TRY TO FORGIVE

"Absolutely not," said her employer, his eyes dangerously cold, his voice flat and toneless.

Teresa tried to stare him down, as a stronger woman would have, and found it impossible.

She didn't know why it was. Back in the South, she had always been able to stare down all the awful rich white men who would come to use her mother's services, to abuse her as they would never abuse a white woman. She remembered the day one of the johns had turned on her, as well as her mother. She had stared him down through it all. Even when he got so furious with her for fighting back.

Even when he cut up her face, when he broke her leg so it healed crooked, left scars all over her body and made her a freak.

But Mr. Y was different. She respected him, looked up to him. It was not something that was conducive to even mild defiance. "Mr. Y… I know that… This will be difficult. But. She was quite insistent."

The creator of Phantasma made a sudden, violent movement, pounding his fist against the desk.

Teresa flinched, repressing a whimper. The Maestro's face softened. "I'm sorry, Teresa. It was not my intention to frighten you. Nor to bring up bad memories."

"I know," said the girl, fighting back the urge to run her hand over the scars that marred her face.

"But you see, Teresa. I cared very much about Miss Daae. And due the actions of these two women, she is now dead. I recognize that it is not their fault, and that they could not help it, and that I should not blame them. But it would not be wise to have them in such close proximity to me. They should know that. And since they do not, I'm afraid they shall have to learn to accept rejection… And also know that rejection is a far better alternative to what could be dealt upon them."

His voice was low and cold and dangerous, and she was scared. Even though his cold hatred and anger was not directed at her, she feared this man. As much as she knew he would never harm her, he commanded a certain fear as well as respect and awe from his employers, and it was not something any one of them was immune to.

Teresa swallowed. "I—I know, sir. It's only…" she was trembling to hard to finish her sentence.

Mr. Y sighed. "Sit down, girl, no one is going to harm you."

She did so, and took a deep, shaky breath.

"The other freaks… We knew them, too." She said hurriedly, seeing his eyes harden at the use of the word 'freak'. "And we… we don't mind if they come back. If they were hidden, isolated… Surely, it wouldn't be…"

"Teresa, why you?"

Teresa stopped short, her train of thought abruptly cut off. "Mr. Y?"

"Why is it you here, asking me to allow the Giry women back onto my property? You knew them no better than anyone else," he said, "So why is it you who comes and asks to speak with me?"

Teresa replied without thinking, "I was chosen."

She clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. "I—I didn't mean! We—we just…"

The Maestro's visible eyebrow arched. "Do elaborate, please, Teresa."

Teresa sighed. "It's not… We just…"

Mr. Y was waiting. She steeled herself and launched forth.

"Well, you see Mr. Y… There are lots of women here who've been… Well, abused, you know?"

"I'm aware."

"Yes, but I mean… They've been…"

In her discomfort and growing angst, her accent was getting stronger. She continued, blushing hard. "They've been—you know—used by men, Master Y. And they know what it is to feel that. And there are… Pardon sir, but some of the girls, they still…"

"I'm aware." He said, softly.

"They don't mean no harm by it, sir, oh no. It's just… They ain't always got a choice. Some of them gots families and children back at home, and those children got to be fed, and they wants to make ends meet and some of them gots contracts they ain't allowed to break, and…"

"I'm working on improving that situation, Teresa. I believe that count of women under my employ who—shall we say—solicit that specific variety of services is significantly lower than it was when we began."

She nodded enthusiastically, almost beaming now. "Oh yes, sir, yes! We know! And the girls, they's ever so grateful, and soon, no one will have to anymore, and it'll be just fine…"

He smiled, and she shook herself, fixing her accent back to the more formal way she'd been graciously educated into under Phantasma's care. "I'm sorry."

"It's quite alright."

"Just… What we mean is…"

He was waiting, expectant and patient, a still statue, unblinking and unmoving in the shadows of the dim room.

She bit her lip. "It's Miss Giry, sir. We… we feel sorry for her. We know she did an awful thing that day, and we don't like that at all, sir. But… But she's suffered enough. And even if some of us who knew Madamoiselle Daae hate her for what she did, we're sure she's harmless now. And she should be forgiven, sir. And her mother… It's terrible for a mother to see their daughter go down that path, sir. Please. We just… They're part of us, see. We can't just cast them out into the cold."

Erik knew it would be an awful time to cynically comment on how it was hardly cold, and that they were perfectly capable of finding their own way along. But then he thought.

Teresa is right. Damn it all, but she is right, he thought.

What would they do, know that they had no home? Would Madame find a job? Would she work in one of the filthy factories, lower herself and stay in one of the measly hovels or the tenements filled to the brim with disease, scum, and crime? Would Meg have to turn back to prostitution?

Their lives were in his hands.

"Leave me, Teresa," he said softly. "I will be out momentarily."

She nodded, uncertain. "Yes, sir."

"Oh, and Teresa? One more question…"

She stopped her laborious process of standing from her seated position.

"Why was it that you were chosen?"

She thought for a moment, then said, "Because I wanted to help. And I was brave enough to try."

He smiled. "Very good, Teresa, thank you."

She got up, limping on her mangled limb, closing the door behind her.

He buried his face in his hands.

He could not just leave them to die, to suffer at his hands, however indirectly. Madame Giry had been as close to a family as anything he had ever had, for years.

Little Meg, so talented a dancer, so sweet a girl. Could he make her suffer more than she already had, because of him?

But how would Gustave react when he knew his mother's murderer and her mother resided in the very same park as he did?

Erik felt like growling. He raked his fingers through the hair of his wig, hissing in frustration.

In his head, strains of angry, violent music played. But suddenly, a sweeter sound replaced it, a sad plea in an angel's voice.

"Try to forgive

Teach me to live

Give me the strength to try…"

Try to forgive, he mused. He remembered those words, and remembered the day she'd spoken them. A crippling surge of pain shot through his chest, as it always did when he thought of her.

"Oh, God, Christine…" he moaned, suddenly weak.

"Angel of Music

Who deserves this?

Why do you curse mercy?"

He groaned, suddenly vulnerable. She was always with him.

And he knew what she would have wanted. He knew what she would have said, what she would have done.

"I can't… Christine, I can't, I'm not strong enough, I can't forgive…"

Yes, you can.

His eyes closed, he felt a cool hand at his brow, smoothing away the crease. He felt lips at his temple and he knew peace. But he struggled to remember, to focus.

"Gustave…"

He will be alright, my love. He will forgive. He will learn. He is a smart boy. He will understand.

The lips moved to his cheek, kissing away the tears gently. The feeling was so unbearably sweet, and he could not hold in the shaking gasp that cut the silence like a knife.

Trust me, love.

"Yes…"

Her lips moved to the corner of his mouth, kissing there.

With a moan, he reached out for her and opened his eyes. But she was gone, there was no one there.

Of course not.

He sighed, trying to gather himself. He hummed a bar of music to himself, and realized suddenly what it was he had to do with Madame Giry and her tormented daughter.

"Damn it all to hell," he swore, standing and going to the door.

I'm always a little nervous about OC's. Particularly when they're prominent OC's. But I just really loved the idea of Phantasma being this safe haven for the outcasts, for all the people who weren't accepted, who were treated with grave injustice in the outside world to come and create beauty of their own, no matter how strange and dark it was.

Kind of like Tumblr.

Wow, way to ruin the moment...

Anyways.

And I just had this image in my mind, from pictures I've seen in muckraker books from the time period. And it's just so terrible, and Teresa got stuck in my head and would not leave. I really wanted to emphasize that EVERY social injustice and outcast person was welcome on Phantasma. And while Teresa is also deformed, she is also a victim of the racism that was so prevalent at the time.

And in Phantasma, she is safe. She is home.

I just thought that idea was sadly under-utilized in the musical. And that's okay. Because there was other stuff going on-y'know, in the MAIN PLOT of the musical... But hey, that's what fanfiction is for.

-Ophelia V. Santori