Christine DeChagny (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lethermindwander) wrote2016-11-01 11:17 am
lethermindwander) wrote2016-11-01 11:17 am
Entry tags:
Elle est entré dans mon cœur
If Raoul had not been so busy, running around the city and tidying up various family affairs, perhaps he would have had the foresight to put a contingency plan in place. To prevent exactly this from happening. He always tried to protect Christine from nearly everything else that might cause her to feel any sort of negative emotion.
The very moment Christine had been left alone with no agenda of her own, she found herself sitting at a little café across the street from Le Palais Garnier. She stared at the small sign that marked the Rue Scribe side. She couldn't tear her eyes away. If she stared at the ornate marker, reading the words, dissecting the letters over and over, she wouldn't look at the glorious building right behind it. Still, from the corner of her eye, she could see the gate. Oh, how many times she had stood at that gate and fumbled with the key. Traveled down below. Listened to fantastical stories, been brought to a beautiful, dark world that had been beyond all understanding.
Loved a love that Allah had never intended to exist.
Five years later, it still eats at her. Feeling like it's slowly devouring her, piece by piece. When she's finished nursing her cup of tea, Christine begins her journey. She has walked this path before, in the dark of night. It's still the same, despite the light.
Quietly, she sings to herself. Christine rarely sings these days, unless it's for her son. But this melody is special. She remembers it as something that her nightingale had composed, a simple little song. Nothing like his Don Juan.
"Quand il me prend dans ses bras, Il me parle tout bas, Je vois la vie en rose," She can hardly even remember if these are the real lyrics or just the words that she's constructed to fit the song. It doesn't matter all that much anymore, does it?
"Il me dit des mots d’amour, des mots de tous les jours, et ça me fait quelque chose," Christine continues, a broad smile tugging at her lips. It brings her so much joy to sing like this again, even if it's quiet. She still likes to think that he can hear her.
Christine stops at the gate, looking around before she reaches out to shake the rusting metal. As expected, it's locked. It's likely been locked since the last time she emerged from the depths below. It's too bad she doesn't still possess the key. She remembers though, from her days as a chorus girl, that the others would gossip about sneaking through locked doors by using their hairpins to pick them. Christine certainly has plenty of those at the moment, her hair all pinned down too tightly in the latest aristocratic fashion. She pulls one out, letting a few of her curls fall and frame the sides of her face.
She has no idea what she's doing, truthfully. She can almost hear Erik's voice in her head. Partly amused for her sudden proclivity towards committing a crime. Partly exasperated for her inability to actually do so. There's no giving up, though. She's made her mind up. She needs to make this journey into what anyone else would see as Hell, one final time. She imagines it'll bring her some sort of closure, something she so desperately needs.
The very moment Christine had been left alone with no agenda of her own, she found herself sitting at a little café across the street from Le Palais Garnier. She stared at the small sign that marked the Rue Scribe side. She couldn't tear her eyes away. If she stared at the ornate marker, reading the words, dissecting the letters over and over, she wouldn't look at the glorious building right behind it. Still, from the corner of her eye, she could see the gate. Oh, how many times she had stood at that gate and fumbled with the key. Traveled down below. Listened to fantastical stories, been brought to a beautiful, dark world that had been beyond all understanding.
Loved a love that Allah had never intended to exist.
Five years later, it still eats at her. Feeling like it's slowly devouring her, piece by piece. When she's finished nursing her cup of tea, Christine begins her journey. She has walked this path before, in the dark of night. It's still the same, despite the light.
Quietly, she sings to herself. Christine rarely sings these days, unless it's for her son. But this melody is special. She remembers it as something that her nightingale had composed, a simple little song. Nothing like his Don Juan.
"Quand il me prend dans ses bras, Il me parle tout bas, Je vois la vie en rose," She can hardly even remember if these are the real lyrics or just the words that she's constructed to fit the song. It doesn't matter all that much anymore, does it?
"Il me dit des mots d’amour, des mots de tous les jours, et ça me fait quelque chose," Christine continues, a broad smile tugging at her lips. It brings her so much joy to sing like this again, even if it's quiet. She still likes to think that he can hear her.
Christine stops at the gate, looking around before she reaches out to shake the rusting metal. As expected, it's locked. It's likely been locked since the last time she emerged from the depths below. It's too bad she doesn't still possess the key. She remembers though, from her days as a chorus girl, that the others would gossip about sneaking through locked doors by using their hairpins to pick them. Christine certainly has plenty of those at the moment, her hair all pinned down too tightly in the latest aristocratic fashion. She pulls one out, letting a few of her curls fall and frame the sides of her face.
She has no idea what she's doing, truthfully. She can almost hear Erik's voice in her head. Partly amused for her sudden proclivity towards committing a crime. Partly exasperated for her inability to actually do so. There's no giving up, though. She's made her mind up. She needs to make this journey into what anyone else would see as Hell, one final time. She imagines it'll bring her some sort of closure, something she so desperately needs.