Angel of Music

The Art of Friend-Making

    Disclaimer: I do not own my angel of music. *cries*

  It is so very cold below the opera house.
  I should be grateful for my home and for the woman who saved me, but it gets lonely down in the dark.
   The woman who saved me gives me little sticks with fire on them she calls candles. They give me light and some warmth, but the cold still seeps in a chills my bones.
   I get lonely down below. She comes to visit sometimes, though fewer and fewer each year. I watch as the opera singers, ballerinas, jimmies, and mangers come and go. I know every little secret about this place, this Opera Populaire. On occasion, I will watch an opera from box five, if it is not rented out.
   I call myself Erik, a borrowed name from a dead man, and my real name long forgotten. I assume I am 16 but I don't remember, I'd stopped counting once I turned 13. The woman who saved me says I am around 16, guessing on when she and I first met. I do know her name, though I prefer not to use it.  I stay hidden down here below the opera house for my crimes, and the sad disaster which I call my face. I do not belong, nor shall I ever, to the world of light above.
   I pull the black cloak tighter around myself. The cloak was a gift, part of an old costume from an even older opera. Standing, I glance around my home. It's not much, just a bed and a makeshift pipe organ that I built myself. Candles are everywhere, on the floor to broken cracks in the stone walls. Anywhere one can be set.
   I trudge up the broken, winding stairs that lead to the opera house and the light. My mind wanders to the woman who saved me, maybe she'll visit soon. I certainly hope so. She's the only one who's shown kindness to me, the only one who's cared.
   If she does come, I think to myself. I'll be sure and ask her to bring me more candles.
   Ensnared in my thoughts, I almost miss a faint whimper.
  I stop walking and look down to see an air vent that must lead to one of the dressing rooms. I bend down and peer into it. I can see the room from where I look, inside there is a girl sobbing on the floor. She has beautiful brown curls, that cover her face. Her black frock is a little too small for her, but it's hardly noticeable. She looks to be about 8 or 9 years of age. The girl's sobs are almost more than I can bare now. They are sorrow filled, and express true lose. Something I myself know very well. For I have cried those same tears, and if one has cried the same tears as another, one knows what those tears are crying about.
   "Why are you crying?" I ask the little girl. She stiffens and looks around for who is talking to her.
   "Who is it?" She calls in the sweetest, most angelic voice I have ever heard.
    "Why are you crying, child?" I ask again, making my voice as gentle as possible.
   "W-who is it?" She stutters.
   "I will tell if you will enlighten me on why  such a pretty girl like you is crying." I reply, hoping this will stop her pitiful sobs.
   "My father is dead," she says after a moment. "He was all I had...and now I am alone and hear faceless voices!" She sobs for a minute or two and suddenly stops. She turns her chestnut head or the ceiling. I see her full face for the first time, and the child really is pretty. Roses cheeks, red lips, and big brown eyes.
   "Are you my angel of music? Is my father send you?"
   Something in my chest ached for this little girl. She has understood loss, then. I think of myself as a child, crying all alone for a loss.
   "Yes," I say before I can stop it. All I can think is I want to help this child and to talk with her. I need a friend and so does this pitiful child.
  She gasps, her red lips making an o shape.
  "Angel! My father told me he'd send you! He told me he would! And now you have come to help me!"
   "Yes, " I say again. "I am here to help you."
    "Oh angel! Please forgive me for not recognizing you before. I'm not used to angels talking to me yet."
   "All is forgiven, child." She smiles at nothing, but I know she means that smile for me.
  "Angel?" She says after a moment.
  "Still here," I reply. She blushes.
  "Father said that you had the most beautiful voice of all the angels and that is why they call you the angel of music. Will you sing for me?"
   Sing...for her? My mind could hardly wrap around the thought. Sing?
  Once, I sang for the woman who saved me, and she told me I sang like the heavens. I hope she was telling the truth.
   I open my mouth and start to sing an ancient lullaby in some language long forgotten by any man on earth, but perhaps the real angels in heaven new this abandoned tongue I sang.
   Once I am finished, the girl smiles so wide and so full of joy and happiness that I feel my heart swell in my chest. It feels as though it will burst and bleed inside, yet it is not a painful feeling.
   "Thank you, angel!" She says. "Thank you!"
    "You are welcome, child. I must go now," I tell her. I want to stay and talk with her, but I suddenly feel very raw and wish to free my heart of this swelling feeling. Something tells me that leaving the girl will make it stop. To my dismay, she frowns and I think she is about to sob again.
   "Will you come back tomorrow?" She asks.
   "Yes, I will be here when you wake." She smiles up at the ceiling, brown eyes shining.
   "Oh! Please, don't mention me to anyone else. This is just between us, understand?"
   "I understand. Good night, angel!" She bids me.
   "Goodnight," I whisper.
    "Christine!" I hear a voice call. The girl looks at the door as it opens. A little blonde girl walks in in a white nightgown. I recognize the blonde girl. She is the daughter of the woman who saved me. I have never spoken to her but every time her mother visits me, she speaks of her.
     "Meg," my girl says and stands up to hug her.
    "Christine, mother says it's bed time." Meg says to her.
  My girl sighs. "I was just about to turn out my light." Meg nods.
    "Come," She says to my girl leads her to the bed.
    "Good night, Meg." my girl says.
    "Good night, Christine." Says Meg.
    Christine....I think. That is her name.
 
                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
  I return to my home with her name on my lips. I say it to test it, and I like the way my lips move when I say it. It just feels so...right.
  When I play my makeshift pipe organ, I think of Christine. When I eat a small scrap of bread for supper, I think of Christine. When I lay down, I think of Christine. When I sleep, I dream about Christine.
   Christine...my friend.
  If the art of friend-making makes one this happy, I wonder why I see so many backbiters in the small world of the Opera Populaire.

Authors note: Heyo! Hope you enjoyed it! Please comment and give feed back!