A Light in the Dark

Chapter 14

Author: thatweirdtheatrekid   
Rated: T - English - Drama/Hurt/Comfort - Reviews: 77 - Published: 04-14-14 - Updated: 06-16-16    id:10270670
Chapter 14 Erik's POV

I held Gustave in my arms as long as I could keep him there. He was almost as tall as me. He had been helping Squelch with a lot of heavy lifting backstage, and he was almost as strong as me. His shoulders were growing broader, and his torso was growing slimmer. He was growing so handsome. Although I didn't like the thought of him spending time with this Elaina, I could understand what she saw in him. Sometimes I had to remind myself that he was mine. True, he had my eyes and my build, but he was so beautiful. I was so ugly. How could he have come from me?

The suits were going to fit him nicely, and I was almost as proud of them as Gustave was. It was difficult for me to pass the ring on to Gustave, but I knew it had to be done. He needed a piece of his mother, and at least, I had her portrait. I had her veil. I had every song she ever sang stuck in my head. I was old enough to remember her. All Gustave had was a photograph taken of her during her last performance. The man who took the photo for the newspaper, gave it to Gustave since he knew the poor child's mother had died.

After Gustave had gone to bed, I went up to the theatre and roamed around. I had stood everywhere in that theatre. I had built it with my bare hands, but there was one place that I hadn't stood. I stood in the wings of the stage and looked over to the x that marked the center. I slowly made my way to the mark. I stood there for a moment and then turned to look out over all of the empty seats. I tried to imagine what Christine felt like when she sang here. I could imagine if every pair of eyes that occupied every seat in the theatre was looking at me, then I would be so nervous that I would feel like I was flying. That's how she sang. She sang as if she was above the world. She was a part of the atmosphere. Something about center stage just pulled a song right out of me. I sang what I had written just a few nights ago. It rang through the theatre like a bell rings through the city. I sang with all of my might until I noticed a figure standing in the wings.

"Makes you seem invincible doesn't it?" Meg Giry came strolling out from behind the curtain. Her tiny waist was wrapped in a silk robe and her blonde hair curved around her face in loose ringlets.

I could feel my heart beating right out of my chest. I had thought that I was alone. "Yes," I said back to her, "I suppose that is how it feels."

The truth of the matter was, I had not truly spoken to Meg since the night of the accident. I didn't exactly have any sort of grudge against her, but she was never really around. She did her show and left. She never confronted me for anything, and I never really had a reason to speak to her. I heard rumors that sometimes at night she hung herself off of the side of the pier, but she never had the courage to jump, at least, not after what happened to Christine.

"I don't think I ever told you how much I love this place. This theatre brings out the best and the worst of people," She laughed at her comment, "Just those of us that have the worst in us have already let it out." She lit a cigarette and offered me one.

"No. I don't smoke," I said.

"Sure you don't," she said cunningly, "You're the only man in New York that doesn't. I hope you know that."

"Other men do not seem to faze me."

"That's probably a good thing. They faze me, and let me tell you. It ain't good. They can pull a girl into whatever they want to pull her into so long as it involves money or booze." She took another puff on her cigarette.

"I'm sorry to hear that." I stood there and thought for a second. She was making me uncomfortable, but there was no way to get out of her conversation. "I don't suppose I ever thanked you."

"Thanked me? For what? What could I ever have done for you? I killed the love of your life. I turned to other men when you were the one writing songs for me. What could you ever thank me for?"

"I mean what you did for the money and the permits and such. Thank you."

She breathed a quick laugh. "Sure. You're welcome for that. I've come to realize that it was more for me though. It made me feel pretty. It made me feel like I was worth it to somebody."

"I'm sorry that I never made you feel that way."

"It's not your fault." She took a couple of steps closer to me. "Some people are just willing to do anything for the ones that they love." She tossed me a small white box, and she walked back into the darkness of the empty theatre. I watched her until all I could see was the small fire of her cigarette.

I opened the box. Inside it, there was the diamond necklace that I had fastened on Christine's neck the night of her last performance. She had ripped it off when we discovered that Gustave was missing. The clasp was broken. There was also a small journal. It was dated from her first visit down to my lair in the opera house up until the evening Christine had died. She must have left it in her dressing room when she had gone out looking for Gustave that night. I thumbed through the journal. There was ten years' worth of her thoughts in this journal. They were ten years that I missed, but now I had them in the palm of my hand. She had her complex thoughts written down about the Vicomte's drinking habits. She had thought about how her life may have been different if she had been with me. She also had little details that I did not know about her or Gustave. They used to bake cakes together when he was upset. He loved anything chocolate. When he was small, he loved the color purple and insisted on having a purple winter coat, but Raoul wouldn't let him have one. Everything she wrote was so finely detailed. It was beautiful. I clutched the journal close to my chest.

I didn't know if Meg was still there or not, but I said just in case, "Thank you, Meg. Thank you for everything."