blame?

She backed away from the count, who had paused in front of her. She was supposed to look afraid, but Carlotta, being the horrible actress she was, looked more like she was moonwalking.

SERAFIMO!

I looked up and began silently running around the stage as he tried to catch me, throwing my extra skirt and a few blankets at him before exiting a few moments later.

The rehearsal ended not long after, and I disappeared as inconspicuously as I could. I couldn't afford to let anyone know about Erik, and, based on what Meg had told me during our Hannibal rehearsal, it seemed likely that the Laurent girl—or someone like her—would follow me if she saw me leave.

I took a couple of my longest curls over my shoulder and subconsciously braided them, hoping that no one would find me. I hadn't worried before, but now that people knew I was taking voice lessons, there was a higher risk that they'd wonder who was teaching me, as Meg had, and come looking for me whenever I disappeared. I hoped Erik was observant enough to know when someone was on their way.

The clock hit six o'clock and I rushed through the doorway into the memorial room, where I had my lessons. He was always mysterious at the beginning of the lessons, but when we discussed the more technical matters of singing, he was often forced to be more direct. It really depended on the mood he was in. Sometimes he would instruct me on the technical details, and other times he would tell me to forget the technical details and let the music do the work on its own.

Some days he would say "no, Christine, switch before the note does, you don't want to squeak on the high notes," and other days he would say "don't worry. Let it soar. Don't listen to yourself, just enjoy the music." Either way, I enjoyed both kinds of lessons thoroughly. After all, I was taking lessons from the Phantom of the Opera.

This time was different, though. He was much quieter, and sometimes he was so quiet I wasn't sure if he was listening at all. I could sing the entire song without being interrupted once, and, when I asked for feedback, I would obtain only a simple "it was wonderful."

"Are you all right?" I finally asked.

No reply.

"Angel, I..." I trailed off. I didn't know what to say. The beginning of the title song played in my head.

In sleep he sang to me

In dreams he came...

Perhaps those were the lines that started it all. If I hadn't taken his hand, if I hadn't lied about my identity, if I hadn't sung the song with him, perhaps we would all be in a better place now.

No, no. "It" could be anything. Every word I spoke started something new, and often that something would be something big. I'd learned the hard way how a single word could threaten the entire plot. A single word held so much more power than even I, being an author, had ever given it credit for. A word could decide if a person spent their life full of hope or lived through eternity with nothing but suffering.

But they exist to suffer.

No, not like this. Surely not like this. This moment wasn't even part of the movie, certainly I was allowed to do something now, wasn't I?

As much as I wanted to say yes, I knew how a moment, a word, a line, could start something entirely new. I knew how they could start things I couldn't reverse; things that I couldn't allow to happen, things that would last long enough to change the plot. I had to contain my secrets. I had to remain indifferent.

I hated having to hide like this, but I would settle. For now. Though it was growing more difficult by the second.

Madame Giry

Erik was not in the worst mood he had ever been in, but it certainly was not one of his best, either. The day's rehearsal had finished, and I had come to see him, as I always did when I had the chance. He was like a son to me, and I could not allow him to be left alone for longer than he needed to be. He was a man now, technically, but, had anyone come to know him, it would have been obvious that he was still a child at heart.

"Erik," I smiled, sitting next to him and touching his shoulder, "what is upsetting you?"

He shook his head and leaned it on my shoulder, and I brushed a few strands of his wig from his face. I always had a vague idea of what was happening inside his head; never a clear view, but always an idea.

"Well," I decided, "I suppose I have to guess. It is about Christine, I know that much. Do you..."

"Mme Giry, I don't know what to do," he admitted, lifting his head back up, "I've tried and she only backs away."

I sighed looked at the ground. As thoughts wandered through my head, a smile found its way to my face. He really was only a child. Now, I was not usually interested in romance—ever since my husband died when Meg had one year, I had forgotten about that aspect of life—but this was much deeper. The boy may have finally found a connection to the world; something that would convince him that he truly was human.

"Well," I offered, "Have you ever heard the phrase 'you cannot make someone love you?'"

"Of course I have"

"Yes, well," I smiled, "it is not true. The human mind is very gullible, Erik, it is easy to control." I took a loose pin from my hair and repositioned it. "What they mean is that if you make her love you, you are not worthy of her love."

He snorted in response. I knew what he was thinking—that he did not deserve love regardless—but, if I said nothing, he would play along, and perhaps he would come to believe what I had been telling him all along. After a long pause, he finally responded.

"Then what do I do?"

"You do nothing," I clarified, "you love her the best that you can, you take care of her, protect her, and you ask nothing in return. That is true love. Then perhaps she will choose to love you back on her own."

"And if she doesn't?"

I smiled again. He forgot that I knew Christine nearly as well as I knew him. She would never give up on him. Still, someone needed to explain to him the concept of sacrificial love.

"Then you let her go," I answered, "for her own sake, not yours.

"Not mine..."

"It is the greatest act of love," I shrugged, "that is what it means to be good." He grimaced at the concept, but I knew he took it to heart. He had so much more potential for good than he realized. He had no idea that the concept I was explaining was one that most people in everyday society had never even considered. He was much further along his journey toward "becoming human," as he had put it, though he really meant "feeling like the human being he truly was instead of the monster he thought he was," than he ever could have imagined.

"I have faith in you," I smiled, "you will succeed." I took his hand and held it between mine. "You have fought this battle far too hard to lose. You will win."

Meg

We were sure to stay out in the open, where everyone could see us, so as not to start any rumors. Raoul and I were the only people other than my mother (who refused to tell anyone anything) who seemed to actually care what happened to Christine. Carlotta was more worried about her role, the managers were more worried about publicity, and the other chorus girls barely cared about anything.

Raoul, though, I could tell was worried. I could see it in his eyes. I couldn't quite figure out why I spent so much time looking at his eyes, but the concern was definitely there.

"She's gone missing before," I explained in a hurry, "it's never a big deal, we always know she'll come back in an hour or so." I hesitated. "It's just that this time-"

"She didn't come back until much later," he finished. "Meg, what do you know?"

"Not much," I told him, honestly, "I know how Christine behaves, which you know as well, I'm fairly certain that my mother knows something-"

"Why don't we ask her?"

"I've tried," I responded, "she won't tell."

"How hard did you try?"

"Not very hard," I admitted, "I don't want to worry her."

"Understandable," he muttered.

"Listen, though," I said, moving closer, although carefully maintaining enough distance that it wasn't awkward, "I think... I think Christine's 'angel' may actually exist. Except... except I think it's a man."

He sighed. He seemed to have come to the same conclusion. It was fairly obvious, I supposed, once you considered all of the evidence. It just happened that we were the only ones lucky enough to have all of the evidence.

This whole situation scared me. Something was wrong. Everyone knew it. There was something off and it was not going to end well. Only Christine seemed utterly convinced that her "angel" would never do anything wrong. Who could blame her for that much? I would be, too, if I really believed he was an angel. The problem was that humans were no angels.

"Meg," Raoul suddenly asked, "are you all right?"

I straightened my posture and plastered a smile on my face, trying to make it genuine.

"Yes," I assured him, "I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"You looked... horrified, for a moment."

"I'm fine," I smiled.

Raoul

Now was the time to ask an important and long overdue question: why did I care so much about how Meg Giry felt? Not that I wanted to lack compassion for anyone, of course not, but Meg seemed to evoke a feeling of concern said only to be caused by...

Was I falling for her?

On the one hand, I didn't want to betray Christine. On the other, the "courting" we'd done before was such a lame, six-year-old excuse for it, and, ironically enough, had nothing to do with real marriage. Really, we'd just been close friends, and it's entirely possible to be close friends with a person without marrying her.

Perhaps my worries for Christine were the appropriate response to your friend being kidnapped and threatened, not an exaggerated emotion caused by romance. Perhaps the thrill that came over me when I first saw her was simply the thrill of seeing an old friend for the first time in many, many years. Perhaps the sisterly hugs she'd given me were the best ones. Perhaps Christine was just a friend; a close friend, albeit, but not a lover. Perhaps it was time that we part ways in our romantic walk and begin a new one as friends.

Then again, perhaps not.

Christine

Hiding, hiding, hiding. It was exhausting. We were officially halfway through our third and final week of rehearsals, which meant that the show would open next week; the show that started it all, as far as the police were concerned. Well, not yet.

I hated that I knew things. I hated that I'd slipped up. Once, granted, only once, but it had the potential to ruin everything. I'd tried so hard to stay in my cacoon and maintain the plot, but things—small things, but small things with the potential for huge effects—were changing, and that was not very promising.

Which told me something, something I'd dreaded realizing, but that, now that I knew it was true, I had to realize as soon as possible: I couldn't hide forever.

Bum bum bum.

I couldn't use the overture because I've already used that so I had to settle for generic suspense sounds :(

Anywho, feel free to vote, comment, or scream.

Don't scream if it's the middle of the night, though. I also don't know why you would be screaming, but you do you. Even though it was my idea. I think I'm done here.