🎵 𝄞 🎸 𝄫 🎷🎶 🎻 (jukejoint) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-05-14 22:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | christine daae, door: phantom of the opera, phantom |
Who: Christine → Sam
What: Short narrative
Where: Paris → The Ranch
When: Recent
Warnings/Rating: Language
Christine spent the day through the door.
It was not the pretty black door of her Paris flat, because that was hers no longer. She would not take the charity from Raoul, even if he had offered it, which he had not. As his future wife, she could reconcile herself with it being her due, that she needed to live a certain way to represent him without shame, to be a certain way. But she was not his intended any longer, and so the door did not become sleek and black for her.
Neither was it the sumptuous gold of the Opera House with its flickering sconces and the smell of wax and floorboards. The Opera House remained closed, the planned reopening after the ordeal with the Phantom all those months ago postponed indefinitely due to the fire in the belly of the Opera in recent months. There was no Opera, no ballet dormitory, no place with the Girys for her.
The door, when it opened, was in the cemetery, at the Daae grave. As good a place as any, and the temperature was not as terrible as it could have been in the late evening. She had no money for a carriage, and so she walked as though she did not mind it. Her father had not been a wealthy man. His wealth had come in a different way, and musical talent had always opened doors for them when she was small. It was from him that she took her cue.
She did not stop by the docks, where a fallen woman (for that is what she would now be considered) must ply her wares. She made her way to Montmartre, to where songbirds could earn a living in a way that was better than the docks. She was young enough, pretty enough that she fit into that dark world. And, though it terrified her, she was now accustomed to darkness in a way that she was no longer accustomed to the light.