The Art of Manipulation || Phantom of the Opera & Loki the God of Mischief ||

15. Seal My Fate Tonight

Chapter Fifteen || Seal My Fate Tonight

~*~

The mingled sound of over a hundred different conversations drifted behind the red curtain and to the awaiting performers backstage. It is 7:58 pm now, only two minutes until the first notes of Erik's opera will begin.

The dancers stood in the wings, bending this way and that to remain limber as they waited for the heavy curtain to raise and signal their cue. Their Spanish style costumes left little to the imagination; something that this era of Paris will surely find scandalous. Despite the thousands of thoughts keeping my mind alert, I couldn't help but think of the women in the 21st century and how they dressed. If only humanity knew how much they would decline in only a few decades. What these women are wearing now - the low cut tops and tight corsets pushing their breasts towards the brink of overflowing; the shorter skirts and black fishnets - was nothing compared to the booty shorts and string tank tops of the year 2015. Still, in what is now today's society, I could already hear the shocked gasps and astounded whispers that will come from the sophisticated aristocrats of 1871 Paris.

I stood in the wings of stage left, the score open and ready in my hands for when the show will finally begin. I heard the young heartbeat of Raoul sit in First-Tier Box Five. No doubt his deliberate disobedience of the Phantom's usual demand was due to Loki's meddling fingers in Raoul's mind. As for knowing the Raoul in Box Five was the real Raoul and not the fake, it was easy to tell because of the human heartbeat that radiated from within him and not the cold beastly thump of Loki. Where Loki's monstrous and sadistic heart is at this moment is beyond my knowledge, thanks to him going back to blocking me out whenever I try to locate him.

At 7:59 pm, the curtains rose and the lights dimmed, creating an anticipated hush to fall over the auditorium like an opium mist had nuzzled itself into the mortals' nostrils. Monsieur Reyer stood up high on the conductor's box, stiffening his back and then tapping the music stand three times with his white baton. The musicians - pale and rigid with anxiety - readied their instruments and stared intently at Monsieur Reyer for the signal to start the first notes. Everyone held their breath as they waited, while the audience ignorantly sat, silently waiting for what they assumed would be another masterpiece produced by the Opéra Populaire. Glancing over the first page of Don Juan, I couldn't help the knowing shiver that ran down my spine and the shaky breath that escaped my throat. Briefly, I wished I had swapped the score in my hands for the first version of Don Juan that Erik had written. At least then, no matter what happened to the performers and Christine tonight, the audience members would be pleased and the business wouldn't be negatively affected. However, like a lot of things, it is too late now.

The pregnant silence still hung in the air as we all waited for Reyer to start the show. He stood with the baton poised, as though he thought if he delayed starting the show the entire evening, we may not have to do the show at all. And then all of us would be spared from the unknown terrors the Opera Ghost had in store for them.

My footstep made a dull thud! as I stepped further towards the opening in the curtain. Hearing this, Reyer flinched and met my eyes, afraid that that sound came from the terrorist the innocent patrons were unaware of. Clearing my throat politely I nodded to him, giving him a reassuring smile. Reyer visibly and audibly filled his lungs with much needed oxygen before blinking long and hard, and then, cueing his loyal orchestra to begin the show.

As the first notes began, the lighting crew started up the raging fire in the center of the stage; the rest of the scenery seeming to flare up along with it. From where I stood, just behind one of the curtains, I could see the audience members in the front row narrow their eyes at the sudden burst of the rebellious red and draw back; the women using their fans to shield their eyes while the men raised their gloved hands. The actors who had been waiting in the wings with bated breaths rushed out to center stage, all of them hastily taking their positions, forming a sort of circle where some drunkenly peered over their shoulders to the audience and laughed boisterously. They had begun singing Don Juan's first lines: