"Think of me"
How haunting that curse was. Every moment of life was possessed by her, every peace disturbed by the ringing of her voice in these aching caverns. The lake itself unstill as if her sopranos vibrated the waters once more.
Tears dribbled down his thoughtful, handsome eyes. Handsome, he thought, and shivered at the idea. How those eyes clashed with his every being. How they pleaded for her, how they began to sting from weeping now that she was gone.
I was born for her. I was born for that pain, for that bliss when it was all painless. Born to dream of the time when all was blissful. How soured his own thoughts seemed to sound.
The eyes drifted to piano keys and his numbness returned as he played them. The only friend in his world now silencing his pain again, listening and hearing his heart as it pieced together. But the passion he felt in everything has died. Killed by the very thing it burned for.
Her feet never made a sound as she wandered towards fate. They never did, as she made an effort to be unseen and unheard. She felt the skin on her face grind against her cheek bones. Her legs hobbling down the cobbles of a cold Parisian street, all the while her fair skin revealing her emaciation to the many that passed her unbothered.
She rested against a wall gulping in the air, staying hungry for it for what seemed a half hour. She stumbled nowhere and got exactly where she stumbled. The wandering was all to keep herself busy, and warm, but she never got anywhere doing it. The snow seemed to flay her through her thin cotton garments.
She wandered around in search of shelter, in fear of the overcast. If it snowed she would be dead. If it rained she would be dead. The clouds offered no other option besides death.
Voices seemed to whisper about her as they passed and chuckle as the individuals became distant. She was used to it, and preoccupied by the idea of food at the moment. She was too thin to last much longer without it. She realized she would have to. Every stand refused her the scraps, every kind soul refusing her own.
"There in the daylight and center of France, the capital of Paris, we find a beggar?" The lashing comment came from the whip like tongue of a passing civilian. The girl hurried in her search of lodging.
The streets of Paris themselves seemed to stare at her grime and lack of propriety. She wished she had the option to be proper, but the difficulties of birth reined her doomed from those dreams.
There, she had found it. "Palais Garnier" still charred and abandoned; looking misplaced really in the golden French streets. She could relate, and attached herself most instantly. It was then she dragged her bones up the steps and into the blackened marble halls until she found her feet in the dusty theatre, kissing the ground and basking in the contrast of black and red cushion seats. Her knees lowered themselves to the ground slowly, and her head blurred as she fell asleep unknowingly in the halfway mark between hell and heaven.
She awoke at the same time as she always did, 4 a.m the beginning of her waking hours. Today is different. I will make it different. Determination was her greatest trait and weakness depending on perspective.
This place had been burnt beyond recognition, she had been here once as a child. Though it had now become charred and cold, there was beauty in it to the girl. Spectacular beauty only she saw within the discolored and half eaten world of the opera of flames.
She began her collection of supplies hastily.
First, the hardwood was stripped from the cracked floors on the stage as best as could be managed. She saved the unburned pieces for her decided construction, where the torched oak was used to board the windows and doors. she also began to rip the red velvet from the seats and curtains, and the cushions she saved for what would become her bed. is addition it was decided the curtain ties would be good for fixing the wood pieces together.
she held in her skirt pockets limited supplies, stale bread crumbs, and a sowing needle with no thread. she decided the latter would become a great tool in creating a blanket from the stripped fabrics, if she could find some fine string or in an ideal case, actual thread for stitching. But nothing for her was an ideal case. Best to check the dressing rooms.
She explored deeper into the halls of the building, minding its instabilities to a fault. Finally she stumbled into the first of the several rooms. It seemed wrong to strip these places of their values. These places that had once been the world to so many. she frowned. If only there was a candle, she might see better, or even feel better. The opera was eerie, and lonely, and she felt like the shadows danced around her, ghosts of its past glory.
She fumbled around the floor for several seconds before her eyes could adjust. What she did see was increasingly odd. Every detail of the room seemed unscathed from the fire, from a small couch in the corner to the makeup covered vanity. She walked behind the changing screen, and to her delight found several dresses untouched and hanging on the metal rack.
She exited the dressing room, and ran through the charred halls to the next. This room was as black as any other indecent crook in the opera house. She felt goosebumps suddenly, and began to jump to supernatural conclusions. she shook away the thought and decided she must not fear the room, but live in it.
It would have been greatly preferred to sleep on the stage again, but this new room held the greatest stability and safety in comparison to the rest of the house, as well as the best supplies.
She collected her materials and made her way back to the room. The girl grinned at the idea of such elegance being hers in a way, the fine silk dresses and costumes, the white vanity and delicate pink sofa, the grand mirror which put the rest to shame. "How odd I could even be here" she felt surprised she had said that out-loud. weakness entered her starving body almost instantly, and she dizzily wandered towards the couch before collapsing upon it.
she propped her legs up and sat in the dark room staring at them. Each bony leg seemed smothered in black bruises and were almost consistently in pain. She distracted herself with the only possession of any value she had left. a silver ring that looked out of place on her silly pale fingers. She once again slept for the sheer reason of being to weak to do anything else.
He thought only of who she was as he watched her.