Hello,

There is a literature contest going on at my school, and I'm going to enter in three categories (one chapter from a novel in progress, an original short story, and best photograph).

The chapter I want to submit is from a Phantom of the Opera fanfic I am writing called Pressed Roses. I want some feedback from people who have not read the whole story, because I want to know if it sounds good just by itself. Thanks!!

Also, please tell me if this is in the wrong section, because I'm not sure if I put this in the right place.

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Pressed Roses

Chapter 15

Little Lotte's Funeral

“How do I look?”

Charlotte glanced over at the sound of Erik’s voice and looked him up and down. He stood there, adjusting his jacket over his shoulders, a rather awkward look on his face. She gave him a soft smile, setting down the clothes she was folding and coming over to him. She tugged and adjusted his lapels across his chest.

“I think you look very nice,” she told him, raising her eyes to his face. “But here, let me fix your hair before you leave.”

She went into the washroom, wet Erik’s comb in the sink and then ran it through his hair, smoothing the raven locks back against his head and behind his ear. “There we go,” she said, setting the comb back down next to the sink. “I believe you’re all ready…let me just get you your cloak.”

Charlotte went back into the bedroom and lifted up his cloak from the bed. She shook it out and draped it over his broad shoulders, fastening the silver anchor at his throat. She patted his chest a little, as if to let him know he was completely ready, and lifted her head to look at him. His green eyes were heavy with solemnity, his face lined with that deep sadness Charlotte felt she would never understand. He shifted his vision to the bed beside them, uncomfortable meeting her eyes. Charlotte, her heart filled with compassion for him, lifted herself up with her hands on his shoulders, standing on her toes, and kissed him gently on his lips.

“It’ll be all right, Erik,” she told him quietly, stroking his cheek with the tips of her fingers. He nodded slightly, forcing a limp smile for her.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he told her, putting on his hat and gloves. He gave her one final glance before he disappeared through the door with a swish of his cloak.

* * *

St. Joseph’s was a fairly small church sitting on the Avenue de la Reine Hortense. A little squat, with a heavy wooden door, it was not a handsome building. Erik preferred large, beautiful cathedrals like the Notre-Dame, which, in Erik’s opinion, was a work of perfect architecture. With huge spires pointing towards the sky and stone statues of the Saints gazing down at you from up above, nestled in their alcoves, he’d always enjoyed gazing at the building from the street, admiring the hand that had drawn the blueprints for such a design.

There was a steadily dwindling stream of people shuffling into St. Joseph's door. He slowly followed them, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He kept his head down and walked through the door behind two young women.

The church was dim and it smelt like musty, aged wood. Four stained glass windows on either side of the church were glowing softly, their painted biblical figures gazing down at the guests moving into the pews. He watched the two women in front of him dip their hands into a large marble font and cross themselves. They were clutching handkerchiefs in their hands, and already they were beginning to sniff and shudder, dabbing at their eyes. Most of the people in the church were already sitting down in the pews, except for a few who were softly talking among themselves, consoling each other, touching hands, embracing and delicately wiping away tears.

The rows of pews seemed to taper to a near point as Erik’s eyes swept down the isle, guiding his focus to a single white coffin sitting in front of the altar, the lid propped open. His heart leapt into his throat and he suddenly became very agitated He rushed quickly into the the darkest, most isolated pew in the entire church.

His eyes scanned over the mourners, picking out those he recognized. He saw Madame Giry in a lacy black dress, her lined face tight and expressionless. If she was trying to hide her emotions, she was doing a very poor job of it.

Hovering nearby her mother was little Meg Giry, also wearing a black dress, her hair tied back in a knot. She was visibly upset, shaking from head to toe, her face buried in her hands. Three other girls, which Erik recognized as ballet rats, were doing everything they could to comfort her, dabbing away at her tears with their own handkerchiefs and offering her words of sympathy. Erik hadn’t really known Meg Giry that well, although he had overheard many over her conversations with Christine. Apparently, the two of them had become the best of friends when Christine made her debut as a chorus girl. He always saw them giggling like schoolgirls together in the wings, clasping each other’s hands excitedly before they made their entrance.

The rest of the mourners began to settle down, and the church became very quiet as they sat there, waiting for the service to begin. An ancient priest, the Gospel shaking in his wrinkled hands, began to read aloud Psalm 23.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…he maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters…”

Erik heard a few sobs break the silence of the church. He looked over to see Madame Giry furiously wiping at her eyes with her handkerchief, her emotionless mask crumbling before his eyes.

When the priest concluded the Psalm with “I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever,” he slowly closed the Gospel and lifted his tired eyes to stare at the mourners in the pews.

“We are gathered here today to mourn the great…and sorrowful…loss…of this young woman… who touched…so many lives…”

The priest’s voice was very slow and he paused very often, as if he were trying to make a great impact, but instead he came across as being very tired. Erik heard snuffling and soft sobbing rebounding off the walls of the church. It was making him uncomfortable.

The elderly man’s words finally faded into silence, and he sat back down beneath the crucifix, his eyes turned towards the pulpit. Erik was also watching the pulpit with great interest, because Raoul de Chagny was slowly coming up the stairs to read the eulogy. He stood at the pulpit and looked up at the row of pews.

He was a sight. Dark bags hung below his bloodshot eyes, his face was lined with countless creases and scattered with nicks from shaving that morning. He looked slightly hung over. His entire body seemed to be sagging under the weight of his flesh, like an old man bent over with disease. His fresh, crisp clothes sharply contrasted with his ghastly appearance and Erik guessed that they had just been purchased the previous day for this occasion. The Vicomte shuffled some papers on the pulpit, swallowed loudly, and opened his mouth to try and read.

“Christine Daae was the most wonderful woman I have ever known,” he started. His voice was raspy and soft.

“She was my friend, my love, my sp-spouse…and…” His throat had dried up. He stared blankly at the paper in front of him, trying to choke out the last couple of words. The people in the pews leaned forward on the edges of their seats, their eyes wide, silently urging the Vicomte to keep going.

“…and my…”

He couldn’t read any further. He stepped off the pulpit, staring into space, walked stiffly over to the front pew and sat down again. There was stunned silence for only a few seconds before it was violently broken by the sound of the Vicomte wailing into his hands. Erik saw another man sitting beside him, probably a friend, pat his back soothingly and say something into his ear.

The two men got up, the friend guiding Raoul by the arm, and went over to the white coffin. The Vicomte’s cries grew more intense when he looked inside.

“Oh, God…oh, my God…Christine, oh, God….”

His loud cries reverberated off the walls, causing the mourners to fidget uncomfortably in their seats. Erik watched the Vicomte’s broken figure intently as he stood there in front of the coffin. His legs were starting to weaken beneath him and two other men Erik did not know suddenly rushed to his side and grabbed his arms. A soft, collective gasp rose from the pews as the mourners realized that Raoul was fainting. The three men guided the dazed Vicomte back to his pew, where he sat silently, taking slow breaths, his face drained of color.

Eventually, the rest of Christine's friends and relatives got up one by one and approached the casket to pay their respects. Erik watched them, slowly shuffling forward in the line, coming up to Christine’s coffin and gently reaching inside. He wondered what Christine looked like in there, what she was wearing or if she was holding anything in her hand, flowers, a rosary, or if they were simply folded on her chest. Was she smiling? Sometimes the morticians put a metal brace inside a corpse’s mouth to make them look as if they were smiling softly, like they were having a wonderful dream. Personally, Erik didn’t care for a smiling corpse. Death was not a happy occasion like celebrating a birthday.

As the last relative left the coffin, Erik’s heart began to beat faster. Should he go up, too? He did not want to raise any suspicions, but no one was really watching now…

He stood up slowly, his eyes scanning the mourners for any strange looks in his direction. Walking carefully out of the pew, he stared down the isle that suddenly seemed a mile long to him, the white casket growing smaller and smaller as it moved further away from him.

He was hardly aware of walking down the isle. His eyes were fixed on the coffin; the people in the pews to his left and right were only murmuring, blurry figures dressed in black, unimportant to him. The walls, ceiling and floor of the church started to fade into darkness, as if he were entering a tunnel, and the casket was shining a soft white at the end. His heart pounded in his ears. His hands clenched into fists. The casket loomed in his vision…

…And then he found himself standing in front of it.

There Christine lay, dressed in a stunning wedding gown scattered with pearls and crystals glinting with tiny rainbows; a diamond necklace was fastened around her slender throat. Her tiny hands, one finger adorned with a wedding band, were folded across her abdomen over a single red rose, the velvet petals full and fragrant. Her white face was dusted with some powder to brighten it, and her lips were painted a soft scarlet. Her shining auburn hair lay in curly waves beneath her head, and her dark lashes lay motionless against her cheeks.

"My God," whispered Erik, numb.

He pulled off his right glove slowly, one finger at a time, and reached in the casket. His fingertips brushed her face. Despite the fact that he was used to the look and feel of dead bodies, he was completely shocked by how icily cold Christine's skin was. She'd always been so warm when she laughed, when she smiled, when she once put her arms around him. She was so cold now...

He couldn't look at her anymore. Pulling his hand away, Erik turned and walked slowly away, slipping his hand back into his glove. His throat was choked with tears; a few dripped down his cheeks. He walked soundlessly past the Vicomte, who was recovering in his pew from his near faint, and he turned his head to look at him at the same moment Raoul lifted his head.

Their eyes locked. Erik kept walking; the Vicomte's eyes grew as big as saucers.

Erik showed no emotion as he tore his eyes away from him and headed for the church door. He was a little satisfied that he'd shocked the Vicomte with his sudden appearance, for he knew that he had not been expecting him to come. Well, he had come, he'd paid his respects, and now he was leaving.

He came out of the church, squinting in the pale sunlight, relieved to be out of that place.. He was turning to the right to head back to the inn when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned about immediately to see who was touching him, and found himself staring into the face of an older, mustachioed man in police uniform, his eyes burning into Erik's face.

"Come with me."

He'd heard those words before. Running through an alley, holding a loaf of bread he'd stolen, he felt the hand on his shoulder that turned him around, and he'd trembled beneath the police officer's frightening gaze... "Come with me, you little demon..."

Erik ran.

It had been his instinct to run from danger since he was a little boy. He'd run from his father, he'd run from the gypsy camp, and he'd run from the police. Running away was most certainly not the wisest move to make when a police officer instructed Erik to come with him, but he knew what was going to happen if he followed his orders. Shut in a cage, chained, starving, torturous beatings, sadistic and perverted guards who would satisfy their lust for pain by using him. That was what was going to happen if Erik went with that man, and he knew it, because it had happened before, many times.

He had no idea where he was going to go. He ran down the street, around a corner, down an alley and behind a few apartment buildings, but he couldn't seem to lose them. He heard horse's hooves thundering faintly behind him, as well as men shouting at him to stop. How were they able to keep up with him? He chanced a look behind him and saw not three or for men on horseback, but at least a dozen, one riding a horse that was harnessed to a prison wagon.

Spurred by terror, he only ran faster, the muscles in his legs aching, his lungs on fire. The stitched wounds in his side were beginning to burn with pain. He could almost feel the men's hands reaching out to grab him, their hot breath in his face. He could not let himself be taken away again...he wouldn't come out.

Erik immediately stopped when he saw three other men on horseback coming directly towards him. He froze in a crouched position, breathing heavily, his face colorless. Think, Erik...you can't let them take you...

But he couldn't think of any solution. The police were blocking his every exit. The officers dismounted their horses, cautiously aiming their pistols in his direction. They had planned this out very carefully. The man who had tried to take Erik with him earlier was holding his gun in his left hand and a pair of handcuffs in the other. Erik’s face paled at the sight of the iron rings. More than anything, he hated being restrained. He always became extremely claustrophobic when he was unable to move his hands or his feet, and in the most stressful of times, he had even passed out or become sick from that horrible enclosed sensation.

As the men closed in tighter around him, their eyes burning into him, Erik shrank back, trembling from head to foot, his ears ringing. He was scared to death. What would they do to him? How long would they leave him in prison? Would they torture him? Would they kill him quickly, or force him to die a slow, excruciating death?

His back hit a wall, the man with the handcuffs started quickly towards him, and Erik crumbled. He drew back his hands, and fell to the ground in a heap, shaking violently with sheer terror. His eyes were wide open, his pupils dilated. Three men reached for him, pressing his head, torso and legs firmly into the ground while the cold iron handcuffs were locked into place around his wrists.

Erik started to cry.

The men stood back from him, a little surprised by the unexpected reaction. Many prisoners became violent or simply said nothing when they were arrested, but they had never seen one cry before. One man gestured for the officer pulling the prison wagon to open the door. Two other officers hoisted the crying, shaking man up by the arms and dragged him over to the wagon, heaving him inside. Erik’s bound wrists were then chained to an iron ring in the wall, and the barred door shut behind him with a sharp snap that made Erik jump.

The all-too familiar claustrophobia began to come over him. The prison wagon felt far too small, the walls slowly closing in on him. He started to sweat profusely and tugged in vain at the chain that held his hands to the wall. When it didn’t give, he started to yank hard, cutting his wrists in the process. Oh, God, there’s got to be a way out…

But there wasn’t.

All the color drained from Erik’s face as he stared blankly at his bleeding, cuffed hands. He couldn’t breathe properly and started to hyperventilate. His brain throbbed. He felt extremely lightheaded and started to pant. It was too hot in here. Too hot and too small. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear, the walls were closing in on him, crushing him...

Overcome with fright and claustrophobia combined with stress and exhaustion, Erik slumped over in the prison wagon in a dead faint.

The wagon and its posse of police officers passed the Vicomte walking home on the street with a few friends. He turned to glance inside, and was shocked to see the unmistakable figure of Erik lying motionless on the floor. He could see his face, half hidden with some sort of black mask. Hadn't he just seen the man not fifteen minutes ago at the service?

He unconsciously fingered Christine’s letter addressed to Erik in his pocket.

“Give Erik this letter when you see him, Raoul...please do it for me…”