04-09-2018, 03:16 AM
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[div style="borderwidth=0px; width:385px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12pt;"][font=arial]LUCY'S ANGEL OF THE OPERA AU
[size=8pt]- ̗̀ how did i live? was i kind enough and good enough? did i love enough? ̖́ -
 they say love makes a person strong, stronger than they themselves could ever imagine
 violette beaumont (an up and coming opera sensation) was a new addition to the opéra lumineux's roster and at the mere sight of her, lucy's stomach bloomed with butterflies. her chestnut brown curls, her skin soft as cream, her voice - lucy would have done anything that voice asked of her
 the two became instantly inseparable, from fluttering on pointe across the stage in perfect synchronicity to exploring the streets of paris hand in hand
 violette was, in many ways, everything lucy was not. she was bold, a streak of brilliance in the midnight sky. she was as impassioned as she was impatient, fearless as she was defiant. and oh how lucy loved her for it
 though for all that violette loved lucy, she despised lucy's mother. or, more precisely, the way madame fournier dictated her daughter's every move. violette saw the flicker of fear in lucy's eye when the former suggested they shirk her curfew ("it's just one night, birdie, the old bat won't even notice- birdie?") - the idea was quickly abandoned. from the street below (a stranger allowed in the fourniers' apartment? never), violette spied the steel bars fencing off lucy's bedroom window from the outside world
 hence why violette hatched a plan: she'd sweep her little lucy off her feet and they'd run away together. where? it didn't matter. so long as they were together, nothing else would ever matter. when was the issue. and, of course, convincing lucy
 though, as it turned out, lucy wouldn't need much convincing, as she'd been piecing together a similar proposition herself. six months ago, lucy wouldn't have dreamed it for a second - overwhelmed with her mother's repercussions, her fears of what lies beyond the opera's walls. but now, with violette at her side, nothing couldn't be dream
 so it was decided. immediately after an evening show, the two would meet in violette's dressing room and make their escape. the opera had just begun when lucy slipped into violette's room, donning a black cape, a pair of britches she didn't even know she'd owned - clothing her mother would've rather died than let her be seen in. unbeknowst to her, however, mme fournier wasn't so easily fooled. the woman wasn't blind, you see. she saw the sheen of enchantment in lucy's eye before the girl even knew she had fallen. mme fournier snuck in behind her daughter, and mercilessly berated the child. with a swoop of her arm, she opened a door in the wall that even lucy (who knew no place better than the opera house) wasn't aware existed. before lucy could gather her wits, two cold, taloned hands landed on her chest, launching her down rough stone stairs into the depths below. she couldn't see the door close again - her vision too obscured by what she later discovered to be blood - but she certainly heard it. a horrid, screeching sound. frighteningly definite
 it was so dark down there, wherever there was. too dark to find her way back up those steps. too deep to answer violette's calls. though not too far to catch the confusion and despair in her love's cries
 violette, thinking lucy had gotten cold feet, left that evening. without her. or at least, that's what lucy presumes. she never heard the girl's voice again, echoing through the concert hall or gracing the dressing room. and it's easier that way, to assume violette gave up on her, than to imagine what her mother might've done to her had she stayed
 lucy never found her way out of the cellars, though she did explore them in their entirety - learned their twists and turns like the back of her hand. what she didn't know was how she changed. her skin, once a pale ivory, was now a pallid whitish hue. her blue irises became clouded by a milky haze in attempt to adjust to the darkness. and then, of course, there were the scars. from tentative fingers exploring the planes of her face, this lucy had some idea of. her head had been met with a pillow of stone as she fell, cutting her scalp, her forehead, her once-rosy cheeks. where soft skin had been were now a bouquet of scars - some raised and gnarled, others flat and smooth. as if pitying her, the cellars gave her one conciliation: a mask, not unlike one she'd wear to the opera's masquerades. one gift, to hide the terrors of her appearance
 sometimes the opera lumineux's dancers say they sense an extra lightness to their step, as if they were being willed into flight. visiting stars report hearing a sweet voice drifting through their rooms. most days, it is light and airy, filled with a hope and nostalgia that makes you long for days past and opportunities missed. some days, few as they are, the voice is so distinctly sad, it's said to make listeners cry the first time they hear it
 whenever it is inquired about, old madame fournier appears from the shadows (the only place she seems to frequent these days, after being relieved of her position as the opera's ballet mistress and - according to most - having dipped into lunacy) to whisper "she's here - the angel of the opera"
 ghost au to the au mme fournier's push, lucy's fall - the poor girl's light is extinguished on impact. and down in the cellars, it's far too dark and far too deep for angels to venture, to carry her to eternal sleep. so her spirit wanders the underground passages, alone. try as the demons might - for they are much closer and visit often - they cannot woo her away from her opera house. from there, at least, she can still hear the swell of the overture, the pitter patter of pointe shoes, the sweetness of song. from there, she can close her eyes and imagine herself in their place, as if it were only yesterday she was there herself, ready to run off in her lover's arms, happy and free as a little bird
why
why
why
[div style="borderwidth=0px; width:385px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12pt;"][font=arial]LUCY'S ANGEL OF THE OPERA AU
[size=8pt]- ̗̀ how did i live? was i kind enough and good enough? did i love enough? ̖́ -
 they say love makes a person strong, stronger than they themselves could ever imagine
 violette beaumont (an up and coming opera sensation) was a new addition to the opéra lumineux's roster and at the mere sight of her, lucy's stomach bloomed with butterflies. her chestnut brown curls, her skin soft as cream, her voice - lucy would have done anything that voice asked of her
 the two became instantly inseparable, from fluttering on pointe across the stage in perfect synchronicity to exploring the streets of paris hand in hand
 violette was, in many ways, everything lucy was not. she was bold, a streak of brilliance in the midnight sky. she was as impassioned as she was impatient, fearless as she was defiant. and oh how lucy loved her for it
 though for all that violette loved lucy, she despised lucy's mother. or, more precisely, the way madame fournier dictated her daughter's every move. violette saw the flicker of fear in lucy's eye when the former suggested they shirk her curfew ("it's just one night, birdie, the old bat won't even notice- birdie?") - the idea was quickly abandoned. from the street below (a stranger allowed in the fourniers' apartment? never), violette spied the steel bars fencing off lucy's bedroom window from the outside world
 hence why violette hatched a plan: she'd sweep her little lucy off her feet and they'd run away together. where? it didn't matter. so long as they were together, nothing else would ever matter. when was the issue. and, of course, convincing lucy
 though, as it turned out, lucy wouldn't need much convincing, as she'd been piecing together a similar proposition herself. six months ago, lucy wouldn't have dreamed it for a second - overwhelmed with her mother's repercussions, her fears of what lies beyond the opera's walls. but now, with violette at her side, nothing couldn't be dream
 so it was decided. immediately after an evening show, the two would meet in violette's dressing room and make their escape. the opera had just begun when lucy slipped into violette's room, donning a black cape, a pair of britches she didn't even know she'd owned - clothing her mother would've rather died than let her be seen in. unbeknowst to her, however, mme fournier wasn't so easily fooled. the woman wasn't blind, you see. she saw the sheen of enchantment in lucy's eye before the girl even knew she had fallen. mme fournier snuck in behind her daughter, and mercilessly berated the child. with a swoop of her arm, she opened a door in the wall that even lucy (who knew no place better than the opera house) wasn't aware existed. before lucy could gather her wits, two cold, taloned hands landed on her chest, launching her down rough stone stairs into the depths below. she couldn't see the door close again - her vision too obscured by what she later discovered to be blood - but she certainly heard it. a horrid, screeching sound. frighteningly definite
 it was so dark down there, wherever there was. too dark to find her way back up those steps. too deep to answer violette's calls. though not too far to catch the confusion and despair in her love's cries
 violette, thinking lucy had gotten cold feet, left that evening. without her. or at least, that's what lucy presumes. she never heard the girl's voice again, echoing through the concert hall or gracing the dressing room. and it's easier that way, to assume violette gave up on her, than to imagine what her mother might've done to her had she stayed
 lucy never found her way out of the cellars, though she did explore them in their entirety - learned their twists and turns like the back of her hand. what she didn't know was how she changed. her skin, once a pale ivory, was now a pallid whitish hue. her blue irises became clouded by a milky haze in attempt to adjust to the darkness. and then, of course, there were the scars. from tentative fingers exploring the planes of her face, this lucy had some idea of. her head had been met with a pillow of stone as she fell, cutting her scalp, her forehead, her once-rosy cheeks. where soft skin had been were now a bouquet of scars - some raised and gnarled, others flat and smooth. as if pitying her, the cellars gave her one conciliation: a mask, not unlike one she'd wear to the opera's masquerades. one gift, to hide the terrors of her appearance
 sometimes the opera lumineux's dancers say they sense an extra lightness to their step, as if they were being willed into flight. visiting stars report hearing a sweet voice drifting through their rooms. most days, it is light and airy, filled with a hope and nostalgia that makes you long for days past and opportunities missed. some days, few as they are, the voice is so distinctly sad, it's said to make listeners cry the first time they hear it
 whenever it is inquired about, old madame fournier appears from the shadows (the only place she seems to frequent these days, after being relieved of her position as the opera's ballet mistress and - according to most - having dipped into lunacy) to whisper "she's here - the angel of the opera"
 ghost au to the au mme fournier's push, lucy's fall - the poor girl's light is extinguished on impact. and down in the cellars, it's far too dark and far too deep for angels to venture, to carry her to eternal sleep. so her spirit wanders the underground passages, alone. try as the demons might - for they are much closer and visit often - they cannot woo her away from her opera house. from there, at least, she can still hear the swell of the overture, the pitter patter of pointe shoes, the sweetness of song. from there, she can close her eyes and imagine herself in their place, as if it were only yesterday she was there herself, ready to run off in her lover's arms, happy and free as a little bird
[align=center][div style="width: 450px; border: none;"][size=8pt][color=black][size=7pt]☾ ` ░ don't be afraid cecilia, i'm the satellite and you're the sky:. ° ✧