Phantom: A Dark Retelling (Tattered Curtain Series)
Phantom: Act 2 – Scene 10

Scarlett

I saw him.

Sol Bordeaux. The sexy man from my dream, the brooding one from Masque, and, apparently, the Phantom of the French Quarter.

He watched me from box five with sensual need plainly visible on his face, even with a bone-white mask covering half of his expression. My core clenched from just one look, while I stood in shock right there on the stage.

Does seeing him now mean that everything I know is real? Or was he an apparition? A true phantom that’s only a byproduct of a wild, manic imagination? Questions barrage my brain and I can feel the aura of a panic attack coming on.

I’m so fucked.

The air in my chest can’t come fast enough. I hyperventilate while staggering through the halls backstage, narrowly missing a senior baritone. In my panicked state, I push past him and collide with my dorm room door, shoving it open quickly. It’s only once I’m inside that I realize I haven’t taken a deep breath since I gasped onstage.

I swallow, trying to calm down, but it’s no use. My vision is fading on the edges and I know it is only a matter of breaths before I pass out.

Sol Bordeaux.

One minute he was there, but in the blink of my eyes, he was gone. Like a hallucination.

But this time, I’m sober. There are no drugs in my system like last night.

Shit.

Taking the wrong meds before bed suddenly feels like one of the worst things I could’ve done. After I left Café du Monde today, I stopped by the pharmacy to retrieve another round of all my medications. When I got back, I took the right ones immediately. Was that not enough to stave off an episode? Or is this just a garden variety panic attack?

I’ve never visually hallucinated before. Auditory, yes. But my drug-induced dream last night was so vivid. Was I hallucinating then, too? Or was it real?

I try to catch up with my need for oxygen, even as I throw open drawer after drawer of my makeup counter to search for my meds. It takes riffling through each one to figure out the new prescriptions have been on top of my desk the whole time.

Panicking has clouded my thoughts. It buzzes through me, gripping my chest like a vise. If I don’t get relief soon, I know I’ll pass out, or worse.

Do panic attacks alone cause mania?

I grunt in frustration at the anxiety and hopelessness scratching at my lungs right now.

I’m not thinking straight.

I know this.

One side of me says everything has an explanation. It desperately begs me to lie down and chill out, that this will all pass soon enough.

The other side is just as loudly screaming that I conjured up a vision in the middle of my rehearsal and is instructing me to do everything in my power to feel better as soon as possible.

Despite all the logic trying to break through the barrier of hysteria controlling my mind right now, I listen to the side that promises immediate relief and snatch one of my pill bottles up. As soon as I wrench the top open, pills clatter to my makeup desk and I frantically collect them in my hand.

It’s too many.

I know this.

And yet…

I can’t stop myself.

I swallow them whole, choking until I grab my water bottle from my nightstand. When I’m finished, I slam it back down onto the surface… right next to a spotless white rose with a bloodred ribbon tied around the thornless stem, and an envelope adorned with a crimson wax skull seal.

The rose and letter halt me in my place. My mind finally slows for once. With shaking fingers, I carefully open the envelope, keeping the skull intact like I have with every letter over the past several months.

The past. Several. Months.

Oh my god, what have I been doing? Why the hell have I been avoiding looking into this lunatic? My caring, thoughtful demon of music could be a fucking serial killer for all I know. The Phantom of the French Quarter, the enforcer to the modern-day New Orleans Capulets against the Montagues, two glorified Mafia families. Rand says the Bordeauxs are dangerous. What would happen if I’ve blindly fallen into the middle of their feud? Why have I been so naive about this man? Is it because I’m afraid of what it means if he’s real? Or is Jilliana right? Am I terrified I’ve been doing this to myself all along?

I gulp, trying to push out my racing thoughts to investigate the newest letter. A folded wad of paper rests inside the envelope and I gingerly pull it out, already dreading what I’ll replace.

One by one, my trembling hands set out sheet after sheet of music, all from my so-called demon. All perfectly intact. Like Jilliana hadn’t ripped them to shreds hours ago. I swivel around to the coffee table, hoping to see those scraps of music sheets piled high, evidence of what I know happened today. My stomach flips at the sight of the perfectly clean coffee table.

My heart lodges in my throat and I fall to my knees, the music sheets scatter around me. Tiny drops of water smear the carefully handwritten notes. It’s someone else’s writing. Not mine. It can’t be mine. Right?

Puddles of tears form on the page like watercolors, wiping out whole measures of the songs. My vision darkens as the world presses in. I clutch my throat, trying to breathe but something is lodged there… no… it’s just my own voice.

I’m screaming.

Someone pounds on the door behind me as I rock back and forth. I curl up on my faux fur rug that covers my dorm’s carpet, trying to take comfort in its softness, hoping something will calm me down.

A crash and a thump batter my senses as whoever was at my dressing room door bulldoze it open, causing it to slam against the wall.

“Shit, Scarlo—”

Voices from the hallway talk over one another.

“What the fuck is wrong with her?”

“Is she okay?”

“Wait, who is—”

“Close the door, Dominguez.” My fingers clutch the rug until a familiar deep bass croons to me. Strong hands curve around my shoulders. “It’s me, ma petite muse. Listen to my voice, it’s just me.”

My ravaged mind doesn’t know who “me” is, but my body does. Leather, whiskey, and warm sugar fill my nose, giving me the oxygen I’ve searched for ever since this panic attack started. The man—my demon—pulls me into his chest. I cling to him instantly. He’s my port in this storm and relaxation settles deep into my bones as a song vibrates against my ear from his chest.

My savior sings in French. I don’t know the lyrics off the top of my head, but my addled mind still recognizes the tune. It’s one of the songs my demon sent me, “La Vie en rose,” only the way he sings it makes it sound like a lullaby.

“Get them out of here,” my savior hisses.

A door slams and the bustle of voices and questions disappear.

“Try to sing with me, Scarlett,” he whispers into my hair. The song resumes and I open my mouth to obey him, but my chest hurts too much.

“I c-can’t. My chest—”

“It’s because you’re not breathing. Come on, Scarlett.” Concern creases his brow as he pierces me with his midnight gaze from behind his skull mask. “You were born for this. Sing for me.” He places a large hand across my belly, below my rib cage. “From here.”

The combination of his embrace and the drugs are starting to calm my senses and I’m feeling lighter. Muscle memory engages my diaphragm right underneath his palm, and I suck in much-needed breaths to sing the English version of “La Vie en rose” while he hums. My eyes flicker open and closed as I attempt to keep his intense gaze. Together we sing about roses blooming and angels singing and my heart rate starts to slow down… until it gets too slow.

On that revelation, my mind tries to panic again, and as if on cue, my friend’s voice, laced with worry, interrupts us.

“She took these, Phantom. Is that why she’s acting like this?”

Phantom.

“Fuck. No, this is a panic attack, but those drugs will be working soon enough. Count them. Quickly. She got them today so hopefully they’re all in there.”

Pills fall silently onto the rug and my eyes beg to open, but they’ve finally closed for good. My senses are already too overloaded, so I rely on the others to calm down and assess. Like smelling whiskey, sugar, and leather, or listening to the soothing voice I’ve heard in my dreams. If I open my eyes, will those things go away?

“How many did you take?” I’m jostled and brought to a sitting posture, one strong hand cups my face and shakes me not too gently. “Scarlett, baby.” My demon’s voice is harsher than before. “Answer me. How many did you take?”

“I-I don’t know.” My lips are numb and my tongue is thick. I can’t seem to hold myself up, but I want to tell my demon that I’m fine, that I know what I’m doing. But the words don’t form.

“It’s a thirty-count bottle,” my friend answers for me. His name is on the tip of my thoughts… but it’s slipping away. “There are twenty left, but she’s got more brand-new bottles I’ll have to count and there are pills everywhere.”

“Goddamnit.”

“She should go to the ER, sir. She needs to be evaluated by a psychiatrist, maybe even get her stomach pumped.”

I feel a scream build up and escape, but once it leaves my lips I only manage a whimper. “Please… no… no psych ward. Can’t go back…”

“Jamais, mon amour. I will take care of you.” He speaks with such authority that even though I don’t know what he meant, I relax in his hold, trusting him. “Call my brother, tell him to bring Dr. Portia to me.”

“Where will you be?” my friend asks, although the question seems slower than his usual cadence.

“He’ll know. Just do it.”

The world moves underneath me as my demon stands up, giving me the same queasy feeling I get when I’m on a boat. I try to push away but the arm cradling my upper back rights me and clutches me tighter while my demon sings to me again in French.

“I… I don’t know the words,” I complain numbly. My savior huffs a laugh, interrupting his sweet lullaby, and he kisses the crown of my head while squeezing me close, now with one arm surrounding my back and one underneath my legs.

“You don’t need to know the words when you inspire them, ma muse.”

“But I w-want to know them,” I insist. My frazzled mind and emotions are clinging to his music as deep slumber threatens to swallow me.

“I’ll teach you, but for now, hum along. Let the music free you from the darkness in your mind.”

My eyes peek open and burn in bleary focus at lamps ensconced in stone walls as we move through a tunnel.

Where are we?

I want to ask the question, but my mind is everywhere and nowhere, kind of like wherever we are…

The leather and whiskey scent is joined by the smell of damp earth. The lamps do little for lighting but my demon seems to have no trouble. It feels like we’re descending. Lower and lower we go until we finally stop.

I open my eyes slightly to see a terrifying devil made of fire with black pits for eyes standing right in front of us. My heart thuds in my chest until my own demon speaks, letting me know whoever this is can be trusted.

“Ben and Dr. Portia will be here shortly. Let them in. But only them.”

“What about her handler?” the devil responds in a smooth alto. “Can he come in?”

My handler? What does that mean?

My savior pauses for a second, like he’s asking the same question, but I feel the thick muscles in his chest tighten and his body say no before he does.

“Ben and Dr. Portia. No exceptions.”

My head is spinning and I’m exhausted, but whether that’s because of the pills I took, or the panic attack still trying to stiffen my muscles, I’m not sure. I desperately want to know what’s going on, who’s saving me, where I am, but my mind can’t hold on to more than the gentle lullaby whispered by the deep voice above me. It’s soothing and exhilarating. Heavenly and sinful, like a true demon of music, lulling me to trust him. I don’t fight it. For the first time since my dad died, I feel comforted despite the roiling pressure in my mind. I crave the acceptance of my demon’s embrace.

He ends the conversation with the flame-wrought devil and we enter a heavy steel door. It shuts behind us immediately, sucking all the light back into the tunnel. The lack of visibility doesn’t deter him though, and he walks several paces through pitch-black darkness.

“I will always protect you, petite muse. But with that being said, this is going to hurt both of us.”

Before I can really register his warning, bright lights blind me and I’m gingerly placed in a sitting position on cold tile and draped over porcelain. I open my mouth to complain, only to have two long fingers shoved down it.

Surprise, embarrassment, and revulsion rush through me like a freezing cold deluge of water. My body rebels against the foreign source. Without giving me a chance to fight back, he twists me to face the toilet I’ve been laid across and I violently cough out the contents of my stomach.

He kneels behind me and pulls my hair back, cradling me with one arm around my waist when he’s not forcing his fingers down my throat.

“That’s it, baby, you’re doing so good. I don’t know if the amount you took is fatal, but I know we’ve got to get that shit out of you. ”

“No. I can’t—” I shake my head but his large hand invades my mouth again while his body keeps me facing the bowl. Tears, snot, and vomit spew out of me and I scream at the expulsion. All the while that soothing voice tries to calm me even while my body fights him. Somewhere deep down I know he’s doing this for my own good, but god do I hate it.

Every time my body tries to hold back, his fingers stimulate the gag reflex I didn’t even know I had until now. We go back and forth like this for what feels like hours until the only thing coming up is bile.

I collapse against his chest, sobbing, exhausted, and thoroughly spent, my muscles in agony already.

“Shh… shh.” His gentle bass vibrates my back and he washes my face with a cool cloth. “You did good, baby. So good, ma chérie.”

His fingers caress my cheek and I shake my head limply.

“Please, no more… I can’t.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” He gathers me up in his arms. “No more. I think we got everything out.”

I nod dumbly and let him pick me up again, settling me on my feet but keeping a strong arm wrapped around my waist for support. Thankfully, he turns off the light, soothing the migraine exploding in my head caused by all the purging. He turns on the sink faucet, even though the bathroom is barely visible. I don’t know how he can see to help me take a greedy sip from the glass he brings to my lips, but he does it easily.

“How can you see?” I ask, my voice is hoarse as it leaves my raw throat.

“I don’t need to,” he answers. “I’ve lived here for so long that I know where everything is.”

“Okay, well how can you see me?”

A low chuckle huffs from his chest. “I’ve studied you for so long that I know almost everything there is to know about you.”

He cups my cheek before I can respond. Concern rolls off of him and although I barely know this man, my heart aches that I caused his worry. “What I don’t know is why you took so many pills. Tell me, Scarlett. Were you…” He swallows. “Were you trying to—”

“No! No, no, no.” My objection ends on a squeak. “I was just… scared. I… I needed the panic to stop.”

I sense him nodding and he kisses my forehead, sending the butterflies in my lower belly fluttering wildly.

“Never again. You’ll never put yourself in danger like that again. Say you understand.”

“I understand,” I repeat immediately.

Exhaustion weighs me down and I lean into him as he guides me through the darkness.

“Where are we?” I ask, my brutalized voice wavering with uncertainty.

“My home. You are with your démon de la musique, ma jolie petite muse. You have no need to fear me.”

He walks us farther into the dark space before helping me lie on a deep, soft bed and tucking me underneath the cool covers. I curl on my side while silk sheets rustle beside me. A thick, heavy quilt is piled on top of me and I ball up into a fetal position, my arms wrapped around my knees as I lie sideways.

My savior’s comforting, large body curves around mine protectively. He scoops his arm underneath my neck to situate my head on the silk pillow while squeezing me to his chest. The fluid move is familiar, like everything with my demon, and it’s easy to trust him and give in to fatigue.

Before I let go, my lips move and the thought I still can’t wrap my head around falls out.

“You’re… real?”

A rough chuckle against my neck warms my insides as he squeezes me closer, molding my body to his. “As real as you want me to be, ma chérie.”

“Good,” I whisper. Relief floods through me, washing away the absurd worry I’ve had over the last couple of days that all this has been in my head. “Don’t leave.”

“Jamais, mon amour.”

Never, my love.

The words flutter into my chest as he continues. “I thought I could once, but that lasted less than five minutes. It took you seeing me to realize I could never miss your songs again.”

I open my mouth to mumble thank you but he shushes me again. The lullaby I almost know the words to whispers in my ear as I finally give in to darkness.

“Sleep now, Scarlett.”