Bound Forever

Disclaimer: POTO isn't mine

Author's Note: I seem to have fallen into the habit of posting stories long after I've written them. This was the 3rd place entry in the last Morbidity Contest. Enjoy.

The Journal of Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny

June 21, 1885

As much as I have tried to curb it, I find myself increasingly hating that cat. Ayesha- that little heathen hellcat. Christine refused to rename it since we came to England four years ago. Since Charles has been born, the cat divides its time between shadowing him and Christine, and finding little ways to torment me.

Just earlier today, the cat found a way to dampen a perfectly good morning. When I awoke, the morning light streamed in through the large windows of our bedchamber, the gossamer draperies unable to hold back the sun any longer. I shifted and prepared to roll to my side, when I realized my arm was more or less pinned. Leaning onto my other side, I quizzically looked to see what caught me. The cause was both endearing and irritating.

The endearing part was Christine still lying there in sleep. Her young face was content in slumber; her mouth so prone to unintentional frowns relaxed an almost smiling. Sometimes I think she is her happiest while she sleeps. Perhaps she dreamed, though I am not entirely sure if I want to know what gives her such temporary joy.

The irritating taint of the morning was the furry object cradled in her arm, as if it were a child's stuffed toy. Of course, it was Ayesha, the Phantom's cat. Erik's cat. Nevertheless, at the time I found it difficult to denounce the little creature while it lied so docilely in Christine's arm. It still pinned my arm. I sighed and eased Christine's pale arm over, consequently moving the cat as well. The animal awoke instantly and shot me an acrimonious glare. With a hiss of indignation, it twisted its lithe body and sprang to the foot of the bed, where it disappeared over the wooden footboard. The movement caused Christine to stir. So close to her utopian dream world, her sleepy smile came naturally. I can only hope it was directed at me.

"Darling," she addressed me "You didn't have to startle her." Her timbre was husky from slumber.

I found I could not think of a reply that could justify the cat, so instead I rose from the bed and stretched. The weather is sunny today, a treat for boggy England. Glancing once more at my delicate wife, I went to dress. I was to meet Michael and Janos at two o'clock. Since arriving in England, I have reacquainted myself with social circles that had grown ragged. The day after tomorrow promises to be an interesting day. My cousin comes!

June 23, 1885

As I read what I wrote the other day, referring to today as interesting would be a sinful understatement. Yet before I explain the horrors of the day, I must write what led up to it. My cousin, Noel de Montreve, arrived in the late morning. She looked lovely, with her merry green eyes and coffee-colored hair. My coz resides at her husband's English summer home. It had taken only a letter to cajole her into visiting. Of all my close family, Noel is the kindest. I thought it would do Christine good to meet with someone. She is fairly distant from the local wives of English society.

Of course, the first thing Christine noticed was the dog my cousin had brought with her. It was a small dog, its fur a mix of chestnut and white, with keen brown eyes that darted from person to person.

"Oh, what a delightful pet!" she had exclaimed happily.

Christine leaned forward from her own seat and patted its little head affectionately. For a moment, her vibrant childishness shimmered through, causing her blue eyes to sparkle. I felt a flush of joy to see her happy. Why the day had to turn so wrong, I do not know. What cruel tricks are in the air! At Christine's comment, Noel's bright smile increased as if the compliment were her own.

"He's positively a little darling; he was a birthday present from my husband, Luc."

A moment later, the refreshments arrived. I diverted my attention from the chatting women to stirring cream into my tea. My coz followed suit and set the dog on the floor. After gobbling down a pastry, the small animal scurried from the room. Taking a sip from the dainty china cup, Noel continued on her lilting conversation.

"So, where is the little vicomte?"

Christine brightened further at the mention of our son and was about to reply when a screech tore through the parlor. Christine's gaze wrenched painfully to the open door leading to the rest of the house—I know she was remembering what frightened screams had meant back in Paris. The screech faded, only to be replaced by a series of desperate yelps. I bolted from my chair and went to the stairs, to the source of the cacophony. I arrived just in time to see a piebald shape dashing down the stairs as if demons prodded it with pitchforks.

When the dog finally flung itself in Noel's arms, she had such a fright she dropped the helpless animal. Its eye bled! Oh, its eye! It had no eye! The animal's face dripped with blood, the liquid trailing down its chest like red worms. The blood came from a series of gashes along its small face. But its eye! There was nothing left of it. Blood and tissue formed a revolting mixture and dribbled from the socket. I cannot describe it any further, without retching on the paper.

Noel gulped and I believed she would swoon, had Christine not led her into a different room. Then there was the cat. The blasted creature sat at the top of the staircase, staring down with bright blue eyes. The feral beast looked almost as if it were gloating.

Of course, my cousin left soon after. The dog still lived, though nothing could be done for its mangled face. I doubt Noel will be paying any more visits. I retired early that evening. When I reached my bedchamber, however, I was dealt the final blow of the day. Christine reclined on the bed, reading. Curled around her breasts, lied Ayesha. The cat looked at me as soon as I entered. I could almost believe its expression was smug. I could not stop the pointed question that flew from my mouth.

"Are you really content letting it in bed with you?"

Of course, Christine is no dullard. Her gentle eyes narrowed and her tone came out slightly shrill.

"Raoul! Ayesha is the sweetest darling. That poor dog probably provoked her."

To prove the cat's apparent good nature, Christine pulled it to her face and kissed it. I could not help feeling a flash of anger as the feline nuzzled her pale throat. Perhaps…it would hurt Christine if it came to pass, but I cannot help but wish that the next relative to visit owns a Great Dane.

June 26, 1885

The cat no longer only angers me—it chills me. Its tigress eyes, the way its form snakes from room to room. But last night it truly walked over my undug grave. I awoke in the middle of the night. Occasionally this happens. I am told I inherited in from my mother. When I awake, I often go down into the library to read. I rose from the bed and donned a robe, before lighting a candle and walking down to the library.

En route to the library, I heard a peculiar sound coming from the music room. I seldom use it—it has a piano handed down from my grandfather. Christine plays occasionally, small, simple pieces. However, Christine was well asleep in our room. Of course, I went to discover the mysterious, pinging sound. What I saw nearly made me drop the candle.

Ayesha sat at the piano, looking for all the world like a mystical cat from Egypt. I could not help but stand there uselessly, holding up my candle to see into the dark room. The cat had a single paw on one of the ivory keys. When it became aware of my presence, the cat turned and stared directly at me. It never broke its frigid gaze. In the flickering light of the small flame, its eyes flashed gold.

I do not know how long I stood there, until the pale figure sprang from the bench and disappeared farther into the room. I no longer felt the desire to read. Instead, fear gripped me so terribly, I felt almost as if I was back in the cellars below the opera. No, nothing could equal that raw, pulsing terror. But this came close. It was not just the cat tapping the piano, but that stare. I would be thought a fool for saying it aloud, but that stare, for just a moment, contained no animalistic features at all.

Just today, the second event happened. I planned to ride my horse to meet Louis for lunch to discuss a business proposition. I was in the yard, mounted, and trotting to the gate. Without any forewarning, my horse shied violently. Before I could get the animal in line, it reared and so very nearly threw me. Christine and Charles ran from the house while I tried to calm the trembling animal down. My gelding continued to roll its eyes and sidestep. At last, I could see the figure sitting there, almost invisible next to the bushes.

Of course, it was that cat. Her fierce face watched impassively, standing so horribly still while my horse danced in terror. Some horses have natural fears of smaller animals, this I have accepted since I learned to ride. My horse, though, was bought from one of the finest breeders in England. An animal with its amount of training does not take often to such flights of fancy. A normal cat would not normally cause such blind terror in the animal.

Christine was content to see my horse reasonably calmed. Charles was content to chase butterflies. I did not bother to blame the Siamese horror. She will have none of it. As hard as I try not to dwell on it, I know the cat is her last link with Erik. She does not see the creature's twisted nature. Maybe in time she shall see, though I doubt it.

June 28, 1885

The witch wants to kill me. I bear the proof a hundredfold. It hurts to write, but the pain is worse when I do nothing. After the incident with the horse, I had the damn animal locked in the tack room. Yet the creature yowled so loudly it drew Christine from the house. When she found it, she cooed and murmured soothing words, while holding the animal to her breast. I do not think she knows it was I. She retains some of her innocence, though once again, I fear it misguides her.

Late that evening, I made my way to the stairs, prepared to steal into the kitchen for a late snack. I had walked down one or two steps, when something warm and soft curled around my legs. Before I could even call out, I was falling down the flight of stairs. Wood buffeted me everywhere at once. Then it happened again, and again, until I rolled along flat ground to collide with a small table.

I could barely breathe or move. I was unsure if the table had collapsed and a table leg prodded my side, or if I had broken my ribs. Wetness covered my neck. I had hoped it was water from a flower vase.

I might have passed out. The next thing I knew, Christine was beside me. Her hands stroked my face. Her mouth lightly kissed my forehead. Her voice was cooing and murmuring soothing words. I tried to stand. I almost made it. A searing pain in my arm forced me onto my back.

Before too long, a doctor arrived. Two servants painfully helped me to my room. I was not surprised when the doctor said my arm was broken. He put it into a splint and left me with medicine for the pain, as well as dressing my other scratches. The medicine dulls the pain, but I am oblivious to the world if I take it. I cannot afford to be blind. She still prowls the household.

July 3, 1885

I have heard the strangest thing. In an effort to improve my spirits, Michael and Janos took me to a shop they had discovered. It is in a dirtier part of the city than I would not have thought my friends frequented. Nevertheless, it is an interesting shop. A short black woman owns the shop, from some island near the Americas. Her stores are made up of odd objects. Hens' feet, pig ears, poppy seed. There towards the back is a large selection of books. From what Janos and Michael say, she is known for her dealings in black magic.

Both were fascinated by the strange items. I, on the other hand, skimmed the titles of the volumes of books. Some were in languages I have never seen. One title caught my eye. Animal Possessions—Sheaths of the Body. A voice behind me read out the title, in a thickly accented timbre. It was the odd shopkeeper. I turned and bestowed the courtesies of my rank, and enquired as to what the book was about. The woman fixed me with a gaze that unnerved me.

"Some people can do it without any true practice. Others—it will always escape them. But no shell is permanent. Knowing this, one can do anything." That was all she said, her dark gaze piercingly interested.

Janos and Michael were ready to go before I could ask further. The strange woman continued to watch us as we left. As we returned to the less dirty part of England, I could not help but fall into my own thoughts, even as Michael and Janos continued their raillery. It may seem absurd, but I cannot help but wish I could visit those hellish cellars once more, if only to confirm what I already know. Ha, I jest with myself. I am in hardly hale enough to walk to the bakery, let alone Paris.

July 5, 1885

Christine asks why I choose to remain in our room most of the day. Christine also asks why I seldom eat anymore. I find I have little appetite. I am too busy watching. The cat still somehow finds the time to stop inside my chamber. It seems Ayesha can enter even with the door closed, no matter how many times I shut it. Christine, she never says a bad word against that cat! It agonizes me, it angers me, it frightens me. The cat stalks her as much as it does Charles and me. It catches my eye, the animal's golden gaze flashing in the darkness.

If I had injured my spine as opposed to my arm and was reduced to walking on all fours, I wonder if she would croon my name as she does that hellion's. I never ask for more affection that she gives, while the cat wails for her attention. Has all the fairness dissolved from the world? I can only watch, and hope. Philippe, had you not died, I would have yearned for a chance to speak with you! You could handle the hounds better than I could, perhaps you could have dealt with the cats as well.

July 8, 1885

She goes too far! The demon is a killer, a merciless tiger against a lamb. I surfaced from my bedchamber late this afternoon and walked past Charles's room. There, I came face to face with murder! She sat on his chest, while he lied quietly napping. But she covered his nose, his mouth, with her pale body, sucking the life while he lied defenseless! I screamed then, and Charles joyfully opened his eyes. She had not succeeding in killing him. The murderess sprang from the bed and fled the room. Christine refused to believe me!

"Cats lie on bodies for warmth, but they never hurt them!" she told me indignantly, before chastising me for scaring her son…and Ayesha. I left.

I snarled at a stablehand to ready my horse. Never mind a broken arm! I had to see the witch-woman. I rode with the reins in one hand, like some common cowboy. I spurred the gelding into its fastest gait, and galloped to the shop. Surprised beggars jumped to the side as I plunged down the grimy street. Every stride of the horse caused a new wave of agony up my arm, but I had no sense of pain as I staggered into that shop.

The woman blinked at my return, but at my incessant questions, told me everything I wanted to know. She told of dark magic, of transfusions between humans and animals. Souls that could apparently switch places. Someone experienced could suck the soul right out of a vessel, willing or not, and place his own soul back in its place! God shunned this dark practice, but, the woman assured me, it could be done. She trembled as I left the shop. I do not see how I could have scared her. I was always the younger brother, the kinder brother! Perhaps I raised my voice, but she had to see I was not angry with her. The story is too fantastical, too unnatural. It could not be true, could it? I must concede however, that no matter how impossible it seems, all of my horrors seem to come from this body switching.

I returned to my home. When I dismounted, a stablehand hastily lead the frothing animal away. Blood covered the heels of my boots. It was a small price to pay for the knowledge—I could always buy new boots.

Christine asked if I was drunk. "No dear," I told her. "I am terrified." I did not care to explain anymore or try to convince her of something differently. She never has listened to me, whether it be in Paris or England. I could not see the cat anywhere I looked. Thank God for that small mercy.

July 9, 1885

So it has finally come to this. I shall not be writing too many more of these entries. Now that it has happened, I face it almost serenely. No, not serenely. I am terrified as ever, but I acknowledge what might likely happen soon. Christine, I am sorry I could not save you again. Perhaps I never saved you at all, if that was his plan all along.

Last night was the only time ever for such work. So it had finally come to this. Christine was upstairs with Charles. They had both fallen asleep while she read a story to him. I stood in the study when it happened. The demonic figure appeared. I noticed the icy blue eyes staring at me. When I turned, a hiss snaked from the hellion's mouth.

Before I could stop to reconsider, or even contemplate what I was doing, I was lunging forward. I grabbed that cat by the throat with my good hand. It squalled so loudly as I tried to strangle it. I tried to keep it quiet. I did not want her to hear! But the cat protested. It screeched, hellish cries that set my teeth on edge. It clawed at my wrist, tearing flesh from the bone. I could not afford to let the cat go. I knew I would never have another chance.

I could not choke it to death. My one hand was not strong enough. And so I slammed its head into the wooden table. I did this until its claws no longer scratched at me. Until those cries stopped. Once they stopped, however, another wave began… the cries I hoped I would never hear.

"Raoul!"

Christine stood on the threshold of the study, her mouth gaping and her eyes too horrified to blink. She never said a word for a long while after that. She was too scared. Scared of me, scared of what I had done. She was scared of the wrong thing. Foolish Christine, you were always scared of the wrong things!

Charles stood beside her. That is the last time I shall ever refer to him as such. The figure stood beside my wife silently, an arm wrapped around her waist. I could not but see the possessiveness in that grasp. He looked up at me, the dark curly locks falling across his pale face. It might have been a fit of madness brought on by my violence, but I know differently. When he looked up at me, for just a moment his eyes appeared to glitter gold in the dim lamplight. I have murdered my son, and lost it all. Christine is gone from me now, even though she remains in the house.

In such twisted irony, the cat was innocent all this time. The cat has been dead all this time. If I could feel anything more than dread now, I would pity the animal. It never asked for its fate, to be smashed into a dying human body… the body of a man who in anger and lust could not take the thought of leaving the world in peace.

From what Christine told me, the cat had been devoted to its master. So this is how the monster repays love and faithfulness. Christine would have doomed herself if she had gone with him. I see that even more clearly now. Yet I have failed in all of this, despite my best efforts. I know I will not have another chance. But neither would I take it if it was offered. The possible act of such brutality is beyond even me; I have little strength left. I am almost sure of what he plans now. I doubt I shall be around much longer. I will not write what I think he plans- to do that would be to give up entirely. This I have not done, but I have little hope remaining. Christine, I am sorry.

J. 12

CHRISTINE! I'M SORRY I FAILED YOU! For the love of God, read this. He comes now, I have little time. PLEASE HEED ME! However horrifying it seems, however heartless, KNOW IT IS FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY! You must do this! That is NOT YOUR SON. However heartless and evil you see me now, do not doubt me of this. YOU'RE SON IS THE PHAN

Today I feel more restored and fulfilled than I have been in a long time. The day is glorious. The sun has rarely shone so brightly in this rainy country. The grass is such a verdant shade! I feel alive, truly, and better than I have in ages. I see the world so much differently than I have of late. I feel alive! England is an invigorating country. I shall find my glorious wife. I have missed many things of late. I shall get us tickets to the opera. I have so missed the opera.