Between Mirrors and Roses (A Phantom of the Opera Fanfiction) ✓

1: Through the Mirror

Thank you so much for reading this! I hope you enjoy it. As always, credit goes to Andrew Lloyd Webber for his beautiful score, and to Susan Kay for her heart-wrenching novel. I do not own the characters from the Phantom of the Opera. Please please review! 

(January 2019) Yikes! I finally finished editing this. It took a lot longer than I was expecting, but I'm much happier with it now.

I'm sorry to say that in the process, most of the inline comments disappeared from their spots. It would mean so much to me if those of you reading (or re-reading) would comment lots and fill up that empty space again!! <3

Christine

I pressed my hand to the unassuming glass of the mirror; but instead of encountering the firm resistance typical of solid objects, my hand slid through the pane. This was crazy. I was having a hallucination fueled by sleep-deprivation and too much reading. I retracted my hand and pinched my arm. Nope, this was no dream.

I scanned the room—deserted except for stacks of props.

With a thrill I hadn't felt since a poem of mine won the school's contest, I touched the glass for the third time. Like before, the reflection of my fingers disappeared as they slid into what should have been an unyielding barrier.

The mirror had behaved normally until a minute ago. I'd been struck by the mysterious urge to find the mirror and touch my reflection, which led to the first, but not last, shock of the day.

I should have told an instructor. I should have walked back to my dorm, taken a cold shower, and crawled into bed. Instead, I threw caution to the wind and, for the first time in my life, ventured into the realm of risk and uncertainty. I stepped into the mirror.

Half an hour prior...

The tarnished mirror, with its ornate gold scrollwork and immense stature, deserved to rest in a king's palace, not the crummy backstage of a college theater. A few of my fellow crew members and I had discovered the relic in a thrift shop and snatched it up.

It may not have been gracing the walls of a palace or grand opera house, but starring in our production of The Phantom of the Opera was better than collecting dust in a storage room; at least here every passerby slowed to marvel at it—marvel at our good fortune in acquiring it, at its regality and timeless elegance.

I was particularly proud, being the one who had noticed the curious covered shape and released the mirror from its dustcloth prison. Staring at the find, I'd felt I had finally made a worthy contribution to our production, which happened to be of my favorite musical. Being a props crew underling was hardly the most rewarding position. But I was hopeless at singing and, regrettably, one must be able to sing to perform in a musical. Still, I was grateful to be able to participate in any way.

I assisted in the school productions as frequently as I could, which was often; my next-to-useless creative writing major didn't require an extraordinary amount of effort, I had few friends, and I hadn't exchanged more than pleasantries with my family since leaving home three years ago. To fill the extra time I volunteered in the theatre department, listened to music, and read so much that I felt like I belonged in another time.

Currently, I was tucked into a backstage corner reading my loved copy of The Phantom of the Opera. Two girls in converse jogged past with armfuls of costumes.

"I'm taking off in ten minutes," called the director from somewhere onstage. "You kids are welcome to stay longer, but remember to turn the lights off when you leave."

In my book, the mysterious Phantom wandered the opera house's halls and dreamed of love. In reality, the cold plaster of the wall pressed into my back.