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Do I Dream Again?	By : LaurieBaker Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 10050 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Mildred Hobbes, for the first time in her life, set foot in a library. There had been little need for her to ever visit the London Library at St. James Square before, seeing as how she seldom had the time or the inclination to read a book. In fact, her literacy skills were extremely lacking as she had never had any formal education when growing up. During her impoverished youth, she only learned whatever she needed to know in order to survive.

Yet on this late spring day, she braved the unfamiliar institution, enduring the haughty glances of the scholars and librarians all about her. With a proud stubbornness, she forged ahead to the catalogues in the main reading room, holding her head up high....well, as high as a woman could hold her head when she wore a dress with material worn so thin that it resembled a large rag covering her body. Well, let the snobs look down on her, she sneered as she perused the reference materials. She was accustomed to such treatment. Indeed, she had known nothing else all of her life.

Yes, she may have been born with every disadvantage that a woman could have if she had loftier goals in life. But she had inherited one quality which always worked in her favor: an unshakeable tenacity to get what she wanted. And what she wanted right now was information.

Mildred Hobbes was bound and determined to read up on all of the scandalous stories written about her mysterious boarder, Christine Daae. And by doing so, perhaps she would find out more about the real object of her curiosity, the masked man that she found herself so strangely drawn to.

Mildred’s more sophisticated tenants knew a thing or two about the quiet curly-haired brunette which they gleefully divulged to their landlady over dinner. With all of her ladylike airs, the prim Christine Daae had really started out as nothing but a common chorus girl in Paris, dancing for the Opera Populaire. That is, until she took up with some freakish murderer who helped her to become an opera star. There were even rumors that the soprano had been engaged to a duke or some such, but Mildred did not believe it. No girl would throw away a fancy Frenchman with money only to live a life of solitude in a dingy boarding house. No one in their right mind, at least. So how did this notorious woman end up at her door? What was she hiding? And what did the masked man want with her?

Much to Mildred’s annoyance, she had to ask one of the higher-than-thou librarians to help her find the information that she sought in the enormous catalogue. Not only were her reading skills too challenged to accomplish her mission, but the print was so small that her eyes were becoming quite strained. The man’s condescending tone as he helped her made her want to spit in his eye. Yet she merely clenched her hands into tight fists at her sides, doing her best to hold her tongue and her temper.

Once she had acquired the materials that she sought, several yellowed editions of various newspapers describing a fire at the Paris Opera House and a few theatrical reviews, she sat at a small table in frustration, not quite certain where to start. A pity that she did not speak and read French, she mused, as she looked through the papers. Then she laughed at her own silliness. She could barely read English as it was. Still, there was a small accounting of the “chandelier incident” and the fire in the London newspaper. So she started with that one.

Thus, Mildred Hobbes began to read about the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera.

As she read the article, occasionally having to look up a word or two in a large dictionary nearby, all of the fragmented pieces of the puzzle started to fit together in her mind. Too many things started to make sense. Despite the rumors that the Phantom of the Opera was dead, Mildred knew the truth. That man living on the fourth floor was indeed the monster known as Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, who had murdered countless men. Obviously, he was still in love with Christine Daae and was still plotting on having his way with her. She knew that she should call the authorities and have the man arrested. The last thing that she needed was trouble with the law.

And yet she could not bring herself to do it...

Mildred could still remember all too well the taste of his warms lips upon her own. She could still smell that clean masculine scent when his body had pressed closely to her own. She still felt the rasp of his mask against her cheek. She touched her lips at the memory.

No, she did not intend to turn the Phantom in.

Mildred was not a woman accustomed to throwing herself at men. In general, she had found the opposite sex to be of little use to her in life. Her father had always been a lazy drunk; and that was before he had abandoned her and her mother when she was ten years old. The local boys she grew up were often rude and obnoxious, only interested in fighting and sports. When they grew older, those same boys then were only interested in seeing how far they could get their hands up her skirts. Even the tenants who were always late with their payments or disorderly were invariably male.

Oh, she had her share of lovers over the years. When one was as impoverished as she was when growing up, virtue was a luxury. Long ago, she had given up her dreams of marrying a man who would rescue her from her life of squalor. She had neither the beauty nor the connections to turn such a man’s head. Thus, she gave away her favors, particularly in her younger days when such intimacies meant a fancy dinner or a nice fur coat. But she had never seen what the fuss was about. Intercourse always seemed to her to be a pleasure reserved only for men. For women, it was an unpleasant business that was nothing but pain, pregnancy and disease.

So why did this masked man on the top floor, this Phantom of the Opera, make her feel so odd?

From the moment she had first spied him in Mr. Tomkins’ room, she had felt a strange sort of fascination with him. When he had roughly grabbed her and snarled threats at her with that evil gleam in his eyes, she realized that for the first time in her life, her body had experienced an urgent and aching insistence that she was unfamiliar with. She guessed that the sensation was one of lust as she had the most incredible urge to raise her skirts and rub herself against him. She wanted to engage in the sex act with him, and not in exchange for money or gifts. She merely wanted to experience the act for itself with him. She wanted to feel that hateful man’s body savagely push inside of her with all of the violence that was seething inside of his wiry frame. She wanted to mate with him like an animal, the rougher the better.

Mildred did not understand her feelings. Was she simply attracted to the mystery and danger of the stranger who had suddenly appeared in her life? Had her monotonous existence of running a boarding house finally pushed her over the edge to the point where she needed some sort of wild thrill to make her feel alive? Or was it that she merely wanted to explore these new sensations that he made her feel just by being close to her?

Never one to be overly analytical, Mildred did not contemplate such matters too much. She asked the questions, but did not concentrate hard enough to find the answers. All she knew was that she wanted him in the most primitive sort of way. Indeed, she not only wanted him to take her, but she fantasized him of debasing her in the most horrific ways.

These feelings scared her at first, so she stayed away from him.

But that night when she had spied him leaving Christine Daae’s room, she had lost all pretense of indifference towards him. At first, she was consumed by jealousy for a woman that she barely even knew. Why did he want to be bothered with that shy little mouse who always dressed in such boring colors? The boarder lived like a nun, so Mildred knew it was not simply a means to get easy sex. No, he was interested in much more in Christine Daae than just a simple roll in the hay. Of course, this was before she knew the truth of what they were to each other.

Not accustomed to such feelings of envy, Mildred began to goad at him until she lost all of her inhibitions, deliberately provoking him. Giving in to her body’s urge, she kissed him, trying to lead him on into a state of violent lust. Oh, she could feel him fighting the passion that was sweeping through his body as hotly as it was through her own. She could still recall how his arms and shoulders hardened with rock-like strength under the palms of her hands as she clung to him. But even with his murderous threats, he still held back, unwilling to give in to what they both knew was between them.

All night she had tossed and turned in her miserable state of yearning, cursing him for making her feel so desperately wanton and unfulfilled. And she also cursed Christine for standing between her and the object of her desire.

That was when she decided to find out about the singing teacher. One thing she had learned in her life: knowledge was power. And now she had some sweet little facts at her fingertips indeed.

Returning the materials to the mean librarian, Mildred set about on her way back to her boarding house and back to her masked tormentor.

Oh, yes, Mildred had learned quite a few things that could work out to her advantage quite nicely. She bit back a smile when she once again felt her body stir with the thought of having the Phantom of the Opera at her mercy...and naked in her bed...

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And I pray one prayer - I repeat it till my tongue stiffens - Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you - haunt me, then! The murdered DO haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts HAVE wandered on earth. Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! only DO not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I CANNOT live without my life! I CANNOT live without my soul!'

Erik reread the passage that he had scrawled out from Christine’s novel, Wuthering Heights. This had been one of his favorite parts, the section where Heathcliff lamented the death of his dear Cathy. The book had been much better than he had imagined. In fact, it was inspiring. He intended to purchase his own copy so that he could write notes to himself throughout the novel. There was something about the dark haunting tone of the story that suited his mood perfectly. As he read the story, he imagined himself as the dark brooding Heathcliff, his beloved Christine as the spirited Cathy and that wretched Vicomte as Edgar Linton, the man that Cathy chose to marry when her soulmate was Heathcliff. The casting in his head was perfect, he noted with a wry grin. True, he imagined Heathcliff to be a handsome man, his face smooth and clear of any deformities; yet the character’s harsh nature and his passion for Catherine Earnshaw were qualities that Erik identified all too well with. Always, Heathcliff was a man on the outside looking in, always looked down upon as a ‘dirty gypsy beggar’ no matter how wealthy he became, never allowed to be happy with the only woman he had ever loved. As he recognized more and more of his own similarities with the character, Erik was attracted and repulsed at the same time.

Then a melody began to play repeatedly in his head...a sad romantic piece that spoke of lonely moors and hills of heather throughout the English countryside...

Damn his soul, what he would not sacrifice for a piano right at this moment!

Reaching for a sheet of parchment, Erik began to scribble out musical notes on a makeshift score of four drawn lines, determined to get the music out of his head and onto paper. He only heard a few strains of the melody, but it would do for the moment. Indeed, this was the first true inspiration he had since the night of Don Juan. He resolved to go to the music store tomorrow and purchase some musical scrolls. And he needed resin for his violin bow anyway. If only he could get a piano up to the top floor of this old boarding house without being noticed. If only he could get to Christine’s piano...

But he had taken too many chances with her as it was, ‘borrowing’ her novel as he had.

As Christine’s dulcet tones bled through the thin walls, his mind started to go down that forbidden path again...that path which led to her. How wonderful it had been to hear her sweet voice again, whispering so softly through the crack of his door, especially after he had been so worried that he had once again lost her to the Vicomte! When she had visited him as Mr. Tomkins, asking him to her student’s performance, how he wished he could have said ‘yes’! The tempting word had been on the tip of his tongue. How he wished he could have been another man with another face and could have started all over again, escorting her to the opera, having her soft delicate hand resting upon the crook of his arm. How he wished he could kiss that hand and then turn it over to kiss her palm. Then he would rain kisses up her arm to the sweet hollow of her slim neck. He would bite and nuzzle and nip at that tender flesh until she would squirm against him in need. Then he would pull her dress down to reveal her lovely tender breasts...

Stop it, he cursed at himself as he felt himself harden. How had his thoughts turned from an innocent opera date to a heated coupling in the dark? Why did she always drive him to such lustful imaginings?

Although he paced about in frustration, he felt a small fraction of peace regardless. At least, he still had his music. He had not lost that. No, not that...

Again, he sat down and continued to write a pattern of musical notes upon the parchment, lost in the bliss of creativity that made him forget who he was...and what he could not have...
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Do I Dream Again?