There Were No Mirrors

by

IChooseTheScorpion


A/N: See the A/N at the end of the phic for answers to all questions you might have!
Summary: Leroux-based, 2nd Morbidity Contest Entry. Tied for Sick Award and received 12th place out of 40. A life-changing incident occurs right after Christine takes Erik's mask off, leaving her changed forever.


Disclaimer: I don't own PotO. ONLY Gaston Leroux can claim that as his own.


The gaping hole in that thing's face was moving, some sound was coming out...but surely he was not speaking? For such atrociously hideous death heads, if you could call even this that, could not speak the language of a living, breathing human. This thing, this Monster, was not human.

The Monster's corpse hands snatched the perfectly horrified young singer's small wrists, thrust the tiny white hands up to its face, and dug the dainty white nails into the soft, papery death flesh. Blood-did corpses exude blood?-fell down onto the dress that the girl wore, splashing up and onto the long, perfectly-formed neck and angelic face, staining the golden curls crimson, stinging her azure eyes with its salt, and streaming everywhere in rivers and forming puddles.

With a cry, the girl tore herself away and scrambled into a room.

Blood. Blood everywhere. Blood is really such a curious thing, bright red with oxygen and very runny, but when it dries it turns a muted brown, almost burgundy color. This aforementioned color was sure to be the new color of Christine's DaaƩ's crisp dress, formerly a lovely off-white, as there was a monster's blood falling in steady rivulets down Christine's fingers, arms, and neck from where the Monster's flesh had torn.

Christine's cerulean-eyed gaze traveled slowly up from the gore splattered on the once beautifully simple dress to the crimson rivers running down her arms and then finally to the weapons that had caused a such a wound, the slightly rounded nails of a teenage girl.

The Monster's dead flesh was crammed into the minuscule space between the protein-based body part, especially long pieces hanging like some strange sort of fungus form the tips of her delicate fingers.

It took Christine's shocked mind a full ten minuets to register that the rotted flesh that limply hung from her hands belonged to the Monster.

With a shriek that painfully tore form her throat like a vicious saber, Christine tore at herself with those hands, trying to rid the sensation of touching and being touched, the sensation of ripping and tearing and removing thin and dead flesh from mottled bone.

The crimson puddle on her dress spread as Christine continued to tear at herself, at her face and arms and legs and neck, unconsciously mixing the Monster's flesh and blood with her own. Together the identical spots of blood merged into one huge spatter that was slowly drying into that burgundy-brown color.

Her cries and screams also mingled with the Monster's, even drowning him out at some points, as he choked and bellowed and wreaked havoc in the next room. It didn't matter what he did, as long as Christine could get out. The Monster, the liar, the horrible corpse that had deceived and frightened and manipulated her, could choke on his own blood for all she cared.

But a piece of the Monster's graying skin was caught on Christine's lip; there she felt it, swaying to and fro as she slowed her hysteria. The adrenaline, that awful adrenaline that drove her to the brink of madness, returned and the only thing Christine saw in her vision was a letter opener. With a strangled yell, she leaped across the room for it, flinging the dangling flesh off as she went.

The letter opened in hand, Christine dug the point under her own nails, dragging every last bit of that carcass's skin, if it wasn't blasphemy to call it that, from the crevices. Digging, deeper and deeper, completely under the nail now, Christine didn't feel the pain, only saw the diseased flesh spreading further and further under and over and through and in and out of her body, smothering her, smothering...

With an exhausted cry of frustration, Christine allowed the bloodied letter opener to sink into the soft flesh of her belly, only enough to exude some blood to wash herself with. Yes, that was it...wash the Monster's blood and flesh off with her own pure blood. Human blood. The Monster was not human...

Screaming with such ferocity that it surprised even herself, Christine threw herself against the walls, against all furniture, trying to feel pain instead of the wet of the Monster's blood.

With an angry yell that sounded so far away and cut through her bleeding throat, Christine took up the letter opened and jabbed it into her own face. Her already bloodied forehead, flesh broken away from the bone, was causing a waterfall of red to wash over everywhere.

With another animal-like cry that drew more blood from her throat, Christine flung her body through a door and into a lavatory, with white walls and floor and marble sinks and bathtubs. No mirror.

Snarling viciously at her own incompetence to rid herself of this Monster's body, Christine struggled to turn the control to the water tap of the bathtub. Finally the clear liquid was spit out, and Christine tumbled into the marble tub.

She stood, trying to stabilize herself, but there was too much blood and as it mixed with the water, it caused Christine to slip and fall, hitting her head on the wall as she fell. In one last act of conscious desperation, Christen grabbed for the only thing she could reach: the control to the water tap. Unfortunately, it was the one that was one and it simply turned in her hands, but not enough to stop the water from dripping completely. With a sigh of realization, Christine slipped into a black abyss of unconsciousness.

Drip! Drip! Drip!

A steady dripping woke Christine.

Drip! Drip! Drip!

It was not the sound of the dripping, but rather, the feeling of it that woke Christine.

There was the sound, too, of course. But it only resounded in the dark recesses of the singer's mind. What registered was a steady but muted feeling of pain.

Drip! Drip! Drip!

Hungry...Christine was very hungry. How long had she been in this position?

Drip! Drip! Drip!

Pain...aching pain in her forehead that was both sharp and dull at the same time. It felt like neither a blunt object nor a pointed one, yet both at once.

Drip! Drip! Drip!

With a moan, Christine wriggled a bit then sat up, promptly hitting her beyonf extremely sensitive forehead.

With a sharp cry, she sat straight up and felt, immediately, a load of wetness all around her, especially streaming down her face. With a poke of her tongue through the seam of her lips, Christine deduced that it was fresh blood.

Drip! Drip! Drip!

Then a new sound...

Knock! Knock! Knock!

It sounded unsure at first, then urgent.

It called her name...her angel! The angel of music!

She almost called out to him, but stopped as all that had happened returned to her. He was not an angel...he was Erik. He was the Monster.

But then, the panicked offer (demand) of food was put forth.

Against her will, Christine groaned weakly. Food...how long had she been lying beneath the water tap, without food?

The Monster announced that he was entering. Christine's eyes remained closed; or, maybe they were open, and she could just not see? Christine didn't know. Either way, she felt rather than heard the presence of the Monster in the room, and his shocked silence. Probably at all the blood...

Then his cadaver hands her on her, supporting her, helping her up. Unable to protest, Christine let him. Unable to speak, Christine remained silence. Unable to see, Christine was sled through the doorway, into the room, then laid on what was presumably a bed.

The Monster was explaining something to her...about erosion, its effects on the human body, and how a steady dripping for a few days could erode one's skull.

Over the next few days, weeks, or months (All sense of time had been lost), the Monster cared for her incessantly, constantly reassuring her of his undying love no matter how she looked, and even sewed some sort of silk cloth together with a strap to 'keep her face warm'. Ironically, she only wore the cloth when they ventured outside.

Christine never questioned why she did not return to Raoul, the Opera, and all of its theatrics above ground. She just accepted that she was the Monster's hostage, and would be for all time. She never knew the truth, because there were no mirrors in the house beneath the Opera Populaire.


A/N: Okay, in my story, There Were No Mirrors, it was a Leroux's based phic that was an alternate reality to what actually happened. In it, Christine eventually is knocked unconscious because of slipping on her own blood and water and stays laying beneath a dripping water faucet for three days. I had Chinese Water torture in mind (without the blade cutting into a person's flesh steadily more each passing hour). The drops of water would hit her already torn up forehead again and again, continuously, until it actually eroded at her skin and muscle and skull. I actually toned it down a bit, as three days of water dripping on someone's forehead when that someone was in Christine's state would kill them (or at least cause severe brain damage). I should have elaborated on what Erik was doing at this point, but I wanted to keep it from Christine's perspective. When I post it I will probably elaborate...anyways, I was playing off of the fact that Erik wouldn't go into Christine's room without her permission, so he probably called for her, assumed she was still angry/frightened when she wouldn't answer, and left her food and water just inside the door or something. Or maybe he secretly wanted her to be deformed like him so she would have to stay down there forever...Moo haha! I'm just kidding. REVIEW PLEASE!