"Forgiveness is a virtue of the brave."

-Indira Gandhi

It was amazing how quickly things could go from being perfectly normal and routine to completely out of control. Life would never cease to amaze her in that way. Earlier that day, they had been sitting down at the table and discussing a trip to Perros-Guirec, eating from a tray of fruit and watching the way the summer breeze danced with the long ivory curtains. And now, now she found herself waking with her face in the wet ground, rain pelting her body, her hair tangled with mud, her night shift soaked through and scrapes all over her palms. How had it happened? If her mind wasn't about to demand the answer, her aching body was begging to know. Her legs burned, her back was stiff from lying on the cold, damp earth for so long.

Wearily she sat up, peering back in the direction of the house, or at least what she thought was the direction of the house. That was when she remembered. Bright flashes of orange and yellow, thick billows of black smoke pouring from the windows, the terror that adrenaline spurred within her body as she flew from the danger that had surrounded her.

She had been in bed, sleeping peacefully, perhaps dreaming about the voyage back to Perros-Guirec, whether or not her scarf would have to be rescued again. She stirred in her sleep, rolling over, waking slightly when she realized that Raoul was not in the bed, his form absent from the space next to her. Perhaps he was still downstairs in the library, sitting at his desk and finishing some business that he had gladly ignored earlier in the day when he'd instead chosen to spend time with her. She pulled back the blankets, standing and moving to the door, the stench growing stronger. Was that... was it smoke? She opened the bedroom door, immediately assaulted by the dense, dark fog that rushed inside.

Fumbling down the stairs as quickly as she could through the darkness, she reached the bottom and looked both ways, only to be greeted by bright flames. The flames were coming from the direction of the library. Raoul was in the library. Her heart dropped, her stomach churned. The fire... Raoul... surely he had gotten out... surely, but why had he not come up to find her if he had woken up? He couldn't be... no, it wasn't possible that he was gone. Her mind was growing dizzy with the toxic stench creeping into her lungs. Raoul would be outside. He would be outside waiting for her. She turned about, looking every way, trying to find an escape. If she didn't get out soon the smoke would take her. She ran to the nearest window, flinging it open and sticking her head out. It was only a few feet to the ground. She crawled out, falling onto the hard earth and then standing again. Her eyes immediately flew in the direction of the library. She looked in the window, only to see it completely immersed in flames. That was when she began to scream, to cry, to shriek. Raoul was inside. Raoul was in that library. He wasn't out here, he was in there, and he was gone.

So she ran.

She ran as far as she could from the house, as fast as possible, the flames slowly licking their way up the walls, tearing down beams, ripping at the wallpaper and destroying everything inside, destroying all of the memories that she had made there. With the flames went everything that she held familiar for the past two years.

Somewhere in the dark she had tripped, she'd fallen. Her exhausted body wouldn't let her argue anymore, and she merely found herself succumbing to the dark. She remembered wondering if she was dying. Is this what it felt like? Like your mind was screaming for you to press on but your body couldn't fulfill the order? Or was it more like losing every sense of rationality, every ability to see or hear or interact with that which was so familiar and always present in your life. If that was it, she would rather be dead. Even if that wasn't it she wished she had died, that she hadn't woken up in the house and that she had died along with Raoul in the fire.

It wasn't the case, however, and now she found herself sitting up and covered in dirt, unaware of where she was. In the early hours of the morning it must have begun to rain, and it carried on still. She needed to find somewhere to get inside. But she didn't want to stand, she didn't want to leave this spot. She just wanted to stay here. She couldn't bring herself to rise. Let no one find her, let no one come looking for her. Where would she go from here? Where could she go? Her father was dead, her husband was now dead... She had no one. No family. Nothing. Life had lost its purpose - it burned away with every possession that she owned in that house. The tears began to trickle down her cheeks again, her chest wracking with sobs. She had no one. Absolutely no one. The realization was growing stronger, and each raindrop that pelted her body felt like a punch or a kick to the very core of her being. She brought her knees to her chest, shuddering and crying, holding herself in an attempt to find some sort of comfort in all of the madness.

Christine wasn't exactly sure how long she sat like that, but the rain slowly stopped, and her tears began to subside. The rain obviously wasn't going to fulfill this desire she had to refrain from living. And since that was the case, something needed to be done. She needed to get up, she needed to find some place warm, to find some dry clothes. She needed something familiar, to try and find solace in something that she recognized. The sky was still dark, but she began to walk in the direction of the city, she could see the faint glow of the lights from her current location. They didn't live - ... well, they hadn't lived too far from the borders of the city. She would walk into the city and find somewhere to go, or find an inn to stay in. She would get a change of clothes and begin to pick up the pieces of her life, and she would find a way to move on.

The walk was eerie, there was something about it that was unsettling. It was the fact that she had never pictured herself having to do such a thing under such circumstances. Really, who imagined themselves wandering aimlessly down a road in a dirty, torn up night shift, having abandoned their destroyed home and the dead husband inside it? She had never thought that she would go through such a thing.

It was impossible to cry. Or at least right now it was, anyway. She had spent all her tears on the aftershock that came with such destructive, life changing events. She felt void of emotion at this point - she felt numb. Her only desire was to put all of the horrors that had just occurred behind her and to find a way to start again, to find a way to be secure and to find solace. Of all the things she could have wished for at this moment, it would be peace. Of course she would have wished to have Raoul back, but Raoul's life had proven to be fragile, and that fragility was what put her in her current situation. Peace, and understanding, and acceptance... She would have to walk farther than the length of this road to achieve such coveted prizes.

It wasn't long before she had made her way into the city, and she began to wander through the streets, meandering and staring at signs, unsure of where she was going or in what direction the streets were taking her. There was an aspect of Paris that made it like a maze in the dark. If one was not careful they could be lost forever to the cobblestones and towering walls covered in windows and shutters. Some shops she knew, others she didn't, and she attempted to gauge a sense of direction from those that she did recognize. She turned a corner into a large cleared area, void of narrow streets, and suddenly she looked up and she found herself face to face with a looming, ominous structure.

Le Opera Garnier.

Her breath hitched in her throat. It wasn't her intention to end up here, not at all. Something in her subconscious had guided her here, something deep inside that yearned for something solid and real. But she couldn't go in there. She couldn't. Not after everything that happened... No, going in there was an idea that was completely and totally unacceptable.

But she needed clothes. She needed something. Christine bit her lip, then slowly took a step towards the large marble building, climbing up the stairs and finding her way inside, looking both ways to make sure that no one would see her creep in. Once past the door, she felt a streak of fear shoot up her spine. Why had she come in here? She needed to leave. She could find a dress somewhere else, couldn't she? No, she had no money with her, and it would be light soon. She needed to hurry.

She stared at the wreckage around her, her eyes unsure of where to look first. There were cobwebs hanging from every light fixture, and the walls were scorched and covered in black soot, as if the smoke were an unruly child who had run about drawing on the walls. There was trash scattered on the floor, old playbills from the last performance that the Opera Garnier knew - the opera that had lead to the horrific night that had toyed with her fate. She picked one of the playbills up, examining it and deciding to keep it with her, though she wasn't exactly sure what compelled her to do so. Her eyes followed the grand staircase up to the theater doors. If the foyer looked so unfortunate and dilapidated, what on earth did the theater look like? She didn't want to know, that would be too much. It pained her enough to know what her former home had gone through, but to actually take it in visually would be another thing entirely.

Realizing that she had lost herself in thought - in turn losing valuable time she could have spent gathering necessities - she recollected herself and turned in the direction of the dressing rooms. With a hesitant first step she began, delving into one of the shadowy halls, winding through the dark corridor and occasionally jumping at the sound of a rat scuttling by or a cat darting past her. In and out, no more dawdling, just a change of clothes and anything else that she might happen to run across and deem necessary... She reached her door and turned the handle, pushing the swollen, stuck wood until the door moaned and leapt open and she was confronted by her reflection in the large mirror.

Each memory flooded back, and she found herself crying again, feeling overwhelmed. Two years. It had been two years since she sang on the stage, since she had slept in this bed... since all of the events that had transpired.

It had been two years since him.

Carefully she stepped forward, placing a hand on the mirror, sliding it to the side and peering down the passageway.

"Christine..."

She whirled around, swearing that she could have heard her name from the cracked corners of the room, seeping through the sagging wallpaper. There was no one here. He had fled, surely he had fled, or perhaps they had killed him, or he had died on his own. He wasn't here. She was imagining things. But all the same, she found herself abandoning the mirror and walking to her wardrobe, pulling open a drawer and ruffling through the old frocks inside. She pulled out a simple gray dress, laying it on the bed and then retrieving all of the necessary undergarments before turning to momentarily peruse the room. It had remained fairly untouched by the fire, though the wood of the door was obviously a bit warped and stuck when one attempted to open it. She moved to the vanity and opened the drawer to pull out her hairbrush. When she looked down, her eyes froze.

Inside the drawer was a gold band.

For a moment her breath stopped coming, and she felt that her heart had stopped beating. She couldn't move, she couldn't do anything but stand there, she couldn't even bring herself to move her eyes away from the small golden ring inside the drawer. That ring represented everything that she had abandoned, everything that she had experienced within the walls of this Opera house. It was music, it was obsession, insanity... love, even. It was her old life, and she didn't know how to respond with being confronted with all of the memories so suddenly.

Carefully, her fingers moved towards the band and she slowly picked it up. She stared at it, examining the beautiful etching of the vines all around it. She looked down at the ring on her left hand, it's gaudiness very nearly screaming in comparison to the modest gold band she held in her hand now. She pulled the ring off her finger, staring at it and then placing it on the desk. As she slid the other ring onto her finger, she could swear she heard a murmur hanging in the air, crawling down the walls and lingering at her ear. Her skin burned, it hissed and scowled at her, feeling like some sort of ominous scar that she now carried on her left hand. The tears were spilling from her eyes, the streams growing faster every moment.

But yet, it comforted her.

It terrified her, but it was something she knew. It was something familiar, something that she had once known as tangible. All that was solid and secure in her life was now gone, and it was reassuring to have something, even if it was something that harbored all that she had rejected in her life, even if it was the life she hadn't chosen.

She moved away from the vanity rather abruptly and suddenly, grabbing the hair brush and running it through her curls, then turning and opening a drawer, finding a pair of stockings and some small black shoes, which she slipped on.

Hesitantly she removed her night shift and stood naked in the room, immediately feeling the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. Whether that was because of the slight chill in the room or the undeniable feeling that there were eyes hounding her form and devouring every curve she was unsure. She reassured herself that there was no one present, swallowing dryly and giving an uneasy glance about the room. She cleared her throat, attempting to shake the feeling as she quickly pulled on her undergarments and then her frock.

She pulled her curls back and tied them with a scrap of white ribbon, gathering a few more objects from the room before both reluctantly and eagerly giving it a final goodbye and slipping out the heavy wooden door. She wrapped the old, worn cloak that she'd found in the wardrobe around her body, and as she reemerged from the Opera to return to the city, she felt the weight of the gold band on her finger: a constant reminder as she took each step away from the last bit of anything that she even remotely held dear.

DISCLAIMER:

The Phantom of the Opera, in its respective forms, (C) Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, & Andrew Lloyd Webber.