Your Voice

Chapter 25

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Christine

I roll my eyes, my patience weaker than it was last night. Keeping my head ducked, I make my way to the wings of the stage. Instead of chatting with the ensemble behind me like I used to, I tolerate their venomous whispers.

"That whore...."
"Who'd have thought she'd molest someone?"
"Ah, it's always how famous people end up..."

It's difficult to ignore their snide remarks; how long can you keep avoiding every soul in London? My face pressed against the wall in the corner, I hide from everyone, dreading meeting the audience beyond the stage. My only motivation is my children - they love hearing me sing from box 5 every night, I don't want to let them down. Despite my strong will to not ruin my makeup, burning, frustrated tears make their way down my face. The lump in my throat aches immensely and for a moment I consider running out of the theatre.
Crash.
Scream.
The hidden insults and faffing about stop abruptly. Startled myself, I peek my head away from the dusty concrete to see three shattered lights, the wires ripped from the ceiling. Instinctively, I look up at the rafters - Erik once told me he had built them specially so he could overlook backstage with ease - and don't see anyone; it's as if it was a ghost.
"Look!" One of the little ballet girls screeches, pointing to the massive letters slashed into the wall. It read:

SILENCE

Alarmed murmurs rise but I remain silent, realizing my tears have stopped and looking up at the rafters again. This time, a brief flash of a blurry silhouette crosses my vision, triggering a feeble smile.

***

"You have got to be kidding me," I snatch the local newspaper violently off the table, heat attacking my face and stiffness my body.

The Daae Molester Using Black Magic

The infamous Christine Daae is said to possess dark witchcraft, said numerous employees of the Queen's Theater.

Three electrical lights crashed backstage from the high rafters despite nobody being up there.

"She spent a lot of time alone," Olivia Singleton, one of the directors of the show, tells us. "With this many people saying things against her for the Godric Pensworth case, I'm sure, being as spiteful and evil as a witch is, she was the one who brought down the lights and wrote a frightening message on the wall using witchcraft."

I stop there, tossing the tabloid into the hungry flames that crackled in the fireplace. Watching the fire engulf the lies, I crouch down, my hands supporting my heavy head - thoughts swim through my head like a gargantuan school of fish. How thick can everybody be? To actually believe that I used witchcraft, the stuff of fairytales? That I brought the lights down and wrote on the wall? I let out a scream of frustration.

"Christine, darling," Erik comes rushing into the drawing room panicked. "You read the news-"

"Yes. Yes, I did. I- I just-" I quickly stand up, my hands clenched in tense balls. "I- h- hate! This town! I- I - h- hate! The people here! I-" I break down into bawling mess, my hands prepared to rip my hair out of my head.

"Christine, talk to me. Calm down, shh, shh.." Erik, with difficulty, pries my fists open and pulls my tense form into his; with my head against his chest, I hear the beating of his heart, even with my harsh sobs.