Chapter 2.

The days melted into a haze, one straight, monotonous gray line. The bittersweet moments she shared with her withering father, the jabs and jokes she endured at her job, the pitiful look in Mamma's eyes when she returned home, — everything in Christine's life made her feel sick, and sometimes she felt like throwing up. Sometimes she did.

There was no denying that something was wrong with her. The other people certainly had their share of dying loved ones as well; why couldn't she deal with it as them? No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't climb out of this never-ending cycle of sorrow, this wormhole that sucked her inside, deeper and deeper into the abyss.

When he finally died, she went mad.

The dreaded call happened on a gloomy afternoon, and Mamma was cooking dinner when Christine picked up the phone.

The words of the nurse were lost to her, as the world faded away, and she collapsed onto the floor, phone falling out of her hands. Mamma rushed to her side and fussed over her, checking her head for injuries and scrambling to find some ammonia.

When she came back to the world of the living, the smell of burnt food greeted her, and the worried and tearful face of her guardian told her that she hadn't dreamt it.

Her father was dead.

She refused to get up from her bed and go out of the house; Mamma called the Academy for her and got her an indefinite bereavement leave. She also meticulously brought breakfast, dinner and supper into her room, only to take it back mostly untouched.

Christine seemed to be in a perpetual state of shock, hurtful denial and pain that took over her mind and made her unable to produce even the simplest of sentences, except for-

"He's dead." He was dead.

"I know. I'm so sorry, my dear," replied Mamma sadly and took away a bowl of untouched soup.

She was going to miss her father's funeral this way if her guardian didn't manage to tug her out of bed by force. The empty shell that was now Christine was dressed in black clothes and taken to the graveyard, where she observed the small procedure.

As the cheap coffin was lowered into the ground, an overwhelming sense of finality struck Christine like a lightning bolt. There was no sense in denying it any longer - he was there, he was dead and he wasn't coming back.

She fell to her knees, screaming her lungs out, crying ugly tears of sorrow. The few people who were attending the funeral looked at her with pity and compassion.

She wouldn't calm down. She couldn't stand up - her legs betrayed her. Her mind was quickly shutting down, and there was nothing she could do.

She didn't remember anything about getting into the car and coming back home. She hardly remembered the next few days as well.

Eventually, she became numb. She no longer had mental breakdowns, she no longer had uncontrollable crying fits - outside it looked like Christine Daaé was getting better. But she wasn't. She simply became numb.

When Mamma gently brought up the fact that her pension wasn't high enough to subsist two grown women, Christine immediately understood that she had to go back to work.

She couldn't stand the thought of it, but the empty wallet and piling bills showed no mercy. Her father's funeral had drained their budget harder than they had expected, and the flourishing inflation would only make everything much more expensive in the future.

She returned to work on Monday.

Any hope that she would be ready for it was dashed as soon as she stepped into the foyer, where a member of corpse de ballet, an adorable little girl Cecile Jammes with lily-white skin and forget-me-not eyes, whom everybody called simply Jammes, jumped at her and hugged her tightly.

"Christine, you're back!" She exclaimed. "I'm so sorry! We're here for you, if you need us!"

The last thing Christine needed was this treatment. She wanted no reminders, she wanted to be treated like a normal person who had everything under control, not like some deranged girl who resembled a walking dead because of her grief.

She gently pushed the young ballerina away with a grim expression. "I'm okay, Jammes."

The ballet rat looked up at her, mouth open in surprise. Slowly, she pursed her lips, worry etched into her features, and took a step away, finally giving Christine the much needed personal space.

Christine put her hands in the pockets of her jeans. "Where's Monsieur Gabriel? I have to talk to him."

"Oh," Jammes exclaimed, "the last time I saw him he was on the stage, giving out orders. You should hurry; they say the choir begins their rehearsal soon."

"Mmm, okay. Thank you, Jammes. I'll talk to you later." Christine turned around, waving Jammes goodbye. The girl awkwardly waved in return with an uneasy smile on her soft features.

The young singer travelled to the enormous auditorium, paying no attention to the familiar surroundings. Instead, her eyes were glued to the gathering crowd on the stage, and to the figure standing in front of the orchestra pit near the conductor.

Monsieur Gabriel turned around when she approached and shyly addressed them. The chorus master was a thin, tall man in his sixties, with grizzled whiskers and hair. He seemed to be startled to see Christine. "Mademoiselle Daaé! What a surprise. Ah, we didn't expect you…"

He cleared his throat, feeling the inquiring gaze of the conductor on him. "Let me offer my deepest condolences. I personally knew Monsieur Daaé - truly, he was a brilliant violinist."

Christine winced and shuffled in her place. "Yes. Yes, he was."

Monsieur Gabriel looked away. "Ah, right. So, I take it, your bereavement leave is over?"

She slowly nodded, hugging her bag to herself.

The chorus master smiled. "I see. Well, what can I say? You will have to work hard to catch up. Don't worry, though. I am sure you'll do great." He turned back to his stand and motioned to the stage. "Please, take your place in the back rows on the left. One of the members can share their sheet music with you until you get your own copy."

And thus a long, horrible day has started.

A kind chorus girl in the back row, Rosalie, shared her score with Christine as the singer familiarised herself with the music.

"Our section is singing this part," told Rosalie Christine in a hushed tone while Monsieur Gabriel loudly berated the section on the right.

For a while she simply listened to the choir, trying to remember the melody. When she was sure she would hit the next few bars, she opened her mouth and took a deep breath, feeling her lungs expand in a familiar way, and-

Her voice sounded awful to her ears. Weak, squeaky, out of tune… Rosalie side-eyed her, and Christine closed her mouth with a deep feeling of shame overwhelming her.

She just stood there, clenching her fists at her sides, waiting for the song to end.

When the music was finally over, Christine's hand reached up to cup her throat. Rosalie leaned in to her, showing her the score once again.

"You simply haven't warmed your voice up properly. It's okay, we've all been there - you can do your warm-ups during the break."

Christine was staring into the distance, her fingers clutching at her neck.

The rest of the rehearsal proved to be just as disastrous. Christine couldn't sing a note right; in the end, she merely opened her mouth and kept silent, to not disturb the overall sound of her section.

When the break was at last announced, she was the first one to dart behind the stage in search for privacy. The emotions that she managed to keep inside while in public were quickly getting out of control.

She raced up the stairs, trying not to make too much noise, and entered the empty, dusty corridor that lined up the dressing rooms for performers. There were fancier dressing rooms, the ones that belonged to such stars like Sorelli and la Carlotta; Christine ran past them, towards the smaller ones that sometimes belonged to several performers at once.

There was an old dressing room in the end of that corridor that nobody owned. For some reason, the management was reluctant to give it away; the superstitious theatre folk gossipped that the room was haunted. Christine, personally, cared not for silly superstitions.

She stopped right in front of the door and grabbed the handle - it gave way, just as she expected it to. The locks on the doors that were this old were brittle; sometimes, they didn't work at all. She had no habit of visiting this room often; she simply knew of its existence, and right now she needed a place where nobody would disturb her.

She entered the room, closed the door behind her and turned on the light.

A dim incandescent bulb in a frail lampshade lit up the small, cramped space. The room smelled of dust and paint - a stronger variant of the familiar smell that permeated the entire theatre. There was an old carpet beneath her feet, a wardrobe, a small vanity and a big mirror that took up an entire wall.

Releasing a sniff, she adjusted her glasses and stepped forward. She carefully moved the vanity chair from its place and sat in it, trying to regain her breath.

She had to sing. She had to sing. This was her job, the only thing she was good at. The only thing she was good for.

She was terrified of what could happen if she couldn't sing.

She took out her phone. The reception was bad this deep inside the building, far away from the public wi-fi. All hopes of finding the necessary score online right now were dashed. She would have to wait until she got out of here.

With an irritated grunt, she pushed the phone back into her bag and stood up. She had to sing. But what?

Taking a deep breath, she launched into a very simple, familiar song in her native tongue. The melody was almost elementary - she thought that here she wouldn't mess up. She used this song as a warm-up sometimes.

Her voice was strained and out of tune; surely, the result of neglecting it for weeks. She moved onto the next stanza, about to gain volume. Her voice creeped up the notes as it grew louder and louder-

And then it broke. Her voice broke right in the middle of the refrain, in the most horrible manner possible.

She fell back into the chair with a wail, pain gripping her insides.

Why, why did God keep punishing her so much? What did she do to deserve this?

Her eyes felt sore, and she rubbed at them, lifting her eyeglasses up to her forehead.

While she was deep inside of her mind, battling her inner demons, she heard a small voice call for her from the outside. "Child, why are you crying so?"

"I'm- I'm not…" She took the hand away from her eyes, and felt the cold air hit the wet skin. Her body was being wracked by sobs. She felt weirdly detached.

"I will never be a good singer," she stammered, looking at her hand. The lines of it were blurry in her severe myopia. "My father died, and my voice went with him."

The small voice hummed gently. "A loss of a loved one is always devastating," it said. "The pain will never truly go away. You can only learn to live with it."

Christine closed her eyes and put her palms over them again. "I just want it to go away. I can't live like this… I can't…"

She sniffed, her breath hitching, and reached for her bag to search for tissues.

She opened a fresh pack, dabbed her eyes and blew her nose.

She stood up again and looked around.

There was nobody nearby. No sound was coming from outside the room, either.

Strange. She was sure that somebody was talking to her just now. In such a gentle, sweet voice…

She was starting to hallucinate, she told herself, as she collected her bearings and checked the time. The break was already over? The time was ruthless.

Throwing a last glance in the vanity mirror to make sure that her eyes or nose didn't look red, she opened the door and turned off the old lights.

The rest of the rehearsal didn't go as bad for her, thankfully. Evidently, her voice simply needed to warm up; in an hour, she actually started hitting the notes correctly, and that gave her some confidence to up the volume. She was still singing quietly - she didn't want to draw attention to herself. Still, she threw herself into the music as the company went through the first act of Meyerbeer's Les Huguenots.

After the chorus master was done with them, the singers scattered throughout the building. There was a break for the ballet as well, and the chorus members mingled with the dancers. On her way out Christine stumbled into Jammes, who was standing near the doorway, chattering with a thin, swarthy, black-haired girl in a white tutu.

"Who cares what your mom says? If ballet isn't your thing, you shouldn't be pushing it. It'll only get worse for you!"

"Cecile, you don't understand," the girl babbled. "Ballet is all I have, even if I'm bad at it. If I quit, I have nowhere to go."

Christine stepped over and timidly glanced between the two dancers.

Jammes was, of course, ecstatic, and fretted over her. "Christine! There you are! Oh, I was worried I wouldn't catch you today. Are you feeling alright? You're looking kinda pale."

Christine heaved a sigh. "Yeah… Just a bit tired, that's all."

Jammes bit her plump lower lip. "Okay. Oh, Christine, do you know Meg Giry?" She pointed at the swarthy girl next to her.

Christine turned to face Meg. "Meg Giry? Oh, I've heard about you. Your mom is one of the box-keepers here, right?"

Meg smiled. "Yeah. Honestly, I wouldn't be here without her." She extended her hand. "It's nice to meet you. Christine, right?"

The singer gently shook the offered hand. "Yes. Christine Daaé. It's nice to meet you as well."

"I've heard about your father. He- he was your father, right? I'm terribly sorry."

Christine pursed her lips and nodded. "Yes, he was my father. It's okay, really. Thank you."

Jammes tuned in. "How did the chorus rehearsal go? Was Gabriel very mad? He is antsier than usual these days."

"What? No. No, he wasn't mad." Christine shrugged. "He berated us a few times, but it went alright." She suddenly noticed that she had a feeling of being watched. She turned around, but caught nobody's gaze.

"...Girls, I'm sorry, but I really should be going. I… Mamma is expecting me back."

Her route was different now. Instead of heading to the hospital by subway, she only had to ride several stops on a bus to get to her apartment building on the Rue Notres-Dames-des-Victoires. On her ride home, Christine promised herself to fervently practice her part, but when she opened the door to her apartment, she felt so exhausted that she couldn't even think of practicing anything.

Mamma rushed over to her and pulled her into a warm embrace, took her coat and led her to the kitchen, asking questions about her first day back. Christine gave simple answers, saying that everything had gone well. Of course, she omitted the fact how badly her voice had suffered during her leave. Poor old Mamma didn't need any more worries.

And that antsy feeling of being watched has never gone away, no matter how much Christine looked back while walking through the streets. "I must be going mad," she thought, as she drew the curtains on her bedroom's windows close - something she'd rarely done before.

And eventually, the feeling of unease was subdued as she binge-watched some walkthrough series of YouTube with a pot of ice-cream in her lap.