One Love, One Lifetime [a Phantom of the Opera Phanfiction]

3: The Angel in Hell

Rehearsals are absolute hell and I only wish Erik would hurry up and finish whatever he's working on so I could sing that instead. Whatever he's writing has got to be better than this.
The newest opera is called Well is the Soul, and it's an Italian production about a woman who falls in love unknowingly with a serial killer and goes to absurd levels to defend him. I play the lead role, Gianni Ricci, who's blindingly lovesick and helplessly defending her lover against all accusations and evidence. She's sickeningly stupid, and I feel it disrespectful to myself to play such a role.
Our new lead man, Remy Monet, taking the place of the late Ubaldo Piangi, plays my love interest named Francesco Nicastro. As much of a gentleman as he appears to be, I don't find him strikingly attractive and consider him rather fake, although my dear friend Meg Giry seems to have taken a liking to him.
At this particular moment, Meg has draped Remy's arm around her bony shoulders and is giggling like a fool. "Remy, would you care to join me for dinner?" She has a lovesick smile plastered across her face, twirling her long blonde curls with a finger, and I thank God that I don't act like this around Erik. At least, not that I'm aware of. That would be quite embarrassing.
"Ah, Meg, darling," Remy kisses my friend's hand and removes his arm from her shoulders. "Nothing would charm me more, except I must be checking in for the night and taking my meal in my room. We must reschedule though, I imagine we would have quite a lovely time together." He winks and shoots her what Meg probably assumes is a dashing, charismatic smirk meant to reassure her but to anyone else would be taken as ingenuine as he backs away.
"Speaking of supper," a dreaded voice says from behind me and I groan internally, "I have made a reservation at the finest diner in the greater Paris area. We must leave immediately if we want to make it in time." Raoul snakes an arm around my waist and spins me around to face him. He had disappeared for the larger part of the rehearsal.
"Raoul, I am not well. I am very tired from the rehearsals today and my voice needs a rest," I lie right through my teeth, placing a hand dramatically to my temple. I feel fine, save for a slight headache that never really goes away.
"Oh, but this is a very nice restaurant, and it's very important for such a star like you to get a break from-" A bloodcurdling scream cuts off Raoul's apathetic dialogue and the cast lingering onstage runs off to where the sound came from. I wriggle out from Raoul's possessive grasp and hurry to follow the chorus.
When I get to the scene, another scream pierces my fragile ears, this one much louder than the last, and it continues until I feel the need to breathe. Only then do I realize that the scream came from my mouth. Erik will pity my vocal cords and ridicule me later, I am sure of it.
The crowd that's gathered stands around a crime scene in the making. Hanging from the ceiling rafters next to the backstage vanity, with a rope tied tightly around his neck, is our newest scene shifter, Claude Moulin. His body is still with the lack of life, face a fading purple from the absence of blood. His eyes are blank and stare straight ahead, and the fact that he's not blinking is perhaps the most alarming of the sights.
Claude is dead.
"Andre!"
"Get Firmin!"
"Someone help!"
By this point, more people have gathered and some have started whispering speculations about who might have dared to kill someone after the affair of Erik nearly closing the Opera Populaire a year ago.
"It must be him! The Phantom of the Opera!" Meg tells me, grabbing my hands with fear ringing in her voice.
No, I want to tell her. My Erik would never do this, not anymore. He's different now. I know it. But she doesn't know about us, about me and him. I haven't told a soul.
A choking sob escapes my chest, and I turn on my thin stiletto heel, running hurriedly out of the room and down the hallway. Raoul follows me, close behind.
"Christine! Christine, don't cry, I'm here." He grabs my arm, pulling me in close and kissing my hair. "I've fought the Phantom once and won." Won? He nearly hung you. "I will hunt him down and do it once more, and I will make sure he will never lay another hand on another soul ever again, especially not you. I will do what I should've done long ago. Christine, you will feel safe again."
I shudder, feeling even more vulnerable embraced in his slim but muscular arms than roaming the Opera House with a killer on the loose, fright chilling my bones with his threat.

~

Later that night in my dressing room, I pace the hardwood floor with distress, deep in thought. Who would have the motive, much less desire, to kill Claude? He was always so friendly and his cheery smile was always infectious to those around him. So was he really hiding something behind his seemingly innocent and jolly exterior?
A rapping knock at my door startles me out of my jarring, pensive thoughts.
"Christine?" A masculine voice that I've learned to dread calls through the door and creeps down my spine. "May I enter?"
Swallowing down my attitude and temptations to send him away harshly, I respond. "Yes, come in, Raoul."
He saunters into the room, his casual stance contrasting starkly with his crisp and freshly pressed suit. "My dear," he begins, extending a hand and bowing, "I believe it is time for dinner." He takes in my white lace dress that drops straight down to my ballet flats and raises an eyebrow. "I assume you'll be changing before our departure?"
"Raoul, I told you, I am not feeling well tonight," I reply, turning briskly away from him, running a hand down my seemingly unfit dress which I happen to like.
"Oh, please, you were just fine earlier, and you can make yourself fine now. I'm sure you can at least act as such, such a woman as you is fully capable of freshening up and putting on a smile for your husband." He places his hands on my shoulders and rubs them possessively.
I push his cold, controlling hands away hastily, whipping back around to face him. "Stop it, Raoul! Do not touch me. Please leave and let me rest."
"No! Christine." His voice is rough as he grabs my wrists firmly enough that I can't ease out of his grasp or move my arms much at all. "Christine, you will come to supper with me, or else I'll-"
Raoul's threat is cut off by a swoosh of my superhero's cape, and immediately my wretched husband is on the floor, my true love on top of him.
Erik holds a glistening knife blade to Raoul's neck with one hand and pinning his arm down with another, breathing loudly with his nostrils flaring. Paralyzed with shock, I stand helpless to both men.
"So, Vicomte," Erik seethes, his voice thick with venom, "I bet it wasn't your plan to die today, hm?"
Raoul grunts and foolishly tries to escape being trapped under Erik's force. "No, and I will make sure that-" His sentence is cut off abruptly by a forceful blow to his cheek by Erik.
"How should we do this, my friend?" Erik twists the knife between his fingers, opening a thin slice on Raoul's neck. His bone-chilling laugh pierces the air.
"Erik," I whisper, breaking out of my trance, my voice hushed with caution. "Erik, no. Please don't." He turns to face me as if he hadn't realized I was there, guilt shining in his eyes through his signature white mask.
"If you kill me," Raoul struggles against Erik's iron grip, "You're just like you used to be. You can't change, Phantom. A phantom," he scoffs. "That's all you ever will be."
With hesitance, Erik climbs off of Raoul and picks him up by his crisp white collar.
"Consider this a warning, Chagny. If you lay another finger on her, you won't even stay alive long enough to see me kill you." He throws Raoul aggressively out into the hallway and slams the door with a swish of his cape so hard that it shakes.
I sink to the floor, my dress making a white puddle around me, and Erik comes rushing over.
"Erik," a sob escapes my chest and tears leak through my eyes. "I thought... I thought you had changed." I whisper to him, as I pick myself up from the floor, wiping away my tears and walking to the door.
"Christine," Erik calls softly. He inhales deeply, his glistening eyes shining through the confines of his mask as his melodious voice fills the air. "Christine, I love you..."
I run out of the room, holding in my cries. Not knowing where to go, I eventually find myself wandering mindlessly to the small chapel in the back of the opera house where I used to go every night and light a candle in memory of my father.
The tears I've been holding onto escape as my fragile mind is flooded with memories of the past, memories I keep only for comfort but have began seeming more and more like harm lately. My father and I picnicking in the attic of our small house in Uppsala, clasping his hand as we traveled fair to fair, vacations to the beach. Even when the rest of the world was cold, my father was a fireplace burning in the hearth of my chest. He was safe, he was protection, he was a promise. He made a promise! I will send the Angel of Music to you.
Father, where is he?
I collapse on the cold stone of the chapel, the room softly illuminated by candles, repeating my wish over and over:
I wish you were still here.