The Phantom's Shadow
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even the computer where I sit and write this ;)
A/N: I sat down one day and thought: 'Hey, I think it's time you wrote another fanfic.' Great…well anyway, so I did. This little imagination of mind has been playing with and hinting at the idea of a behind-the-scenes account of the "Phantom Of The Opera", brought to you by none other than my character of choice, me! But before you give up let me tell you, this is not, I repeat, NOT a Mary-Sue, and it will never become a Mary Sue as long as I have anything to say about it. I would die before I wrote something that wasn't strictly EC. Anyway, so here it is, enjoy!
…Prologue…
And there I was, just like I'd always been: alone. That probably doesn't make much sense to you right now, but don't worry, when I've finished my tale you'll know all about that little phrase, oh yes. You see, I was there, I mean really there! Even before he met Christine I was there. Well, okay maybe not that early. I'm definitely not old enough, however, I did witness the Phantom's story, I did personally know him, and I did live in that very Opera house, in his lair in fact. Sure, you don't believe me now, but we'll just see what you say when I'm done. Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself. We should probably start at the begging, or at least, my beginning…
…Chapter One…
'My name is… my name is…' For what seemed an eternity, that's all I thought about, 'What is my name?' I wondered. 'Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl.' my other self scolded me harshly; 'You can't even remember your own name!' 'Yes I can!' I thought, 'it's…it's…' "Deirdre," I whispered aloud. "My name is Deirdre." I wanted to remember my name, it's all I had left now. You see, my family had moved and forgotten me. Yes you heard right, not 'I ran away', not 'abandoned' forgotten. I'm nine years old, one of 13 other children, and the youngest, but my mother's expecting. What was my mother's name? I couldn't remember. I didn't want to remember, she had never been kind to me, my father I never saw, my siblings if any of them said anything to me it was always the same 'Look you little brat, if you want to stay alive then fend for yourself and don't let anything hurt you.' I suppose they thought it was good advice and that they were being kind, but cold, ruthless reality did not bode well with a small, cold, malnourished nine year old weakling that was so utterly sensitive and emotional she was almost unbearable to behold. Currently, I laid in a gutter on one of the dark streets in downtown London. I remember that night well, for it was just about at this point that the tougher side in me, the rebel, burst forth and told my inner self to shut up and stop sniveling. 'We are going to live. We are going to get out of this place if it's the last thing I do!' 'Which it might,' I mumbled. So, under the influence of my rebel, I stumbled along the wet streets, toward the channel. Why my feet lead me there, to this day I still do not know, but just as dawn was breaking, I found my self on the sand of the edge of the frigid dark channel. At the time, I had not known where I was or that this was the English Channel and that across from it lay France. I only knew that if I got across the water, I would be away from here, this place that had been my cruel home for nine years, well no more! I had made up my mind, I was going to get across the water…somehow!
So how bout it? Good? Bad? Exciting? Boring? Sad? Happy? Tell me! I must know!