![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Le Phantom de l'Opera
May. 10th, 2016 10:15 pmRehearsals were always the best of times. Not for the singers and stage hands, but for Jacqueline one of the cleaning girls, it was a magical time. She paused, leaning on her broom in the wings, listening as the aria was reaching its highest point. Her eyes with a faraway look. Music always seemed like something other people created from nothing. Important, educated people who knew how to take marks on a page and turn it into songs.
She quickly snapped out of her reverie as the song was ending and the chorus kicked in, sweeping away from the chorus girls who were trickling on stage. If she was caught not working again, it wouldn't do to be fired and thrown out into the street. She was an orphan, came here as an orphan, and would likely always be where she was, sweeping the dust from the wooden floors.
"Moineau!" she flinched and scurried from the stage at the voice overhead. One of the stage hands, a thuggish man named Joseph had seen her lollygagging and was tromping along the catwalk to climb down. He took to ordering her around a little too much lately. At first, he had said he would look out for her, but lately he had been taking the back of his hand to her instead. Her nickname was petit Moineau or little sparrow and he used it like a swear word.
Jacqueline hurried away from the stage, hoping he would not catch her and he would forget. Not so, his large hand found her and pulled her aside with a firm grip. She knew better than to complain or beg, this was not the first time he had laid hands on her. Even now, she could smell the alcohol on him, putting him in a foul mood. A gasp escaped her as the back of his hand cut her lip in a sharp crack. "Too slow, Moineau, do you want to be tossed out with the trash again?" he hissed in her ear. None of the other people on stage were close enough to see or even care what was happening. Another slap across the face, a welt on her cheek. "Please, Monsieur Buquet," she tried to say but it was in vain. He had a head of steam and intended on taking it out on her.
Soon her face was a mass of lacerations and welts as she lay on the floor, cuts on her arms. The cruel man taking off his vest as he stood over her as if he was only getting started. She was barely awake but had not cried out during the whole ordeal. Fearing that he meant to kill her right there and now, she cried softly and tried to crawl away. "Not done with you, petit Moineau," he sneered, pulling her up by the collar of her blouse with a knife in one hand, a broken doll of a person. No one around to rescue her...
She quickly snapped out of her reverie as the song was ending and the chorus kicked in, sweeping away from the chorus girls who were trickling on stage. If she was caught not working again, it wouldn't do to be fired and thrown out into the street. She was an orphan, came here as an orphan, and would likely always be where she was, sweeping the dust from the wooden floors.
"Moineau!" she flinched and scurried from the stage at the voice overhead. One of the stage hands, a thuggish man named Joseph had seen her lollygagging and was tromping along the catwalk to climb down. He took to ordering her around a little too much lately. At first, he had said he would look out for her, but lately he had been taking the back of his hand to her instead. Her nickname was petit Moineau or little sparrow and he used it like a swear word.
Jacqueline hurried away from the stage, hoping he would not catch her and he would forget. Not so, his large hand found her and pulled her aside with a firm grip. She knew better than to complain or beg, this was not the first time he had laid hands on her. Even now, she could smell the alcohol on him, putting him in a foul mood. A gasp escaped her as the back of his hand cut her lip in a sharp crack. "Too slow, Moineau, do you want to be tossed out with the trash again?" he hissed in her ear. None of the other people on stage were close enough to see or even care what was happening. Another slap across the face, a welt on her cheek. "Please, Monsieur Buquet," she tried to say but it was in vain. He had a head of steam and intended on taking it out on her.
Soon her face was a mass of lacerations and welts as she lay on the floor, cuts on her arms. The cruel man taking off his vest as he stood over her as if he was only getting started. She was barely awake but had not cried out during the whole ordeal. Fearing that he meant to kill her right there and now, she cried softly and tried to crawl away. "Not done with you, petit Moineau," he sneered, pulling her up by the collar of her blouse with a knife in one hand, a broken doll of a person. No one around to rescue her...