lethermindwander | My dear old friend, can't believe you're here, old friend

It had been so many years since she had stepped foot in Paris. Her son, Charles, was about to turn seven, so it at least had to have been that long. Oh, her beautiful son. She was glad that he was now off at boarding school. He did not need to partake in witnessing his mother relive her past and make this pilgrimage back to her father's grave. It already gave her such pause to have to drag Raoul back to this city as well. This was not something he needed, to watch his lovely wife turn into a ghost once more. She knew it hurt him but Christine did her best. They were so outwardly happy. The perfect marriage, their perfect child. She always regretted that she'd never been able to leave the fantasy behind.

Today though, she is just visiting the cemetery. She goes alone, making sure to leave before Raoul has a chance to even know she's left their little hotel room. She hopes that she will also return before he wakes.

Everything is familiar here and yet so much more dreary and cold that she remembers. It's the middle of Summer and Christine feels a chill. When she makes her way to her father's grave, she realizes that this had been a horrid mistake. She shouldn't have come alone. The feelings, more intense than she's felt in a long time, come bubbling to the surface and she runs back to the brougham before it has a chance to leave without her. She idly gives the driver her hotel's address, falling back into her seat. She neglects to tell him to take the long way back.

When the Opera comes into view, Christine found she could no longer breathe. As soon as she cries out for the driver to stop, she realizes that this will be an even bigger mistake than the first she has made today. But she must. She has to do this, hypnotized by the beautiful golden columns of the structure before her. Apollo's Lyre perched upon the roof.

She steps out of the carriage and finds herself on the Rue Scribe side of the building. She stares up at it in wonder. How little of it has changed. How much has, how she recognizes none of the names advertised on any of the posters. The ghost has returned, looking for the soul she left in the bowels of this theater.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

In that one remark, Meg suddenly has a very strong suspicion of what is going on. Of course. Suddenly everything makes sense, or she thinks it does anyway.

Luckily, they're approaching the park, and with a gentle squeeze she steers Christine inside.

"I would be honored if you would," she murmurs.

Christine looks around for the closest bench and heads straight for it. She carefully arranges her skirts so that she may sit comfortably.

"I don't even know where to begin, Meg," Christine shakes her head, "The Angel of Music was never an angel, though I suppose everyone had figured that out before I had." She speaks in a self-depreciating tone, casting her eyes down towards the ground.

"He was a man. A horribly ugly man. No man that was alive should ever have looked as he did...and he loved me. I still don't know why on Earth he chose me...I was so young, so naive, barely understood anything at all at the time."

Meg sighs. She can tell how difficult this is for Christine to say, and that the full truth will take some dragging out, possibly.

Gentle dragging, though. Letting Christine drag it out of herself.

At first, Meg just listens. "I knew that much," she admits. "Not straightaway, but by the end of things, after... but before you left. That he was a man. That he loved you." She swallows, finding her own throat tight. "You've always been immensely lovable, Christine."

The way Meg says that, it causes a familiar feeling to surge through her chest. She ignores it, though. Completely. Because it shouldn't be, should it?

Christine has enough muddled feelings to deal with. She'd rather like to ignore that sudden pang in her heart for the moment. Nothing good would come from addressing it.

"I loved him," she says it out loud for the first time since she actually told Erik that, the night that he had died, "I loved him but I didn't realize it until it was too late or just...Circumstances being what they were..." She trails off, Meg is completely right. She might have to drag some of this out of her. Or at least ask her to clarify on account of not making much sense and jumping around her story a bit.

"I was so scared, Meg. He wanted me to marry him. But so did Raoul and I loved them both so dearly...Raoul was safe, though and Erik, I wanted to say yes to him, I did. How could I, though, and then deny him any sort of physical love because I couldn't stand the sight of his abhorrent features? It would have been cruel and how could I say that I loved him when I was terrified of his touch?"

Luckily, Meg is more than adept at ignoring such pangs. That's a skill she's honed over the course of many, many years and one she's kept from everyone, even her mother, even Christine. It's easier this way.

She listens seriously, intently. None of this surprises her, somehow. How much of her mother's knowledge did she glean over the years? She's not entirely sure, consciously; perhaps more slipped in than she realized.

"You were torn," she finally surmises. "Caught between the both of them, so different." She does not offer judgment on those differences or Christine's opinion of them, only says, "That must have been impossible." With a nod, as if to say, go on. Keep talking.

My dear old friend, can't believe you're here, old friend

no subject

I HAVE MOSTLY RECOVERED FROM MY FLU OF DEATH. I HAVE A BRAIN AGAIN. \o/

yay!!! also I am needy did you see my message of news

I DID, AND I FINALLY RESPONDED SORT OF. YAY? I SUCK AT REPLYING IN A TIMELY MANNER.

no subject