At the Opera House

Chapter 12: Empty

Christine moped in her apartment for three days.

She knew she shouldn't. She hated women who couldn't never get over themselves and their petty relationships.

But Erik wasn't petty nor was their friendship.

He had been her friend, her confident. When they first met, he had become a wall for her to lean on, a steady and strong thing after her father had passed.

The memories had been worse then, she would be teaching her girls, and then suddenly the smoke was in the air and she was crawling and trying to find her father again.

Many questioned her sanity, her sudden 'fits' where she would shake and cough and cry, calling for her father. Even Madame Giry had looked scared off her at times until the memories faded.

Only Erik, wonderful understanding Erik, had been unjudging. When the memories came he would wait patiently, and when she conquered them his eyes would shine with an understanding that floored her.

Some would say that it was selfish, or cruel to do nothing. But he hadn't done nothing, he hadn't known what to do, Christine doubted he had ever comforted a human before.

But he had waited.

He had waited, and when he was more confident, he used to sing quietly until she had escaped the trap of her past.

When she struggled to understand the new world around her, the corsets, the bustles, the money and even the old french that she had struggled to master. He had been quiet, never mentioning her oddities.

Oh how she had struggled, how she had tried for years to be like everyone else, and tired and failed in this new world.

But music had been there, music was the same as it always had been. Notes flying from her throat, the vibrations in her bones, and the feeling of flight.

The nightly lessons had been a solid comfort under her feet, one that reminded her to keep going, keep moving, keep learning.

And now they were gone, swept under her feet like a rug. Now she was alone, and it hurt.

It hurt. And Christine wasn't afraid to admit it, it hurt and she wanted Erik back. If only to laugh and learn and debate with him again. There needn't be kisses, nor whispered words of love or romantic evenings, she only wanted his rich voice and clever mind and his passion for music.

Their passion for music.

It was all gone now.

Three days.

Christine allowed herself three days, to cry and moan and think over every memory with him.

Three days after New Years work began again. They were hurriedly finishing off Faust, the latest Opera, trying to make up for the days lost during the Holidays.

The pain was still there, a dull ache that threatened to overcome her at any moment. She buried it, tried to hide it in herself. But the others noticed, she had changed and they all wondered why. Many guessed, but few were right.

Then the performances began, a stunning success, with boxes sold out left and right.

It was said the Phantom was pleased, for he had asked for his stool for every night of the performance while it lasted. But the usual laughter at the jokes, the request for the program didn't come.

They preformed every night for a month, save Sundays.

Dinners on Sundays were a delight after a grey and dull week.