Fallen Angel

by Tsy Descartes

What if Erik was never rescued from the gypsies by Mme. Giry, but by someone else? As enemies become friends, strangers become lovers, Erik discovers an alternate world with no Phantom of the Opera, and where he might get the fairytale ending he deserves. Please R & R!

1. Prologue

Prologue

[[[ Here you go, new story! Got tired of the old one. Just didn't flow, you know? Hopefully this one will be better. Enjoy! I own nothing, don't sue me, etc. ]]]

The sun had already set. The darkness seeped into the forest like a spreading poison. Shadows became longer and darker, growing into the likes of black ink. The creatures of the night began to appear, wolves, owls, and bats. To any other, it would have been cause enough to scream and run.

But to the boy, it was home.

The boy stood leaning against a tree. He looked delicate and incredibly skinny, as if he hadn't ever eaten to his fill in his life. The tree he was leaning against was five inches wider than him on either side, which further pronounced his scrawniness.

One might think he was hiding from someone looking for him, a worried parent, or a bully at school, or even the creatures of the deep night that hadn't yet come to bother the boy. One would never think he was hiding from himself.

The forest was outside of a little town called Boscherville, which was, in turn, near a larger town named Rouen, in the north of France. It was a large forest, in which many people had disappeared and were never found, the most recent of which was the little boy, who had no intention of being found.

He was a young boy, six or seven years old. He was tall, and rather skinny, with protruding knees and elbows. The poor boy was shaking, most likely the consequence of not wearing enough clothing: a meager shirt and pair of shorts, the shirt too thin, the shorts too small. His skin appeared to be tinted yellow, even in the dim moonlight of the forest.

Hanging upon his head was a cloth bag. It hid his face and most of his neck. Two little holes were crudely poked out, and it was clear the boy had a hard time seeing out of them. He pulled the cloth further over his head, his bony fingers shaking violently.

He was sobbing. Unseen tears fell under his mask and wet the cloth. He screamed out, the victim of an unknown terror, a horrible event, a real life nightmare.

The boy was scared. The boy was angry. The boy was sad.

But most of all, he was grateful for being in that deep, dark forest where he could let his emotions run loose, where he could whisper his worries to the wind.

And whispers they would remain, from then until forevermore.