At the Opera House

Chapter 17: Memories

"Oh but Christine, the flowers are lovely. Raoul simply must fancy you, no boy sends a girl roses without romantic intent."

Christine gave Meg a strained smile, gripping the bouquet of roses in her hand. "Yes, well, he's a Vicomte."

"Well, yes." Meg sighed. "Oh but just imagine what could be, you're so good at that."

"I could." Christine sighed, placing the roses on her dressing room table. "I suppose I'll need a vase, they're already wilting."

"Well after your performance, you'll need dozens of vases for flowers." Meg giggled. "Oh Christine, they're going to love you."

"Mmm." Christine began unbuttoning her costume, pulling it down from her shoulders. "I see."

"You're not listening." Meg accused, watching her button the costume up again.

"Mm. No." She hung the costume on a hook. "Not really."

"Christine." Meg chastised. "Doesn't being a star excite you?"

Christine sighed, reaching behind herself she began to untie her corset strings, carefully she let them loosen. "Well-" she grunted, experimentally pulling and tightening the strings.

Twelve men, guns hidden under spottless suits, smiling and chattering with other unsuspecting guests.

"I try not to think much of it."

The crack of guns as Erik staggered back in his chair, blood spilling from his chest.

"Christine......?"

Dust in her lungs, blood on her hands and aching knees. Blood on the satin dress.

"Christine are you alright?"

Where was her father? Where was he?

Christine's hands gripped the table tightly.

Splinters pulling more blood out of her flesh, dust filling the wounds. A cry for help, for her father, for anyone.

She was alone in a world of broken steel, concrete and dust.

Trapped in a falling building as the screams of the dying filled her ears.

"Christine wake up!"

Hands shook her shoulders, Christine blinked, trying to evaporate the vision in her eyes.

Breath in, 1, 2, 3.......

"Papa." She whispered, swallowed and closed her eyes, shaking the vision from her brain. "Where's Papa?"

"I don't know." A voice wailed her in ear.

Dust in her lungs, her hands holding the phone out for light.

"It can't happen again." Christine whispered. "Never again, it's over, it can't come back."

"What?"

Slowly Christine began singing under her breath, closing and opening her eyes, trying to rid herself of the vision.

Blood on her hands, blood streaking from her face, dropping on her perfect satin gown.

"Focus on the notes." Christine whispered. "The song is what matters."

Her throat drew out more notes, beautiful and silvery like her gown.

Her bloodstained satin gown.

She closed her mouth and felt a tear escape from her eye. She gasped, surprised when she didn't cough.