Don Juan Defeated { Phantom of the Opera }

Don Juan Defeated

Christine's hands shook terribly. In fact, her entire body was shaking, and quite visibly so. She longed for the comfort that only Raoul could give her, but he was too busy to sit with her and calm her. He was preoccupied with the preparations for the performance of Don Juan Triumphant, placing his chess pieces, setting the trap, beginning the plot.

Madame Giry, who was normally so stern and commanding, was gentle and motherly as she styled Christine's voluminous hair. She tutted over the dark circles that had begun to form under the young soprano's eyes and applied stage makeup that covered them. Every now and again, she made comforting statements that merely bounced off of Christine. Madame Giry did her best to be sincere, but she could not hide the worried expression that controlled her features.

Christine was anxious and exhausted. She had not slept for nearly three days, and she could feel her body begging her to sleep, but she could not. Every time she closed her eyes even for a moment, she saw terrible things. Her mind was working overtime, feeding her awful, half-delusional images of the horrors that might be in store. There were too many variables in the plan, too many things that could go wrong, and this scared Christine. The visions of all the possible futures were all too vivid and real, each more frightening than the last. She could not stop imagining her dark fate, prisoner once more of the elusive, possessive Phantom, or Raoul, dead by his hand. His masked face stared at her ghoulishly in the shadows of her mind, and it served as a constant reminder that if anything went wrong, she could be at his mercy for the rest of her life. She could not stop thinking, imagining, visualizing, so she tried to prepare herself for anything.

But even with all the things Christine dreamed up, there was but a single scenario that she did not imagine. It was, as these things often are, the one that ultimately came to pass.

******

The stage was set in a strange, almost surreal scene. Shadows lengthened and intensified under the yellow light and seemed to thicken like a viscous liquid. From the syrupy darkness behind a curtain emerged a cloaked figure. Christine felt a vague sense of fear when she saw this man, but she could not tear her eyes away. He moved so gracefully towards her that it was almost like he was floating. He took his place several feet in front of her and stood, silent and still, for only a moment.

Even before he began to sing, Christine knew something was wrong. The man before her was not Piangi, that much she could tell. He was wearing the costume for Don Juan, but he was taller, less corpulent. And there was something about the way he carried himself. He walked with slight trepidation as if he were afraid the floor might collapse beneath him, but he still moved with the grace of a dancer. In other words, he was nothing like Piangi, but Christine could not fathom who this person could be. She wracked her brain in an internal frenzy, trying to remember if there was an understudy for Don Juan, but she couldn't recall. And then the cloaked man before her began to sing.

"You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge."

His voice was as smooth as silk and as rich as velvet, even as he took on a husky tone, and she knew him right away. His voice struck her like a spear, pinning her to the ground and rendering her motionless. After all this time, he still had the same effect on her. She could only watch him from where she stood with wide eyes and trembling hands. He was right in front of her. The Phantom was right there, almost within arm's length, and she felt he was looking at her as if he could see into her very soul despite the fact that she could not see his face, much less his eyes. But she did not need to see his eyes to feel them on her.

"Past the point of no return, no backward glances."

As the Phantom continued, he gained a different tone. His voice went lower and flowed slowly, steadily, like a thick, sweet syrup, seeming almost like he was trying to seduce her. He grew closer and almost touched her, almost, his hands hovering just above her skin. Christine shivered involuntarily. At that, he retracted his hands from her, electing instead to circle her predatorily. His movements and his voice affected her. Every step, every syllable made her long for him. It reminded her of that fateful night when he had spirited her away to his home under the opera house, the way he had sung to her so passionately. She had felt the way she did now then as well. And the Phantom, he was entrancing and bewitching, and she dimly knew she was slipping into a trance that she did not want to escape.