Awakened in Death

The year was drawing to a close, and the critics had been kind.
Although the tour was very brief, the theater production had been an enormous success and all the players brought the Parisian story to life around the world.
Misha attended all the rehearsals, even though understudies were not required to do so. When she wasn't needed on stage, she was determined to be as helpful as possible, filling in with stage hands and grips, learning the lights, helping the musicians carry equipment, helping singers with vocal lessons, anything that she could provide she did. Needless to say, she was much loved by the entire staff.

The finale of their tour was to be held in Paris.
And as the final date drew near, the electricity of excitement could be felt by every single person on the staff.
Their arrival in Paris was a hum of controlled chaos. Brandon, the tenor who played the part of the phantom was somewhat of a ladies' and felt into an intoxicated rush amid the largest group of screaming fans the production had ever experienced.

Misha and Vanessa, the petite soprano who played Christine, would jokingly chide him when he would sneak out of their hotel to meet the latest beautiful fan on some midnight Parisian tryst.
"They don't call it the City of Love for no reason," he would say with a flash of teeth and twinkling eye at Misha and Vanessa before rushing out the door.

Of course it was one morning-after, after one such night, a week before the finale performance, Misha found Brandon sprawled across the bathroom of his hotel room, pale-faced and shaking.
He was rushed to the hospital and the doctors said it was a bad case of food poisoning, possibly from eating out at the many street food vendors outside the city.

"Will he be able to perform at the end of this week?"

"Possibly. But he seems exceptionally sick. Even if he is no longer vomiting at the end of this week, I do not know if he would have the energy to last through an entire show. But there is always hope," the doctor had said.

Back at the opera house, Misha was told that she would have to prepare for the possibility that Brandon might not be able to perform in the finale.
This would be her one chance. Her one chance and it would be in Paris. It would be the finale. Misha felt as if she was struck dumb, but inside she was quivering from excitement, and when she finally did find her voice again she whooped loudly, pumping her fist in the air.

She was immediately taken to a fitting area, the costumes had to be altered to fit her frame and a new mask had to be molded to fit her face.
After fittings, she was dragged back onto stage for emergency rehearsals with the director and Vanessa.

They sang well together. Vanessa would hold Misha's hand and squeeze it in excitement as they stood together on the stage. And it was so true. Misha's voice carried away any doubts about her performance.

"Once again ladies. This will be the last time, and then off to dinner for the
both of you. From the top!"


And they sang, arm in arm. Vanessa's voice rising higher and higher till it hit the airy lightness of her delicate soprano. While Misha's voice became richer and fuller, a perfect complementary support.

As they sang their last note, the stage hands broke out into applause and Misha blushed fiercely, hiding her face in Vanessa's sleeve.

"Vanessa, you are like the twinkle of bells! and Misha! Your voice is pure honey!" the director explaimed proudly. Both girls smiled their thanks and left the stage gathering their things to leave.

"Do you want me to wait for you?" Vanessa asked, slinging a woven purse over her shoulder.

Misha shook her head. "No, thanks though. I don't want to hold you up. I think I'm going to take a little detour through the city before heading back to the apartment... maybe check on Brandon at the hospital, see how he's doing."

The petite blonde shrugged and waved goodbye, stepping lightly out of the dressing room. Misha followed after a few minutes, walking carefully trying to mask the slight limp in her step.

"Misha!" Madame Bouveau, the costume designer, puffed from behind her, pins sticking out of her unkempt gray hair and a line of tape fluttered behind her as she stopped to catch her breath. "Misha, I have something to give you."

Misha followed the woman that gestured towards the costume closets. Standing on the mannequin was a the black caped suit of Don Juan, fitted to her smaller frame.

"It's finished, and it'll fit you perfectly," Madame Bouveau said proudly. Misha stepped closer, running her fingers along the black intricate embroidery that covered the double breasted black vest.

"This detail is exquisite, Madame, but black on black? It cannot be seen from the stage," Misha whispered, marveling at the details that were found, the double stitched hems, the silken thread used for each black crystal button, and the ghost shadowed lines running the length the sleeves.

Madame Bouveau stood up straighter and beamed, "This is because, that Don Juan is not for the stage Misha. This one is for you to have."

"For me? I don't understand."

"Ah, well there was a slight mix-up when we ordered the fabric, and we had so much left over. Your stage costume is already completed and standing with the rest of the garments in the back, but this one, darling, I made for you. Since you have worked so hard and brought so much love to this stage. It was the least I could do. You can take Don Juan home with you to have always."

Misha through her arms around the gray-haired woman and squeezed with all her strength.

"Merci, Madame! Oh thank you so much! You have no idea how much this means to me. Can I wear it tonight?"

"You can wear it whenever you like! It is yours!" Misha squealed with delight and went to change behind the screen. The costume designer was right, the costume fit perfectly, made for her. It hugged at her shoulders and made them look stronger, straighter. The shape of her leg was hidden under the wider cut of the pant legs so she looked as if she was standing taller than before. She looked like Don Juan. The transformation was amazing.

"How do I look?" Misha asked, stepping out from the screen and making a small turn.

Madame Bouveau clapped proudly, "Like Don Juan Triumphant. Now go explore the city--you won't have time to do so when the show opens."

Misha smiled, and thanked the woman again, grabbing her clothes and leaving the opera house.
She hailed a cab and got in, giddy with excitement. The pieces of her life were falling together and somehow she felt ready and headed in the right direction. She told the taxi driver in halting French that she would like an extended drive back to her hotel, asking him to drive by the Parisian sites before heading in for the night.
And so they zoomed through the city. Misha had the window rolled down and she leaned out, snapping pictures at buildings and fountains they jetted past, waving at tourists and Parisians strolling through the streets or seated at cafes.
She was so happy, the wind from the taxi as it sped through the city pricked at her eyes and whipped her hair around her face. The taxi driver seemed to be a little reckless, cutting short turns and honking and motorcycles puttering alongside of them, but Misha laughed, waved, and snapped another blurry picture as they drove on. She was so happy to be here, in this city. She was so happy to be a part of something so incredible. She was so happy, nothing could happen to take that feeling from her now.
She kept thinking how happy she was when the taxi cab slipped past a red light into a bustling intersection. She had not time to forget her happiness as the truck hurtled towards them, towards her. She was so happy. Nothing could happen to take that away from her.
And then the truck hit the passenger side of the car. The compact from of the taxi crumpled against the trucks frame, seeming to meld into on giant, hurtling metallic mass, straight into the side of a building.


Both drivers was killed instantly. Misha had been so happy.

Everything went completely, utterly black.