Chapter 10: Angel?

Hello! My name is Joseph Bu⁠—wait no it's not.

⁠Anyway, here's your chapter *secretly slides a piece of paper over the table*

This chapter is dedicated to Colleenisanerd

Who, like me, does not own the Phantom of the Opera.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Serafimo, your disguise is perfect

Why who can-a this be?

Meg's character, who was also silent, went to answer the door.

Gentle wife, admit your loving husband

I crossed over to the opposite side of the stage and leaned over, pretending to dust the bed.

And must leave you with your new maid

That part was very uncomfortable to perform, but in the opera, it was normal.

"The old fool is leaving."

I didn't usually get stage fright, but there was an intense sense of dread that I couldn't shake off. I wasn't even concerned about the show—I knew we were going to have at least one very unsuccessful performance—it was as if I was worried about something else, something much more important.

Thankfully, I was good enough at acting not to let it show, but I wasn't quite good enough to get rid of the feeling completely. This was the first performance, so all of our wealthiest supporters and harshest critics were here tonight.

Carlotta and Piangi continued their opera-like vocalizing. We were being watched. Not by the thousands of people in the audience; something else. Something much more sinister. I could feel it. We were being watched—observed, like toys—by something higher. Something that disapproved. Something we couldn't stop.

Serafimo, away with this pretense!

You cannot-a speak but kiss me in my husband's absence!

I shed my disguise, revealing a male character wearing jeans, and hid behind her giant fan to look like we were kissing.

Poor fool, he makes me laugh, a-a-a-a-a!

I could feel it again. It was there. My heart pumped harder and harder and I began to shiver. The hairs on the back of my neck and on my arms stood on their ends, and I couldn't get them to stop. I hadn't been expecting this. Something was off.

Poor fool, he doesn't know, o-o-o-o-o!

The feeling only intensified. Who—or what—was watching us?

If he knew the truth, he'd never ever go!

"Did I not instruct," boomed the omnipresent voice, "that Box 5 was to be kept empty?"

Of course. Of course, of course, of course. It was him. There was a collective gasp from everyone in the room, and then a quiet, confused chatter broke out.

"He's here," Meg panted, "the Phantom of the Opera."

"It's him."

"Your part," Carlotta screamed, "is silent, little toad!"

She giggled as she walked away and I remembered what was happening, and what was going to happen. I must've had either extremely good hearing or an extremely vivid imagination, or a combination of the two, because I heard Erik respond to Carlotta's comment.

"A toad, madame? Perhaps it is you who are the toad."

I made eye contact with Meg. I could tell: she knew more than I'd thought she did. She was the only person on the stage at that moment who I felt I could trust, and she also seemed to be the only other person who was concerned. Dread surfaced again, but I had someone to share it with this time. Meg returned my concerned expression, and we made a contract, with our eyes, to work together—to try our very best—to fix this.

The music started again and I resumed my role, this time knowing I wouldn't be performing for much longer.

Serafimo, away with this pretense!

You cannot-a speak but kiss me in my—

And then from her mouth came the most unpleasant sound that ever had, which was saying something for Carlotta. And it didn't stop. The more she desperately tried to save herself, the worse it grew.

"Mother!" She screamed, running to the wing, where her mother frantically beckoned her off of the stage.

Chaos broke out, and Meg and I looked at each other again through the sea of panicking people. The sense of dread I'd felt was at last matched by the people around me, who thought they'd seen the worst of things. Poor fools, I thought, they have no idea.

A hand grabbed my wrist and pulled me in front of the curtain.

"...by Miss Daaé!" Firmin announced. "Thank you! Go on," he whispered to me, gently but frantically, "hurry up, hurry up."

I rushed through the crowd and found Mme Giry, who took me by the arm and pulled me into the dressing room. I stood behind the divider and threw off my Serafimo costume, replacing it with a thin undergown before I rushed back out to grab the petticoats.

The entire costume change was a frantic mess, and it didn't help that I also had a very difficult decision to make while I was changing. I put on the pink final layer to the dress and stood in the position that allowed Mme Giry to lace the corset.

The feeling of dread surfaced once more, and, despite my desperate attempts, I couldn't push it down. Mme Giry hadn't even laced the corset yet and it felt tight, crushing my ribs as I tried to breathe.

It wasn't a particularly small one, and there was no reason for it to be uncomfortable. It provided support for my core and let me use my energy elsewhere, and it certainly didn't restrict my breathing.

Usually. Right now, though, everything felt tight—the stockings, the shoes, the sleeves, however short, and the corset—everything. I couldn't think. I couldn't speak, I couldn't think, I couldn't do anything. And finally I remembered why.

"Mme Giry," I breathed, "Madame Giry, I can't."

I sat down, panting.

"I'm sorry, I can't, Mme Giry, I can't do this."

"My dear," she responded, attempting to calm me down, "don't worry, they will love you."

"No, it's not that," I responded, still panting, "I-it's... I just can't." I buried my face in my hands and tried hard not to weep.

"Christine," she smiled, "you will be fine." She leaned down and smoothed the creases in the skirt of my dress. "Now," she declared, holding my face in her hands and forcing me to look her in the eye "you are going to get up, you are going to go back out there, and you-"

"NON !" I screamed, jumping up from my seat and yanking the skirt into place, "No, I cannot!"

I darted through the door and she chased after me, calling my name. I didn't stop. I kept running, ducking through short hallways and turning corners until I'd lost her. I needed to think. Alone.

I leaned against a wall and pressed my fingers to my forehead. In just a few minutes, everything would change. Plot, plot, I tried to remind myself, stick to the plot.

But I couldn't do that anymore. People were suffering, and it was my fault.

They exist to suffer.

I couldn't hide from the cruelty of that phrase any longer. It was cruel, and it was not true. This wasn't a story anymore, this was life. The people around me were just as real as I was. Was I really living for the plot? Was I really supposed to believe that the right thing to do was consider everyone else a character? To believe that I was the only real person in this world? Wasn't that the definition of a psychopath?

No, I couldn't do this anymore. I couldn't let another person die as a result of my indifference.

It was over. All of this hiding, secret-keeping, sticking to the plot—it was over. I was going to change things. I was going to change things dramatically. Never mind how boring it caused the story to be.

I turned another corner, only to run headfirst into the one and only Meg Giry.

"Ouch!" she laughed, "wow, we both must have been going pretty fast, are you oka- Christine!"

She jumped at the sight of me, and moved her hand from rubbing her forehead to holding me in one of the tightest hugs I'd ever felt.

"There you are! Everyone's looking for you, are you okay?"

I didn't answer, instead trying to push past her to get where I needed to go. She stopped me.

"Christine," she muttered, much calmer this time, "what are you doing? Is everything all right?"

"No, Meg, it's not," I snapped, "please let me go, I have to-"

"Christine, what's-"

"Meg, I have to be somewhere."

She gazed at me, her eyes darting around my face to observe my emotions. She was very good at reading me, as I was her, and it didn't take her long to realize that there was no way she would persuade me to return to the stage like nothing had happened.

"Christine," she tried one last time, "what are you doing?"

"Meg," I sighed, grabbing her shoulders, "look, something very bad is about to happen, and if I want to have any chance of stopping it, I need to get there now. I love you," I added, pulling her into a quick, sisterly hug—not the awkward kind, the loving kind. "I love you, Meg, but I need to go."

She nodded and stepped aside, watching me as I frantically rushed up the steps and around the theatre. I didn't know where I was going. I'd never thought I would be trying to change things, so, naturally, I hadn't thought to figure out how to get where I now needed so desperately to be.

The hallways taunted me as I desperately tried to navigate the ever-so-mysterious opera house. I climbed up and down flights of stairs made from wood and stone, often circling back to exactly where I began. It was a hopeless pursuit, but Joseph Buquet's life depended on it.

Finally, I reached the top of a staircase to find myself on the ledge by the ceiling. I found the door and stormed through it, climbing across a few rocky bridges and turning corners, before, at last, I made it where I wanted to be.

Just in time to see my angel dangling his victim's corpse above the stage.