Chapter Text
“And how does that make you feel?”
It was the same question that was always asked after you had opened a wound in your psyche. You obediently dug deep, found a gem worth mining, and when you offered it up, you were always met with the same question, regardless of the sweat on your brow.
How does it make you feel?
You should tell him it makes you feel like shit.
Christine’s lips curled slightly at the echo of her roommate’s words in her head. Although respectful of Christine’s choices, Meg had a strong personal opinion of psychiatrists.
“Christine? How does that make you feel?”
Christine blinked slowly in the afternoon light streaming in from the street side window. The office, though spacious with multiple chairs and, of course, the stereotypical couch, was warm. After her latest tirade, she was finding it a challenge to concentrate.
“I’m sorry. To be honest, it makes me feel like shit.”
Dr. Lang’s thick eyebrows shot up his forehead. He then began to scribble on his legal pad, nodding.
“Understandably,” he said after a few seconds of scratching his pen across the paper. “Losing one’s father is extremely difficult.”
Christine pressed her lips into a thin line, forcing a deep sigh from escaping. All her turmoil and anguish summarized in a word. Difficult. Oh yes, it was very difficult .
Dr. Lang scrawled a few more notes across his legal pad and then looked up, acknowledging that Christine was still sitting in the armchair across from him. His eyes trailed up to the clock on the wall behind her.
“Well, it seems we are all out of time. Until next week?”
Christine rose from her chair, pulling her messenger bag from the floor to her left shoulder.
“Thank you, Dr. Lang. I’ll see you next week.”
She crossed to shake his hand, as she did every week.
He gave her a small smile, one that did not quite reach his eyes. “You’re doing marvelously,” he said, earnestly. As he did every week.
Christine smiled weakly in return and let herself into the waiting room.
“Same time next week?” the assistant asked as Christine approached the desk, fishing in her bag for her wallet.
“Yes, please.” Christine popped open her wallet.
“Oh, you’re all paid up, Miss Daaé. You hit your deductible last week. Looks like the rest of this years’ sessions are on the house, so to say.”
Christine blinked, open wallet in her hand. “Oh...I had no idea.”
The assistant smiled. She had sandy blonde hair in a pixie cut style. When she smiled, Christine thought of a faerie, full of mischief.
“No worries. It’s part of my job to keep track of these things. My name is Rochelle, by the way,” She said, proffering her hand. “Not to violate HIPAA or anything, but I noticed you’ve been coming here for quite some time. Dr. Lang doesn’t have many regulars, so I tend to remember those that are.”
Christine cautiously shook Rochelle’s hand with her right hand as she slipped her wallet back into her bag.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Christine.”
Rochelle snickered. “Well I already know your name.”
“Oh...right,” Christine smiled, her cheeks warming in embarrassment. “Well it was nice to officially meet you. I’ll see you next week.”
“See ya,” Rochelle gave Christine a small wave as she left.
Christine joined the crowd on the wide sidewalk, fishing her headphones and cell phone out of her bag as she jostled past an array of business district patrons. Dr. Lang’s office was nestled between a cafe and a law office, so the sidewalk occupants ranged from college students and aspiring writers, to divorcees and small claims specialists. Christine always enjoyed the game of people watching, and dodging, on her weekly walks to and from her appointments. She always found something new, in either the architecture or the people, to amuse her while she walked to the bus station a dozen blocks down the street. As she untangled her headphones, she caught sight of a tall man, whom she assumed was an attorney based on his clean pressed suit, on the phone, pinching the bridge of his nose in a moment of frustration with whoever was on the line.
“No, Darryl, you insolent fool. I did NOT want those funds transferred,” He growled in a low tone as he passed by.
Christine smirked as she popped in her headphones. Darryl better start looking for a new job soon!
As her thumbs scrolled through her music library on her phone, she kept looking up, both to avoid a collision and also to find another gem of humanity about which to speculate.
A woman in business attire standing outside a building, checking her phone and looking up and down the street? Possibly waiting for a friend for lunch or possibly waiting for a lover for their weekly forbidden rendezvous. The same could be said for the men in business attire, standing on the sidelines, waiting for a text, call, or the look of a friendly face.Who knows what complicated lives these many people led outside of the five seconds Christine saw them on the crowded concrete?
These thoughts swirled in her mind as her eyes roved the herd, looking for small gestures or unusual figures. Did someone pick up something that was dropped and return it, or pocket it for themselves? Were there any eye-catching, fluorescent hairstyles among the wash of brown and blonde? Was anyone bold enough to wear a patterned dress or suit in the mundane mix of fine black suits and grey sweatpants? This personal game of eye-spy was always better than letting her thoughts turn inward, dragging her mind down to her core.
Classical music flowed steadily from Christine’s headphones, cutting out the white noise of the populated street. However, it was never too loud so that she would be caught unawares by a scream or, forbid the thought, a gunshot. Although morbid, the latter was sadly a common occurance nowadays, and she was alert to any potentially marauding characters around her.
The music calmed her mind which was necessary before and after seeing Dr. Lang. It also reminded her of her father. It was an admittedly odd combination, but one that she religiously practiced each week. Despite her efforts to distance herself from the reality that her father was gone, she always found solace in classical music, especially the violin concertos she had heard her father rehearse endlessly while growing up. Perhaps she should bring it up to Dr. Lang at next week’s appointment?
About forty-five minutes later, the bus squealed to a stop near Christine’s apartment. She weaved her way around people and hopped off, checking her watch. She had just enough time to stop in for a bit of food before class. Christine walked from the bus stop across the street and down a few doors to her apartment.
Her building was old and bordered on either side by apartments similar in age. Whatever purpose the original buildings held was lost now to the goal of packing as many college students as possible in a microscopic footprint in a bustling section of the city. The charm of this situation granted tenants amenities such as no elevators, steam heat which fluctuated wildly between tropical and drafty during the winter, shared clothes washing appliances in the basement of each building (if you were lucky, your building had not one, but two sets that worked), paper thin walls through which arguments, romantic trysts, and all manner of television could be heard, as well as narrow hallways, small ovens, and an utter lack of air conditioning. Despite these lovely features, Christine smiled every time she walked up the crooked brick steps and unlocked the front door. It was a tidy place, with fresh paint, and more importantly, it was home.
Christine took the front staircase and slogged up the five flights of stairs to her and Meg’s apartment. Situated on the corner of the building right across from the front stairwell, it had the good fortune to overlook not just the narrow alley between the buildings but also the main street. If Christine dissociated enough while laying on the couch or on her bed, she could almost fool herself into thinking that the roar of cars and buses were in fact the ocean tide at night. After glancing down the hallway for prying eyes, she unlocked the door to her apartment and slipped inside.
“Meg?” She called as she quickly shut and locked the door behind her. “Are you home?” She hooked the carabiner on her keys to her back left belt loop as she walked down the short entrance hall to the kitchen.
The apartment was quiet and Christine half shrugged as she set her bag on their poor excuse for a dining room table, a card table that Meg and her had placed along the half wall that separated the living room from the kitchen proper. Meg’s schedule, much like Meg, was erratic, and Christine was convinced that half of the time Meg did not even bother going to her non-dance classes.
Christine pulled open the fridge, gazing longingly for a quick snack. She was excited at the prospect of pineapple yogurt, but her expression soured when she saw the two-week old sell by date. After dumping the cup unceremoniously in the almost full trash can, Christine started rummaging around in the cabinets. As predicted, the snack cabinet was well stocked and she decided a lemon protein bar constituted food as much as anything else. She ripped open the wrapper and leaned against the counter, checking her watch as she took the first bite. She still had twenty minutes to walk to campus and make her way over to the music building for her vocal class.
Mind as well leave now, she thought, casting another look around the apartment. Usually she relished a few moments of peace after her weekly visits with Dr. Lang. It allowed her to decompress before diving back into school work or interacting with people once more. Today, though, she was anxious. Although her and Dr. Lang had not gotten to discuss that particular feeling today, she was nervous about the change that was heading her way.
Christine was in the third year of her vocal performance degree, and all was about to change. Per the program’s design, being in the third year meant that assignments for vocal tutors would be given shortly and it was all that occupied her mind. To make matters worse, not all was guaranteed. At no fault of the university, the department of vocal arts was short staffed and only a limited amount of faculty were available as tutors. Many faculty members took more than one student, but some, the more artistic, drew the line at one or two students. Not that Christine’s class was overwhelmingly large, but there was still a chance that a few students would not have the opportunity for a private tutor, provided she did her math correctly.
The source of Christine’s anxiety lay in how it was decided who was assigned a tutor and who was not. She remembered discussions she had overheard in some of her mixed level classes last year that third year students were perplexed when seemingly talented classmates were not assigned a tutor. It did not seem to make sense based on their strong performances in prior classes. This is where Christine’s anxiety bred, for she was well aware of the fact that she was not as strong a singer as most and suffered from ironically crippling stage fright. Put her in a shower or in a car and she could sing loud and articulate. Put her on a stage, however, and she froze under the hot stage lights.
Her mind was a whirl as she entered the music building. Finishing the last of her protein bar, she dropped the wrapper in a nearby trash can and made her way to the basement where the vocal class studio was. She was about to push her way through the door when she noticed there was a sign posted on the door.
VOC 450 WILL BE HELD IN THE AUDITORIUM TODAY. THANK YOU. - DR. MYERS.
Christine checked her watch. Still ten minutes to spare. She sighed, and then huffed her way back up to the ground floor of the building and across the atrium to the auditorium. As she passed through the open audience doors, the sound of idle chatter filled her ears and her anxiety took a new turn. Risers were set up on the illuminated stage and most, if not all, of her classmates were already present. The feeling of being late took hold of her, and Christine quickened her pace down the nearest aisle to the stage.
Dr. Myers was standing at the front of the stage on the conductor's podium, jogging a pile of papers on her stand. She glanced up briefly over her cat-eyed glasses as Christine stepped onto the stage. Christine averted her gaze to the floor of the stage and made her way over to the first available spot on the risers in the first row, sitting down and tucking her legs beneath her. She glanced at her watch and tried to focus on the chatter around her.
“Who do you think you’ll get assigned to?”
“I hope I get assigned to Dr. Meyers honestly.”
“Oh, that would be difficult…”
“If I don’t get assigned I think I’m going to drop out…”
“Seriously? Why not just stick with it or switch majors?”
“Eh, I guess I could grab a business degree…”
“Alright, settle down everyone. We have a lot to cover today.”
Silence descended upon the auditorium as Dr. Meyers spoke. Classically trained in the operatic style, Dr. Cynthia Meyers was a woman who commanded attention. Add to the fact that she was the chair of the department of vocal arts and that she could probably make all manner of fine crystal glasses shatter with just her voice, the word scary was also an accurate adjective to describe her presence. She towered on the conductor’s podium in high heels and always wore a pencil skirt and suit jacket. If all that was not enough to instill in her students that she was a figure of authority as well as knowledge, then the proverbial cherry on top was her black rimmed, cat eye glasses and bold lipstick. Shifting from shades of dark red, to mauve or purple, nothing was more unnerving to an aspiring vocal student than the image of her green eyes glaring over her glasses while her tinted lips pressed together in a shape of extreme displeasure.
“As you all well know, today marks the day for you to be assigned to your private tutors. Instead of a normal day of class, I thought it would be beneficial for you to use this time to acquaint yourself with your tutor and set a schedule for you to practice. All of the instructors are out in the auditorium seats. Please go find your instructor once your name has been called.”
There was a beat of silence as Dr. Meyers adjusted her glasses and picked up the pile of papers on her podium. Christine felt her ears start to ring and began to feel flush under the heat of the stage lights. Assignments were being given out today? Christine swallowed and forced herself to sit up straight so as to not collapse in on herself like a dying star.
“Shall we begin? Patricia Garfield.”
A tall, willowy girl with wheat colored hair stood up from the back row of risers and cautiously approached Dr. Meyers at the podium. Dr. Meyers handed her a sheet of paper then announced the next name. This ceremony continued, each student called one at a time to approach the podium.
Christine tried to remain positive as more and more of her classmates stood and received a paper that sealed their fate. Some immediately descended into the auditorium seating to seek out their tutor while a few started to gather on the side of the stage, staring blankly at their pages. Christine had an ill feeling about their fate.
Slowly but surely the risers began to empty until only Christine and a few others remained. Christine was so focused on trying not to pass out she almost missed her name.
“Christine Daaé? Miss Daaé?”
“Here, ma’am,” Christine said softly as she unsteadily rose to her feet. She took a few steps forward and then backtracked to retrieve her bag. She almost tripped as she turned back around and heard a snort from somewhere on the risers. She ignored it as only the sight of Dr. Meyers’ scarlet lips pressed in a thin line filled her vision.
Christine felt the paper meet her shaking fingers, but she refused to look at it directly. She was vaguely aware of Dr. Meyers telling her to please step to the side of the stage as she called the next name. Only then, as her legs began to carry her away, did she look down.
Student: Christine Daaé
Main Range: Soprano
Tutor: Unassigned
The stage began to tilt. Christine’s vision blurred. She was half expecting the feeling of the stage floor beneath her palms to be the next sensation she registered as she collapsed. Instead, she found herself running towards the stage door, then colliding against it, breaking into the backstage hallway.
Then she was running home.