Disclaimer: Argh, I accidentally deleted this chapter, so I'm re-writing it. It's annoying, but perhaps a good thing, because I think I need to extend the chapters covering Meg's time in the Phantom's lair so the story isn't so short. Anyways, I own nothing. Enjoy!

Chapter 5

There was once a time, which seemed so long ago, when Meg would have given nearly anything to be allowed time to sleep. A dancer's life was so strict, allowing little time for frivolous things like rest and, daresay, fun. Sleep was achieved in snatches, you got whatever you could – it was a privilege, a luxury, positively not a necessity. Now, Meg was faced with endless expanses of Time, stretching out before her – Time in which she could do very little but sleep, for what could one achieve when bound and stuck in a dark room?

At first, Meg did rather enjoy her slumber – it was a way to pass the time, to forget, and to heal the throbbing pains that still echoed within her body. Soon, however, the line between awake and asleep began to blur. The blackness was the same, whether her eyes were open or closed, and she began to find it difficult to separate the two. Sometimes she dreamt, and sometimes she didn't – the worst part was when she was dreaming of something like sunshine, or the warm embrace of her mother (whoever that was) and suddenly awoke, realizing she was still very much alone.

Time was everywhere and nowhere. Meg hated not knowing how much time had passed, and it wasn't as if she could ask the Opera Ghost. She never saw him, but assumed he must have entered her prison, for one day (or hour, or minute, who could tell?) she awakened (or had she simply opened her eyes?) and saw that a small candle was lit, a few feet away from her, bathing a small tray containing scraps of food and a rusted goblet in its liquid light.

Meg crawled along the damp floor, like some sort of chained animal and attacked the food hungrily. Her hands were tied behind her back, so she was forced to eat like a dog – smearing the food across her face, but she didn't care. Hunger, thirst – her instincts overcame any sort of manners or etiquette, for such things were of no importance now. It wasn't as if the Opera Ghost would care.

The goblet proved more challenging. I'm going to need my hands, she thought to herself in dismay. Perhaps I can – maybe – bring them under me, to my front, so I can at least use them, if not untie them. Meg knew she needed to stand first, if she was going to slip her arms under her legs, but therein lay another problem – her feet were tightly bound. Alright, then, I'll need to lean against a wall. Slowly, in a sitting position, Meg inched her way backwards, wincing at the sensation of the thick rope rubbing against her raw skin. When her fingers made contact with the wall, she moved so she was pressing against it as much as she could without crushing her hands.

"Okay," Meg said aloud. "Now I just have to – stand – and…" Clenching her jaw, she counted to three and pushed upwards, drawing strength from her dancer's legs. She used her hands to aid her, keeping her steady, and after a breathless moment, she found herself standing. Tears of relief flooded her eyes, and she allowed them to trickle leisurely down her cheeks.

There you are, Opera Ghost, she thought triumphantly.

Now was the difficult part. Gingerly, she lowered her arms, using the wall to support herself. She bent until her wrists touched her ankles, wishing that they weren't bound so tightly, because it would be easier to step one foot through her arms at a time, rather than both. I'll have to jump, like jumping rope, Meg thought, and quite suddenly a memory flashed across her eyes – of her and a group of girls, giggling in some sort of room filled with beds, a sheet tied and twisted together serving as a rope, which each girl jumped over as it was turned, laughing breathlessly.

"Oh." Meg closed and opened her eyes, but that was it – just that one, brief scene. Those girls… they looked like other dancers. We were all dressed the same. Is that… that where I lived?

There was no time to dwell – she could focus on the memory later. Every muscle in her body was tensed, coiled like a spring. Meg took a deep breath and jumped, bringing her arms forward – just like a jump rope – and to her surprise it actually worked, her legs passed through the loop of her arms quite quickly. Her success took her off guard and she stumbled back painfully into the wall and slid to the floor in a heap. Ow, she grimaced mentally, the pain flaring up again – but it didn't matter. I have use of my hands!

Meg quickly sat up and surveyed herself. Her hands were still bound fiercely at the wrists, but at least she could move them a bit. She briefly tried working at the ropes around her ankles, but they were too taut. She would need some sort of blade to cut through the damned things. Oh, well. I suppose it would be too easy that way. Her small new-found victory filled her with fresh energy, sweeping away the lurking beginnings of despair and – even – madness. She grasped the goblet awkwardly and brought it to her parched lips, closing her eyes, the water like ecstasy against her throat.

Once she was finished her meal, she wiped her face with the back of her hands, ashamed at what she had been reduced to. I don't even feel human – I feel like an animal… like a rat. I suppose I am truly a ballet rat, now.

The music started up again, duller this time, perhaps because of the door which separated the Opera Ghost and herself. She wondered what he was doing, if he was composing something – quite often the music would break off violently, and she would hear him cursing or smashing something – and then it would be silent for a while (although she couldn't be sure of how long.)

Already she began to feel restless. Meg knew it was the least of her worries, but she couldn't help but feel terribly bored. "I'll lose my mind," she muttered darkly. "If I'm in here too long, alone, I'll go mad. Like him." She wasn't sure what she could do to fight the madness, the despair, that she knew waited for her somewhere in the dark. If I had my memories, perhaps… So Meg decided to focus her energy on remembering, starting with the scrap of the girls in the room. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on their faces... they were more young women than girls, really, and she was standing beside one with long, curly brown hair and rich chocolate eyes… whose smile was gentle and child-like at the same time…

Christine. Christine Daae.

The name came to her suddenly, and her eyes snapped open. The girl – the brunette from the memory – was Christine… but, wait, hadn't the Opera Ghost mentioned her? Hadn't he said… "You do not strike me as a stupid girl, little Giry… unlike your friend, Miss Daae."

Well of course she's your friend, Meg, you two were laughing together – with the others – such a nice memory, really, for you to remember, a voice in her head piped up. "Christine… Christine… it sounds so familiar… and he knows her, he must… but how?" Had she, too, been down here – was she here now, locked in another room, perhaps? No… that wouldn't make sense… she would hear me, or I would hear her.

Meg tried to remember more, but it seemed as if a wall had sprung within her mind, as if it was saying so sorry, dear Meg, but that's all you can remember for now!

She bit down on her lip angrily, tasting copper and metal on her tongue. Did he expect her to be grateful that he had fed her? Did he expect her to – to sit here in silence and be thankful she was alive? Part of Meg knew that doing anything that might anger him (which was everything except sitting still) was a bad idea, but stubbornness was rising within her. Anger filled her with resolve, and she'd grasped the goblet and flung it towards the door before her mind had finished processing what she was about to do.

"You can't just leave me here!" she cried, her voice rising and cracking pitifully. Her chest was heaving, her breaths coming in short snatches. "You – you can't just forget about me!"

The music stopped suddenly. Fear and a sort of exhilaration seized her heart, squeezing it mercilessly. Yet, strangely, she did not regret her actions.

The door was flung open, candlelight spilling into her prison and mingling with her own minute candle. The Opera Ghost towered over her one again, anger darkening his razor-sharp eyes. Meg watched as his gaze fell to the goblet, lying on its side by the door, a bit of water leaking out, and then back to her. "So," he hissed, "Was the sustenance I provided you with not – acceptable – little Giry?"

My name is Meg, she thought, but kept the words to herself. "Am I – am I supposed to thank you now?" she asked scornfully, her voice wavering slightly. "Well then, yes, thank you for not letting me starve and die – but you can't keep me here like, like some sort of prisoner."

"And why not?"

"Because…" Meg found herself at a loss for words. "Because it's – it's not right!"

"Do not speak to me of what is right, foolish girl!" His voice rose, twisted with rage, and she couldn't help but shrink back from his wrath. "You know nothing – you are spoiled, coddled and sheltered from the world… you have no concept of right and wrong, of fairness… of pain…" He trailed off, glaring at her hatefully. "The world showed no compassion to me, little Giry. There is no reason why I should show any to you." He turned and strode towards the doorway.

Meg closed her eyes and twisted her face away from the light, her hope shattering into a million fragments. He will never let me leave this place.

The Opera Ghost paused in the doorway, looking back at her. "Little Giry… if you ever respond with such insolent actions again… I will not be so merciful." With that, he slammed the door fiercely, causing what seemed like all four walls around her to shake.

Meg could hold back no longer. She threw herself to the floor, burying her head in her arms, sobbing silently. I will die down here, alone. My body will lie here forever, a reminder to others, a lesson learned too late.

x

"It has to have been him, Raoul." Christine clutched at her lover's arm desperately. "Meg has been missing for seven days – and he has not visited me for seven days. Don't you see? She must have gone… oh, Raoul, I should have stopped her."

Raoul sighed. "Christine, there is no Phantom, no Angel of Music. Thus he couldn't have taken Meg. Perhaps she simply ran away… or, if she has been kidnapped, it was not by this Phantom. We should be looking at real people – people who work here."

Christine and Raoul sat side-by-side on her bed, their hands entwined in each other's. She sighed in frustration. Everyone thought she was simply caught up in a dream, this Phantom a figment of her imagination, and it was becoming quite infuriating. Christine knew she had a reputation for being naïve and child-like, and she supposed she deserved that, but honestly – would no one believe her?

"But, Raoul, no one cares. I mean – the managers – to them, Meg is nothing more but a dancer, a chorus girl. They can replace her in a moment… they don't care. They are content to believe she has run off and be done with it. But I know Meg, Raoul." She grasped his hands tightly. "I need your help to find her. Something's happened to her, I know it."

Raoul knew Christine could not be swayed. Personally, he too held the belief that this Meg Giry had run off – she had probably had enough of a dancer's life, and found some man who promised to take her away. But he loved Christine, and he would do anything for her, so he finally relented. "Alright, Christine. I shall get in contact with some of my friends – tell them to keep an eye out for Meg."

Christine knew Raoul didn't take her seriously, but she decided not to press him further… he'd start to think she was insane. "Thank you." They embraced warmly, but Christine's mind was already leaping ahead. Madame Giry. Meg is her daughter – she will listen to me. She will believe me. I know she will.

Madame Giry had retreated to her room, warding off the hoards of concerned dancers who, unlike the managers, very much cared about Meg and where she was. "Maybe she's just run off," Emilie said uneasily, echoing the belief of many others in the opera house.

"No," Marie said firmly, shaking her head. "Meg would never do that."

Emilie sighed. "Then where is she?"

Marie looked troubled. "I… I don't know." She glanced at Mme. Giry's door. "I don't think Madame will tell us anything. We should go back to the dormitories."

The ballet girls trudged back to their quarters, hardly noticing when Christine brushed past them, clad in a hooded cloak even though she was indoors. When she reached Madame Giry's room, she rapped urgently on the door. "Madame Giry, it's Christine," she whispered urgently. "Please, let me in."

There was a pause, and Christine heard a click as the door slowly creaked open. Madame Giry's face appeared in the crack, pale and haggard. "Christine. Come in, quickly." She ushered the girl in and shut the door swiftly behind her. "Were you followed, my dear?"

Christine threw back her hood and shook her head. "I was careful, Madame." She hesitated. "I'm here about Meg. I… I know who has taken her."

Madame Giry looked up at her, her eyes tired yet still full of their old fire. "Do you?"

"I… yes, and I believe you do to."

Madame Giry sighed. "Christine, I haven't the faintest idea where my daughter is. If you do, then tell me, and if not, then please leave."

Christine sat at the edge of the modest, small bed. "It's… it's him. The Phantom of the Opera. I think… I think Meg may have angered him, or perhaps even stumbled upon his… his lair."

Madame Giry stared at her for a few moments, and then pointed towards the door. "Leave."

"Wh… what?" Christine was utterly taken off guard.

"I said, leave! My daughter is missing, Miss Daae, and you dare come to me with such outrageous accusations – that the Opera Ghost took her?!" Her voice grew harsh and angry.

Christine still couldn't figure out the sudden change in Madame Giry's attitude. "But… but you know he exists! You relay his letters! If anyone believes in his existence, it is you!"

Madame Giry rose, holding herself with her usual regal air. "Perhaps. But it does not matter if I believe in the Opera Ghost's existence or not. Whatever happened to my daughter, it is a matter of the real world, not ghosts. Now, please, Christine, you are wasting my time terribly." She strode to the door and pulled it open. "Bon soir."

Christine's eyes filled with tears of confusion and frustration. "I don't understand," she said softly, pulling the hood back over her head and leaving the room. She heard the door slam behind her. "What is Madame Giry afraid of? Perhaps – the Opera Ghost?" Her heart squeezed when she thought of her Angel, the man who inspired her voice… the murderer, who killed Joseph Buquet and had taken Meg. Would he hurt her? Was she still alive? No, no, Meg is only a girl – not even a woman – he would not kill her. He could not… would not…

But Christine was forced to realize that, really, she did not know what the Phantom would or would not do. "If Madame Giry will not help me," she thought firmly, "then I – I must go after Meg myself." But even as she thought it, a part of Christine knew she wouldn't really go through with it – and it was that part that she cursed as she hurried back to her room.

Read and review! Sorry for the long wait. 