Your Voice

Chapter 5

Hey guys! I hope you're enjoying my fic so far. I'm sorry that I might not be able to update often enough: I've got lots of homework to get done. Please comment what you want to happen in this story. I'm really curious to see your ideas! Thank you for reading!! xx

Christine
Seven years later

"Mother! Look! A fair!" Gustave tugs on my dress as we walk past a bright, loud circus.
"Gustave, dear, we can't affor-"
"But mother! It's my birthday next week! Please!" he pleads adorably and I give in. I know how much he loves carnivals and shows - he always loves it when I take him to the opera house when I sing. His favorite song I perform is The Point of No Return from Don Juan Triumphant. "It's dark and mysterious," he told me, "and absolutely beautiful."
However, Raoul sharply spits out a "No." I frown at him, and then turn back to a disappointed Gustave.
"It's all right darling," I hand him some money for tickets and smile, "go ahead. Papa and I will be there shortly. Do be careful!" As soon as my son skips off into the festival of colour, I turn back, annoyed at my husband.
"Why are you always like this? Couldn't you spend just a day with your own son? Just for his birthday!" I scold. Grunting and pulling a sour face, Raoul follows me as I search for Gustave in the crowd.

It is packed. People of every size and shape surround me, some of which are admiring the performers do their thing. The fair seems more like a horrifying freak show than a hearty family circus: contortionists bend and twist their bodies at painful angles, a man with massive golden earrings breathes fire and roars, imitating a dragon. Raoul seems quite uninterested, although I notice a tense look on his face. I wonder if he's thinking what I'm thinking. The whole place screams Erik. I felt that stabbing pain once again. Erik had a certain interest in bizarre and frightening things and actually saw them as a glorious piece of art. I figure that it must have been because he was part of a freak show once. Not going to lie, it is, in a strange, incredulous way, quite beautiful. Talents are on display everywhere. Beams of pink, blue, orange lights flash on the exhibits . A woman with a third arm protruding unnaturally from her side repeatedly called "Welcome to Fantasma! Where all your dreams can wander free!"

"Mother!" Gustave rushes up to me excitedly.
"It's all so beautiful
so strange yet beautiful
How can this be what it seems?
All of my most secret dreams
somehow set free!"

He sang as beautifully as Erik. I had never taught him to sing, and yet his voice sounded angelic.
"I'm glad you're enjoying it." I place a kiss on his forehead.
"Ooh, can we go there?" Gustave points to a sign placed in front of deep blue curtains that read:
PSYCHIC - YOU THINK IT, I CAN READ IT!

We walk into a dimmed room. Raoul scoffs.

"Why am I wasting my money on-"

"A fraud, monsieur? No, I am The Eye, and I can-" the scrawny old woman shoves her face uncomfortably close to Raoul's face "-read your mind!" She turns to me.

"Ah, Miss Daae - oops! - Madame de Chagny. Come, come sit." We sit down on a bench in front of a tiny round table, Gustave resting on my lap.

"Young man," the Eye takes Gustave's hand, "hmmmm, nearly seven! Happy early birthday - oh, what is in your mind! Child, it's amazing! There's a lot of potential in you; you should become a composer! Such melodies!" She shows her gruesomely yellow teeth and eyes me slightly.

"Christine, darling, it's your turn. Let's see..." she closes her eyes, as if listening out for something. "I read that you've lost someone very, very dear, years ago."

"Yes, my father was special-"

"No... more recently. Six, seven years?" The psychic shot me a questioning look, and I kept silent, thinking of an alibi.

"I- My close friend... from, erm, back in Sweden... passed away..." I lie terribly. Gustave hugs me and Raoul frowns, confused.

"Well, whoever this 'friend' was, I should let you know that he's alive." She let go of my hand.

Erik

My fair did quite well on its first day. After composing for nearly a decade, and with some contribution from Meg and Madame Giry, I could afford performers and things like lights and banners. Apparently, Fantasma is beginning to get more attention; people ditched the Opera Populaire to visit my festival - they're only playing reruns of Hannibal and Il Muto, which (as heard from one of the jugglers I hired) was getting quite boring with Christine Daae only being able to perform one, or quite rarely, two times per season because of Carlotta's threats to leave if she wasn't made the star.

I start to pack up for America, Coney Island, to be exact - I belong there with the other freaks, not around beautiful songbirds like Christine. I am to leave tomorrow, but I salvaged little of my belongings from my previous lair, so I start packing late.

"Sir," a dancer, who is probably one of Madame Giry's students, gets my attention.

"Is your salary due again? Dear Lord, you're an expensive bunch-"

"No, sir," she leans on a pillar next to my bed and arrogantly flips her red hair to one side. "I just came to tell you that tonight is Christine Daae's last performance of the season."

My head turns sharply and I look at her.

"Just thought you'd be interested." She gives a knowing smirk, accompanied with a shrug, and then casually walks away. Quickly making a choice, throwing the shirt I was holding aside, I, motivated by the undeniable urge to hear her voice again, smooth my wig out, swap my shirt for a cleaner one and wear my coat and wrap myself in a dark cloak to stay hidden and rush out the door. Hurriedly, I briskly walk to a nearby mansion, and - as silently as possible - hop onto a black horse from the stables, and send it into a gallop. I ride faster than I ever have, rushing through the darkness like a jet.

When I reach the very horrible-looking Opera House (I wasn't there to redesign and reconstruct it after the fire) there's barely anyone at the doors; they all either had no interest in watching Christine sing the same song again, or they're all already seated. I figure it is the latter, and make my way to the back. I leave the horse there and use the familiar tunnels and passageways to get myself to my usual spot at Box 5 - no one uses that box any longer; they say it's bad luck.

I arrive panting. Full house, as I had expected for such a talented singer. The cacaphony of the chattering audience fills my ears. In an attempt to conceal myself, I stand out of the candlelight, leaning against the red walls. Suddenly, the audience falls silent. The curtains pull back, revealing Christine and someone new who's playing Don Juan. Oh, she looks absolutely beautiful. I didn't hear anything, not the orchestra, not the chorus girls, not the replacement for Piangi, until I heard Christine.

You have brought me

to that moment where words run dry

to that moment when speech disappears into silence, silence

I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why

in my mind I've already imagines our bodies entwining

defenseless and silent

Now I am here with you, no second thoughts

I've decided... decided...

Past the point of no return

No going back now

Our passion-play has now at last begun

Past all thought of right or wrong

One final question

How long should we to wait before we're one?

When will the lood begin to race?

The sleeping bud burst into bloom?

When will the flames at last consume us?

Past the point of no return

The final threshhold

The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn

We've passed the point of no return

The audience bursts into applause. Heartbroken yet proud, I catch my last glimpse of my angel of music as the curtain falls.