Le Phantom de l'Opera

[psychette]

Rehearsals 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...

Comments

[keening_phantom]

He turns to her, ready to clamp a hand over her mouth to silence her when he realizes she's gone as quiet as a mouse. He's both pleased and intrigued, and waits patiently for the stage hands to leave the room. They are noisy and upset a good few props without much care in their search. Eventually the sound of the door shutting heralds their departure.

Erik opens the trap door, leading her back out into the room again. He clucks quietly in dissatisfaction at the treatment of the room, turning Jacqueline's chair upright again, along with that side table. He motions for her to sit again.

[psychette]

She was too in awe of being hidden within the very walls of the opera house to say anything. Slowly coming out from the trap door like a cat that's not sure about where they've ended up. Even though it was the very same room.

Sitting down is a good idea, before her knees can buckle on their own. What would have happened if those men had discovered the Phantom? What would he have done? She tries not to think about that.

The strains of the rehearsal songs filter in through the cracks in the door as they start up again. Must be the tenth time they're running through it this time.

[keening_phantom]

Erik winces as the rehearsal picks up and gives a frustrated sigh. He wraps a little gauze around her arm with a shake of his head.

"They are off-key again." He growls. "The piano in the chorus room must need a tuning again. Or that Diva needs to be sacked. Which is it, do you think?" There was a dangerous edge to his tone as a mischievous look sparkles in his eyes.

[psychette]

Her insides shiver a little at his tone, not sure why he would ask her such a question. But she does her best to answer in a hesitant voice, avoiding looking at those dark eyes.

"...the....the piano was tuned." She saw the man do it yesterday. Ergo, if he thinks it's the diva, well she wasn't about to argue. Not that Jacqueline would ever speak ill of her but she definitely had a bossy manner about her. Never paying attention to those beneath her regard.

Hopefully that is the answer he was looking for.

[keening_phantom]

The pleased look that settles into his expression is like a lion who has just caught a kill. Her answer is the right one indeed and he emits the smallest of amused huffs.

"Perhaps we would be so blessed that she might leave of her own accord. Until then, we will have the misfortune to hear her croaking throughout the opera. Ah! That is it. We should have her play the part of Seraphimo one of these days."

[psychette]

The idea of the diva playing such a role....she can't stifle the amused sound and smile that suddenly breaks across her face for a moment. That was pretty funny to think about.

Immediately feeling it was wrong to laugh, she schools her face back to silence, trying to look more interested in what he was doing to her arm. Feeling a blush across her bruised cheeks.

[keening_phantom]

"Ah, the lady approves. Well then, I must have a discussion with my managers about the possibility." That look almost turns childish in nature as he chuckles quietly. He doesn't mind her laugh at all, in fact he approves as he finishes the work on her arm.

"Now." He very gently sets his knuckles under her chin to turn her face upward so he could look at it. He studies her face now with a calm calculation and sighs. "There is nothing I can do for your face at this moment. Return to your duties, I will see that you have what you need when the day is done."

It would require a shopping trip, but he needed food anyway. His paper face would suffice in dim lighting but until the daylight hours were waning, he would have time to deal with the body of the man he had killed.

[psychette]

His managers? It sounded so strange when put that way. As if the Ghost owned the opera house. Jacqueline had never been called a lady before, a lady was someone like the leading singers. Fine of dress and speech, feathers in their hats and the like.

Her eyes still avoid his, hesitantly letting him lift her chin to the light. Too frightened to look right at the mask, only a glance now and again is all she dares. She did indeed look abused, the bruises a startling sight and not one she wanted to be seen. Who knew how her employers would react to such a face on one of their cleaning girls? Perhaps she could hide it in a scarf till it healed.

"Th-thank you, monsieur," she manages to say in return.

[keening_phantom]

"Save your thanks. You must uphold your end of the bargain. Not a word, and I will uphold mine." He releases her chin; she can do what she wants about her face while it heals, hide it or explain it away. He doesn't care which.

[psychette]

"Yes, sir," she murmurs assent. She would say nothing, not even if asked directly. It would be the only way to save her skin in this situation. Besides, as strange as it may seem, the Phantom's intervention seemed to have saved her life.

[keening_phantom]

"Now, off with you. I will come for you when there is news." He simply steps to the side, clearing the way between her and the regular door out of the room.

[psychette]

Come for her...sounded quite ominous.

Jacqueline stood slowly and carefully before moving to the door. Glancing back to be sure he was still there before pushing the door open and going back towards the stage. It's not till the door closes that she drops to her knees shaking and hugging her arms about herself. The ordeal finally sinking in for her now that the danger was past.

She doesn't have time to hide though, one of the ballet girls gasps and stops in her tracks at the sight of Jacqueline on her knees, her face bruised and scraped up. Trying to help her back up and asking repeatedly what had happened.

Jacqueline says nothing, unable to reply. Not even as the girl helps her backstage to a chair, seeming to understand something terrible had befallen her, so much so that she couldn't speak of it right now.

[keening_phantom]

Erik takes his time cleaning up once Jacqueline departs, disposing of the ruined fabrics and basin before attending to the body in the upper sections of the stage. It will be a few days before it is discovered, but he puts it in a special location in the lower levels of the opera house for one of the stage hands to find. A warning from the opera ghost, but it will be a while before that happens.

His errands are uneventful, as he is wont to make them so. He doesn't like a fuss being kicked up about his appearance when he has to walk among mankind and deal with the masses.

He wouldn't mind in the least if Jacqueline's wounds are attributed to him instead of a drunken stage hand. All the more reason for others to fear him, and leave his spaces alone.

It's after dark when he finally gets around to bringing some balms and ointments to Jacqueline's dorm. There will be a knock at the door, but no one will be there. Only a small basket with a simple cloth covering the contents. Inside will be a rather cleanly scripted letter describing how best to use each of the little bottles inside.

[psychette]

When she had recovered her senses, Jacqueline found herself laying on her own bed in the dorm. Perhaps one of the hands had helped carry her there, she couldn't imagine the ballet dancer doing it all herself.

Her face ached and smarted and she got herself up to the water basin to wash it. The cool water was some relief even if it still stung in places. Slowly lifting her head to catch a glimpse in the mirror....how awful she looked. Her heart sunk down into her feet, someone was bound to find out and then she would be sacked. It would be her word against Monsieur Buquet, she would just be some troublesome orphan while he had been here for years. She tosses her meager possessions for something to use, a scarf, a piece of cloth, anything. Finally, she dares to peek over at the other beds, stealing a brown scarf from one of them and wrapping it around her hair and face as the Arabs do.

The knock starts her heart pounding again but there is no one in the corridor when she goes to look. Only the innocent looking basket on the floor. She quickly brings it inside before carefully opening it. Reading the letter as if she couldn't believe it was real. Who could have....

Surely not. But what if it was from the opera ghost? She had started to wonder if she imagined the whole thing.