Sunset had occurred hours before, the golden star moving its light to other parts of the world. The alabaster crescent was just beginning to glimmer over the streets of Paris, France. The gilded roof of the Opera Populaire shimmered underneath the moon's silver light. The managers Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur André exited the lobby, shutting and sealing the opera hall's doors tightly.
Monsieur André slid the slender key into his coat pocket, while Monsieur Firmin hailed a coach for them. Tonight was a rare occasion and laughter rung out from the two middle-aged pair, dressed in their finest evening attire for tonight's opera. The notorious opera ghost was no where to be found, no one screamed that he was here, no incidents and most importantly no lives had been cut short that evening. Even the prima donna Carlotta had been in a relatively good mood, due to nothing interrupting her usual solo. No one dared demand she play a silent role!
Firmin's actions in hailing the coach were successful and an obsidian colored coach drawn, by four magnificent beasts of matching color pulled up before the men. The managers informed the driver of their relatively close destinations, and then entered into the limited space of the coach's cab.
Beneath the Glittering opera hall down, far deeper than any measurable distance laid a lanky and gaunt corpse-like figure. The corpse was spread out miserably on a plush bed big enough for two, though he was so slender in build that he only took up a quarter of the space. Black sheets made of satin were loosely wrapped about the wretched male. The face of the withered figure was half covered by a blank mask, the right portion of it's face securely, concealed from the world's prying eyes
A deep wail of sorrow and rage sprung from the half masked body echoing hauntingly of the walls of the stone underground. This was the only thing that the ghost heard for quiet sometime and even after the audible tone had disappeared, it still rung out in Erik's ears and mind.
Anger, envy and spite, the general feelings of bitterness swelled inside his chest as visions of the lovely Christine Daeé with her rosy cheeks, blue wonder-filled eyes, tousled auburn curls that fell to her mid back and her slender hourglass figure ran through the phantom's mind. He was consumed by the images of her singing, her graceful dancing in the background of every opera and thoughts of her during the music lessons and how she was so eager and so hard working in an effort to better herself. She danced so beautifully and she sung in such a way that he couldn't but fall for her all over again right there in that very spot of darkness.
Dancing.
That was all that would ever lie ahead of the poor orphan girl Christine when she first came to the Opera hall, if it not been for her beloved "Angel of music." and his generosity. If it were not he who trained her and helped her she never would've been able to keep the promise to her beloved father. All the loyalty and love he had shown her, where was that now when he called for it. There in the pit of darkness her beloved Angel of music, was rotting away with out her. while she had run off into the arms of that blasted Viscount Raoul De Changy.
What was it about him that could've brought her to the rather uninteresting viscount? Even though it was plain to any one with a brain, still the thought ran across the ghost's mind. Circling about till Erik could bear it no longer and answered the question for himself. It was not that he had any particularly astounding talents; it was not his money Christine would never marry someone simply for their monetary value ,no it was...his face. Not Raoul's' face specifically, but the fact that it was normal not a ghastly sight in the least.
Erik reached a spindly hand up and touched the warm and soft flesh of his left cheek. The opposite hand touched no such warmth, only the frigid ceramic mask. The phantom slipped off his facial prison and touched the marred flesh beneath. Golden eyes stared into the dark, showing the ware of his life hanging behind sunken eyes.
In a fluid motion that was truly ghost-like the phantom slipped on the mask once more and hid his greatest embarrassment. Then swinging his legs off the bed, the opera ghost fixed himself into a seated position and began to think. The room's candles came to life, at first smoldering with long awaited first breaths before the wick burst into a true flame. With the room a glow, it was easy to see pages of an unfinished score strewn about the floor. They were pages of Erik's twisted but artistic vision "Don Juan Triumphant!"
" I will not let her slip through my grasp." The opera ghost vowed with certain darkness in his voice. With the fresh pain of the graveyard quarrel lying in his mind, Erik rose off the bed dark bed.
A voice inside his mind spoke to him, convincing him that he needed to play. So the composer scooped up his work and carried it to his beloved organ. The phantom placed the score sheets on the music desk of his dark colored organ. Smoothing the wrinkles of his black dress suit before flicking the tail of his coat out he sat on the bench.
His boney fingers pressing firmly on the familiar ivory keys right after seating himself, this caused the organ to moan several times out of key. The composer's eyes were lidded as he was enthralled and entranced in a musical ecstasy. The sounds would've made any normal being clap their hands over there ears in an attempt keep the strange horrible noises out. Though Erik heard the notes differently, this ghost heard beauty, because these were the notes that haunted his every waking moment and that still plagued him even in sleep.
After this warm up he began to play widely scrawling down any melody that came flooding through his brain,stopping to scratch out the previous words and replace them with what he thought seemed more fitting.
Determined that he would have Christine for himself no matter what it took. The opera ghost was sure that HIS opera was going to be his chance to steal back the girl of his love. She would love him and no one else, no matter what it took he would purge her mind of every thought of the Opera Populaire's patron even if it meant death for the poor viscount.
The Phantom of the opera's eyes moved toward the favored Punjab that lay atop the piano's lids with the end of the lasso slid to fit the circumference of a slender male neck.