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The darkened Parisian streets had long emptied, shoppers and sellers and the day-to-day city folk deserted the footpaths and squares shortly after sundown. The sky was a dark blue, sprinkled with stars barely visible between the ever ominous grey clouds. Paris herself had fallen into her usual deafening, late night silence, save occasional yelling of a distant drunk, or the faint neigh of horses.
Silence, however, was broken by the dainty footsteps of a running young woman. The heels of her boots clicked lightly as sprinted over the cobblestones.
Wearing a dark blue hooded cloak, covering a bundle of messy brown hair, which was beginning to stick to her face, she was through the streets she knew as well as the back of her hand, until stopping outside a dimly lit, homely apartment near the back of the Opera Garnier. Rushing, she thudded on the door, praying one of its inhabitants was still awake at this hour.
After only a few moments, the door opened, and a figure illuminated by a candle filled the doorway, “What on earth is going on?!, a familiar voice called out. Madame Giry stood in front of her, hair hung loosely in waves around her shoulders, wearing a plain nightgown with a grey shawl draped across her shoulders. She looked down at the panting woman in front of her.
“ Mon Dieu, Christine Daae!?” she exclaimed, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness outside, “Christine, what are you doing here at this unGodly hour?!”
“Please, madame Giry,” the girl breathed, removing her hood and allowing her hair to bounce back into place, “I don’t know if I can explain, but please, I need to see him!”
Madame Giry looked down at her, concealing her worry with a false confused expression, “Him?” she questioned, “Whoever do you mean, child?”
“You know who I mean, Madame Giry. Please, I don’t wish to play games. You know who I am talking about. And I need to go down and see him; we need to speak.”
“Christine,” the older woman sighed, “I do not believe that would a wise decision to make, not after what has hap-”
"Please" the younger begged, "I just need to go down for a moment. I need to speak with him. It's important."
Madame Giry looked down as Christine stood before her, warm brown eyes threatening to overspill with prickling tears. 'He will not want to see her' she thought to herself, 'it's too soon.'
"Please Madame Giry. Please!"
Accepting defeat, she sighed and walked back into the house, taking a large old key from the other side of the room. Returning she placed the key into Christine's hand. "Now my dear," She began, "Please be careful. You are only too aware of what has happened. You know what he'll be like. There is an alleyway on the street facing the Opera House. At the end of that, there will be a gate. The key will unlock that and the several doors following it. Here take this" She pointed to a small lantern that sat against the door, "it's dark down there."
Christine took the key from the woman and lifted the lantern, "Oh thank you Madame Giry. Thank you."
"Now promise me, Christine. You will be very careful down there"
"I will I will. Oh, thank you." The girl exclaimed as she made her way down the street and broke back into a run. Madame Giry watched the glow of the lantern fade until it was out of site. 'Poor girl' she thought, 'she doesn't even know what awaits her.'
Breathing heavily, Christine made her way down the street adjacent to the theatre's entrance, slipping down the alleyway until she arrived at the iron gate Madame Giry had mentioned. Fingers shaking as she took the key from beneath her cloud, she eventually managed to open the lock and continued further inside, locking it behind her, and continuing onwards. Noting the gradual downward gradient and broken steps, she was instantly thankful for the provided lantern as she continued to make her way through the darkness.
With a hand carefully pressed against the wall, she ventured further down the steps, through the claustrophobic tunnels, leading her to the far depths below the Opera House. She had managed to take numerous wrong turns as her internal sense of panic began to rise, stopping just shy of a dead end, as she tried to adjust to the unfamiliar darkness. It was not a path she had taken before, but the walls were seldom devoid of some source of candlelight,
“Maybe my ange- I mean, Erik has forgotten to relight them,” the name still felt foreign on her tongue, as she attempted to reassure herself.
Head pounding as she wandered further away from the Parisian streets, beginning to lose concentration in finding her way as her thoughts took control. What a stupid girl. How could you leave him like that? Running off in the arms of a young man you hadn’t met since childhood and well, and leaving your teacher to the wrath of a mob following him. The mob. Christine gave a small sob at the thought of it . What did they do to him? Did he get away in time? What if he's hurt?
After what felt like forever, she finally arrived at the edge of the lake. A familiar, small boat lay nestled in the shallow water. With all her strength Christine pushed off the stones, soaking the bottom of her dress in the process. She clambered in and attempted to steer herself across the water. It seemed like another eternity before she reached the other side, her strength no match for the man who would previously lead her across. Pausing for a moment to gather her breath she got out and continued her journey. From here on there were usually candelabra standing every few feet filling the paths with a dim glow. But the darkness remained eternal and constant.
Out of nowhere the pathway finished and lead into the main room of the Phantom's lair. It was dark too. 'Strange' Christine thought anxiously, looking around, 'it's always light in here. It should be lit.” Lifting her hand for visibility, she walked to the nearest candelabra and, using the lantern, lit all the candles on the stand. She looked around her, and the sight made her drop the lantern from her hand.
The entire room was in a state of complete disrepair. The tables were knocked over, and music scores lay ripped and burnt on the floor. Candles, books, and tea sets were scattered and broken everywhere. The mob had been. And they didn't leave until they had destroyed everything they could. Christine panicked. Erik was nowhere in sight. She couldn't hear anything aside from the dripping of water, and the crunch of broken glass at her feet.
"Erik?" She called out feebly, "Angel are you here?"
Silence.
"Erik, please! Where are you?" Her voice picked up, projecting across the echoing cave. Upon being certain he wasn't in the room she began to sob. “He must be here. He's got to be” Where on earth was he? She began to think; maybe the mob did get him. They were close to finding them when she and Raoul left, weren’t they? Maybe he couldn't hide in time.
She half ran her way down another small corridor until she arrived at the closed door of Erik's bedroom. In her many visits down to the lair, this was the one place she was not permitted to enter. Her hands shook as she knocked on the door, "Erik? Are you there?" Silence still echoed, "Erik?" She knocked again with more force. But to no avail.
Silently, she pulled the handle and the door opened. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness of the room. She stepped inside, her legs trembling. At the center of the wall facing her was a large bed, its sheets lying half on the floor; the drapes covering the bed were ripped and the desk was too cleared of its contents, an indication that there was some form of commotion, but how recently, and with whom was unknown to her. The state of the room was too much for Christine to bear. If he wasn't here…where was he?
Tears began to sting the corners of her eyes and overspill onto her cheeks. Never before, not since the death of her father, had she felt such an overwhelming sense of loss as this. He has always been here for her. In any time of need, he was always waiting. It never took long to find him.
But where was he now? And what would she do? How was she meant to live without her angel there to guide her?
Christine was beginning to lose track of her thoughts, her sobs becoming louder, and she paced towards the bed. In what would have looked to an outsider, as a dramatic display of desperation, she flung herself onto the sheets and broke down. Her cries echoed around the room; her tears starting to stain the blankets which she clung to with dear life. Her angel couldn't be gone. He couldn't be dead. Why hadn't she stayed with him? She knew she wanted to. She wanted to be with her angel. But she let her absent self-obsessed mind get the better of her.
She knew Raoul could give her all she wanted. Fine clothes, diamond rings. But none of that seemed to satisfy her right now. All she wanted was to sit in the arms of her angel and let his warm voice lull her to sleep.
" Anywhere you go let me go too
Love me - that's all I ask of you..."
She tried to sing but her voice just choked. Her throat was too dry and her mind was blank. She was getting tired. She lay there crying for who knows how long. Her eyes and mouth began to get sore. She could not cry anymore but sat there in the darkness. Her eyes began to close. It didn't matter if she fell asleep here now. She was only to wake up in the same place; alone and afraid. Tilting her head to the side she thought about her angel; if he walked into the room now what would he do?
She could picture him lifting her into his arms and laying her flat on the bed; wrapping several blankets around her. Then he would sit and sing, his hands running through her messy hair. She tried to imagine what he would sing. A lullaby. Something soft and gentle. His voice flowed through her ears. She could almost feel his breath on her face. His hand was on her cheek. As though he were in the room with her she could hear the tender tone of his voice in her ear.
Soothing and calming her.
She felt herself drifting off rapidly, her mind forgetting where she was, and what had happened. All she could focus on what the image in her head of Erik. And when the song finished, just seconds before she fell into a deep slumber she heard it. A voice, clearly in the same room as her, no longer a figment of her imagination, chuckling softly as they spoke;
"Oh, Christine."