Chapter Fourteen

It was several days before Doctor Habsburg could come look at her thigh, by which point it was no longer neccesary. Raoul insisted, however, so Meg warily bared her leg. The doctor took a brief glance at it, kneaded it, then scoffed, “Is that what you brought me here for, Monsieur le Vicomte?”

Raoul nodded sheepishly. “I assume there's nothing wrong?”

“No, nothing in sight. I take it this is your wife?”

“Wife-to-be.”

“Well, seeing as there was nothing for me to really do, I'll let it go free of charge.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I'll see you out.”

“Wait, Monsiuer!” Meg interjected. She motioned to Raoul, “Please, could I speak to the doctor alone?”

Raould looked at her nervously, then nodded and left. The doctor returned to her bedside. “What can I do for you, Mademoiselle?”

She breathed deeply, a little scared. She lifted the skirt off of her other leg, revealing the one bruise that still remained. “About three weeks ago, I was... accosted. Beaten and taken advantage of, if you will. I was expecting to menstruate sometime that week. It never happened. I'm afraid I'm... well... it's always been so regular before, even when I was young.”

“You're afraid you're expecting?”

“Yes, Monsiuer.” She burst into tears, not even trying to sniff them back. “I just don't know what Raoul will do when he finds out!” she wept . Without realizing what she was doing, she leaned into the doctor's shoulder and wept into it.

“Meg?” Raoul called from outside the closed door. He heard her sobbing, and burst through onto the stiff doctor and Meg, crying like a baby on his shoulder. “What's going on here?” he bellowed, pulling Meg up and shaking her soundly. He let go, and she collapsed on the ground, gasping for air. She looked up in time to see his fist fly at the doctor's face, and she was transported back in time.

I must get away! I must go free, with my virginity in tact. Let me go, you god-damn son of a bitch! Please, I want to be pure for Raoul! Oh, god, don't hit me! Please, don't hit me! Oh, I feel sick. Someone, help me!

“Help, stop!” she screamed, her eyes rolling back in her head wildly. She stretched her arms out, every muscle tense, every finger staright and rigid as a nail. She screamed again, clawing at the air before her.

“You're a bloomin' lunatic!” Raoul cried. “Get away from me, you slut!”

“She was raped!” the doctor interjected, “She's pregnant, don't hurt her!”

“I'm not going to touch her. She's a disgrace to me and the de Chagney name, and I will not have anything to do with her. I won't marry her, and I won't believe her stupid rape baby story, either!” He spit towards her , then whirled and stomped out of the room.

Doctor Habsburg stood dizily, and followed in his path, leaving Meg sobbing on the bed. Her lamentations brought an unseen visitor to the room, and just as she fell to the ground unconcious, her father swept her into his arms and whisked her away to his lair, cradling her as he had cradled the last woman to join him in his underground home, when Christine had debuted in Hannibal months ago.

“My daughter,” Erik whispered, watching her sleep in the bedchamber. He had a daughter, and she was just as beautiful as her mother or more so. There was no sign of a disfigurement, unless you count the oddly-shaped mark on her breast. It looked tragically like a mask, a white, half-mask, much like the one that he wore on a day to day basis.

She stirred, and he jerked the hand that he was holding onto. He was not used to her, and he was half afraid that she would wake up and see him, and run in fear (who would ever guess that HE was afraid of anything?). She stirred again, and moaned softly. His heart leaped. His daughter was here, with him, in his private hell. And, unlike with her mother, she was not guarding him, but he gurading her. He was afraid that she would not be respected by Catherine's new husband, and that she would be cast out when everyone found out about her illigitimate child.

Catherine's husband. That should've been him, not Firmin. He was not handsome, but neither was Firmin, and at least he could sing! He had taught Catherine to sing and dance better than Madame Guidichelli, and he had made Christine the star that she was with the crowd of theatre-goers. He could make anyone anything, as long as they trusted him with their voices, and he knew that he could please any woman in bed if they gave him half a chance! But they were too afraid of him, too scared that he might do something horrendous to match his hideous face.
Jenny de Chagney, the late Vicomte de Chagney's aunt, had been one such woman, who had not refused him in bed as an adult, but in the cradle as a child. She was his mother, but she refused to care for him at all, and at age three he ran away to live on the streets of Paris. He took a new name, one that went well with his new feelings of freedom and authority. Erik, meaning all-powerful in Scandanavian. The “le Fantome” part came later, after he'd been at the Opera Populaire for a year or two. Too bad she didn't know what he had become. Then she might've been proud of him.

In the bed, Meg stirred and yawned. She opened her eyes, and looked at him quizically for a moment. He held his breath, praying please, don't let her be afraid. Let her love me for me. Please, God, don't let her scream and run away. Her eyes grew wide with fear, and she opened her mouth to let out an ear-piercing scream that rivaled the height and decibal level of Carlotta's top notes. He cringed, as she tore her hand from his grasp. “Who are you?” she shrieked. He reached out to touch her, to comfort her. “Don't touch me! Where am I?” By now she was standing on the bed, the crimson sheet wrapped around her as if to conceal her body from him.
“I'm not going to hurt you, dammit!”

She shivered. “How do I know that? Where am I, how did I get here, and who are you? Tell me! Then tell me how to get out of here!”

“You are in my bedchamber under the opera house. I brought you here, and I will not hurt you. I am your father, the Opera Ghost, and it's time you know me for who I really am, not for the petty fears of those above, Catherine and Christine included. The only reason I would hurt any of you would be if you disobey me. And there is no need to run, you can't get out without me. Catherine has had you for fifteen and a half years, and it's my turn now.”

She gasped. “I have no chance?” He shook his head. “Then you are just as bad as they make you out to be! I suppose you know everything about me then?”

“Of course. I've watched you since you were seven! You were engaged to marry Raoul de Chagney, that infamous hog of a man, and he cut you off when he found out that you are now pregnant by rape. Rape by Andre.”

“Let me go,” she commanded coldly. “I don't want anything to do with you. My mother loves me, and that's enough. I don't want you, I don't need you, and there's no chance that I ever will.”

“Everyone needs me. Without me, this opera house would crumble to bits under the less-the-beneficial management of Messuirs Andre and Firmin.”

“I want to leave.”

“You will stay here with me. Forever!”

“NO!” she cried, her breath coming quickly. “I will not. I never want to see you again, hear from you again. I never want you to interrupt my life or my mother's life ever again. She is happy, and with her help I will be too.”

“You are as ungrateful as Carlotta.” he snarled. “Fine. You may go.” He picked her up like a ragdoll and tossed her in his gondola, shoving off. “Climb the staircase at the other side of the lake, then forget the way.” He shoved the gondola away, and it floated until the glow from Meg's angry eyes could no longer be seen through the mist.