Page 38 of Phantom
Curious and shocked onlookers filter onto the stage. Maggie pushes through the fray and shields her eyes from the spotlight with her hand over her brow. “Monty, what the hell happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m done, Maggie! I quit! I won’t risk my life for the show! Tell your husband that after all I’ve done for this school, I refuse to be terrorized by some monster!”
“Monty, wait!” Maggie, the kind soul that she is, jogs stage right down the stairs leading to the auditorium to follow him as he stomps out of the house. “What are you talking about?”
“The Phantom of the French Quarter! Obviously he has it out for me and I won’t tolerate it—”
His voice cuts off as the doors slam shut behind him. Everyone on the stage begins to talk over one another, at a loss of what to do next. Jaime raises his hands to settle the crowd.
“Is everyone okay? No one got hurt?” They shake their heads and Jaime smiles wide. “Then it sounds like we’re off for the rest of the night. Drinks at Masque?”
The cast and crew cheer and whoop, high-fiving as they exit the stage en masse. My shadow has returned to his station at the control booth, like he never left, and shuts off the big spotlight, leaving only the dim lights to illuminate the stage.
And my muse.
Without the spotlight, actors on the stage can clearly see the auditorium seating, a fact I realize much too late.
Scarlett’s gasp makes my cock twitch and my eye catches her stunned silver ones, sparkling from the low lighting remaining in the hall. She takes a tentative step back—awayfrom me—even though I’m a story up and three box lengths away.
Her words are barely a whisper, but thanks to the acoustics, I hear them perfectly.
“Itisyou.”
Act 2
Scene 10
BREAKING POINT
Scarlett
Isaw 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.
