Three Spirits

The room, in its entire frivolous aristocratic enormity, is closing in around me. Every stroke of the clock’s pendulum seemingly brings the walls nearer and nearer upon me. Gulping breaths do not help calm this racing heart of mine, and I leap from the bed. Stumbling through the consuming darkness I head towards the double doors that lead to my balcony.

The cool spring air rushes over me as I wrench open the panels and fly to the railing. The gooseflesh that covers me… is it from the eerie feelings or the cooler air? I know not, but my robe will not relieve it. The chill is worth the price rather than reentry into that foreboding room. My hands grip the rail with intensity, a desperate willing of my body to gather its control, and to pass on that good sense to my racing mind. I gulp another series of breaths, careless of whether the damp night air will send me into pneumonia. I care about fewer things these days.

My eyes strain in the darkness, observing the shadowy outlines in the central courtyard. It is the epitome of luxury, this townhouse residence of the de Chagney family, and far enough from the Opera to be considered a safe haven. My treatment here has varied depending upon the person interacting with me. The degrees of said treatment are quite wide: a fragile girl, delicate as Venetian glass, a potential madwoman (who by all rights should be locked away… what with her tales of ghosts and angels), or perhaps just a cunning chorus girl who wants to move up in society.

The sounds of another breeze blowing through the budding trees whisper as it continues on. Wind is much like time, always moving on. Time… by this time tomorrow it will not be the room enclosing, encasing me, but Raoul’s arms. I should find comfort in that, as I should a great many other things, but my soul now seems a perpetual winter.

Raoul will not speak of that night, other than a reference to “that unfortunate incident.” He will only talk of our grand future- the wedding, the travel…children. Many times I notice he proceeds with an idea or confirms a choice as if I am not even in the same room. Of course my mind is rarely in the room with him, but I always nod when he repeats again “I will take care of you Little Lotte.”

It would be a blessing if the cold could erase the thoughts in my mind as well as it erases the feeling in my extremities. Then perhaps I could relive something other than that night.

NO!

The protest forms again in my mind ...…do not mention, do not think of that night.

Too late…too late…

Yes. It is too late Erik. Too late for me, foolish girl that I was, that I am.

But will another wrong in this mad sequence of events really even matter? I have to many things on a list of wishful second chances, and every item relates to you.

It is ingrained in my memory, burned there…the last sight I had of you. I, simple, foolish Christine…I do not deserve your tears Erik. Your confession of love to me…I deserve it far less. I fled when I should have stayed, feared what I should have embraced, and now I am left here. Can it be any more lonely seven floors below the earth than it is here in the cold night air?

I wait, hoping…but no answers call back to me, and with a last glance at the dark courtyard I decide to return to my room.

It is, after all only a room.