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Post by Christine Daaé on Sept 19, 2013 22:27:09 GMT -5
Christine rushed into her dressing room, still dressed in Ophelia's white with posies woven into her golden locks. She had begged Jeanette to leave her alone for a while. She needed to be alone. It was still fairly early in the day, in comparison to when most performances would have finished. It was a matinée, and while she had not been initially scheduled to perform, some strange situation had happened to prevent La Carlotta from going on (something about someone spilling ink all over her costumes and it would take several hours to get the stains out), and thus she had been forced rather unwillingly to sing the role of Ophélie. The performance was sufficient, though not by any means spectacular. She'd just finished the mad scene, and had returned to her dressing room, closing and locking the door behind her before collapsing in a chair and burying her face in her hands. She couldn't keep doing this. She couldn't sing this... She'd never wanted to come here. She didn't belong here.No matter how much she tried to convince herself that Mamma Valérius was right--that this was what her father had wanted for her... but she couldn't. No matter how hard she tried, something inside of her had died a long time ago. A portion of her very soul was missing, and she had thus lost, not only all touch, but also all taste for her art.
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Post by Erik on Sept 19, 2013 23:14:07 GMT -5
Erik smirked. She'd done it, she'd gotten through the part of Ophelia. Never mind that he'd had to arrange for a little accident to happen in order to persuade the Swede to sing. He knew she'd go to her dressing room when she was finished. Presumably to relax and recuperate after her first role in her time as an understudy. He slipped out of the hollow column in his private box, satisfied enough with the work she'd produced from his act of charity, and made his way toward her dressing room.
She wasn't the best of voices, of course. But she was good enough, naturally. He carefully slipped through the walls, his mind focused on seeing the fruit of his good works, earning his right to be self-satisfied.
When he came to the larger passageway to her dressing room, he allowed himself to slow down with his pace. After all, it wasn't like she was going anywhere. He mused over the girl's performance. It lacked some lustre, but he attributed that to nerves. After all, it was the little Swede's first performance!
It took him a few minutes, but he got to her dressing room mirror without any hassle, and - after making sure she was still decent, of course - looked on at the girl.
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Post by Christine Daaé on Sept 21, 2013 13:13:57 GMT -5
Silently, the young girls tears began to flow. If one did not know her general predisposition for such crying, an observer could have not realized that there were, in fact, tears at all, given the calm and the silence behind them, she had a while yet before the bows at the end of the performance, but she wasn’t certain that there would be any at all… not for her, at least.
This continued for a few minutes time, before she listed her head again, quickly wiping away the tears with her little fingers, and inhaling deeply. She closed her eyes, and allowed herself to remain there in the silence for some time, simply breathing in an attempt to calm herself. Was this really what her father would have wanted from her?
She knew quite well that her performance had been mediocre. The notes were correct, yes, but the musicality wasn’t there, and there was no sort of soul behind the character… or within herself. She felt dead. She was dead… She stood and silently walked over to the little table, where sat a bottle of port and a glass. She poured herself a glass and drank it rather quickly before setting it back down on the table and rubbing her temples, beginning to pace a bit.
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