Fallout

My dear readers, the unthinkable has happened. My Angel has broken my heart again.

I had thought that with the Vicomte having left for far-away New Guinea, the Masquerade Ball would be a chance for Christine and I to rekindle the connection we once had. Unfortunately, things did not turn out as I had hoped.

I was later than usual making my entrance at the Ball. Not for psychological impact, but because due to my recent illness I'd let myself go and realized to my horror upon donning my Red Death tights that I had muffin top. But I'm otherwise still skeletal! What cruel hand has God dealt me now?!?

Well, after that brief trauma (I had to resort to wearing a girdle), I finally slipped unnoticed into the subscriber's rotunda through one of the secret passageways minutes before midnight. The ball was already at its height, and the revelers were clearly three sheets to the wind. I saw the managers, Firmin in his typical conservative costume and André -- apparently indulging his "creative" side -- foregoing his skeleton tights for what amounted to little more than a couple of black rectangles. I refuse to say more because it only brings the horrific image of it back into my mind.

I spotted Meg at one end the Grand Foyer, surrounded by a number of -- I hesitate to refer to them as "gentlemen" due to all the leering they were doing at Madame's little girl. But apparently she had a friend of hers nearby (I recognized him as the fellow in the colorful clown costume), so I knew she was safe. I even caught a glace at Madame Giry looking extremely inebriated and apparently trying to pick a fight with someone in a dual-sex costume who was taking liberties with his hands while in the company of one of her dancers. But at three minutes to midnight, my Angel was still nowhere to be found. I swiftly made my way through the crowd as the seconds counted down, desperate to find Christine before midnight struck. Five… four… three… two… one…

And then amidst the crowd at the bottom of the main staircase, I saw her. Her lips pressed against those of a man dressed in scarlet red breeches, black jackboots and a rapier.

GERIK!!!!!!!

Why God why?!?

Unable to bear the sight (and throwing up in my mask a little), I ran off, losing myself in the crowd. After that, everything got a bit hazy. I think I had a drink or seven, but mostly succeeded in dribbling a good portion of it down the front of my costume (it's hard to aim for one's mouth while wearing such a large mask as I was). Of course, since I didn't eat beforehand, the alcohol immediately accosted my system like Lord D'Arcy at one of his chorus girl auditions and everything went blank. Although I do remember attempting to drown my sorrows in the company of three rather quiet ladies with long curly tresses like Christine's. The newspapers apparently chronicled the rest.

Now that my hangover is gone, I'm attempting to assess things, starting with my home. I suddenly feel like the three bears from that children's tale…

And where is my monkey music box?

Your obedient servant,
O.G.