Disclaimer (Just in case) I do not own Phantom Of The Opera copyright goes to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Chapter 1
Juliet Moreau's Journal
April 1882
There are few people who can say they knew the Phantom Of The Opera personally; naturally most of Paris have heard of him, as do many, in other parts of the world. He is an extraordinary man capable of almost anything, to quote my dear friend Antoinette Giry "a genius, composer, architect, designer and magician." In fact you yourself most likely know the man perhaps not by the dreaded Phantom Of The Opera, but by The Opera Ghost, Trap-door Lover, Angel Of Music or other aliases I wish to not divulge. Or you may know him by all these guises but I assure you I can name and count on one hand the volume of people who know him as Erik Destler.
That is where this journal provides it's use, as a good friend of mine advised me to write down my narrative for it is "full of wonder and mystery;" and would make for an astounding read. Whoever has the opportunity to read this is undoubtedly questioning my obscure relationship with the ghost, infamous for the ruin of the beloved Opera Populaire. So I assume I should begin with how I first met this enigma of a man, firstly there is some unavoidable information prior to our meeting.
I first met Erik when I was at the curious and tender age of seven. With my father running a successful trading company which often led him to foreign lands far-away and my mother's tragic demise at my birth, I was left in the capable but unobservant hands of my Nanny Adelia. She could tend to my every whim and fancy in an instant I would still pine for a family member and often confined myself to my bedroom. My ornate bedroom, a vision to uphold was among it's prime in worth; cream walls with a golden trim and a bed that was so enormous it would swallow me up whenever I slept in it and more clothes than I would ever truly wear. I was one of those irritating children that would ask for something that was aesthetically pleasing but I would never wear it earning many scolding's from both Adeila and my father. A beautiful balcony was attached to my splendid room where I would often pretend to be Shakespeare's Juliet waiting for my own Romeo to sweep me away. Childish fantasies. Yet I lived for literature and had completed all of Shakespeare's works at an early age. Tall red roses grew on the side of the balcony, stretching all the way to the earth below and when accompanied by a trellis made for a strong and sturdy ladder.
One night in an act of rebellious, childlike anger after an argument with my father consisting of me begging him to remain in Paris I had had the sudden urge to visit my mother's grave in the town graveyard. Yet since I was to be held in my bedroom and it being midnight I had no means to escape. When one is young, one is fearless and will do things that adulthood will make you hesitate in doing. I swung my petite body over the side of the balcony, gripping tightly onto the roses. I let out a small whimper as blood trickled down my hands and I learned that night about the deceitfulness of that wicked flower. It did not take long for my light body to touch the earth again and my heart was beating from exhilaration. With my new-found freedom and escape route, I practised climbing up and down the rose ladder nightly and demanded that the roses be stripped of their thorns. It quickly became second nature and when my foolish Nanny thought me to be asleep; I was a night owl, flying to and fro in the moonlight. The only problem was continuously explaining why I was constantly tired, until Adelia diagnosed that I must suffer from Insomnia, hah!
June 1866
It was a freezing winters night and Paris resembled a postcard. Snow had cast it's wondrous spell and delicate little flakes swirled around in the chilly air. I had familiar urge to visit my mother's grave once again, so after wrapping up warm I scaled the balcony like clock-work, plucking a few scarlet roses as I went and disappeared into the snowy night. Upon arrival at the Cemetery I went instinctively to my mother's grave. My father had spared no expense when it came to her funeral and a wistful looking statue of an angel marked her place of rest. I placed the roses carefully below the statue as tears trickled down my face; my seven year-old mind still found it hard to know she would never smile at me.
I froze at the sound of movement coming from my left, it sounded like a sniffle or a moan. I approached cautiously and realised the sound was of pain, someone was crying; not uncommon for a graveyard but this sounded different. More agonised. I continued my silent approach, rounded the corner and gasped at what my eyes saw.
A small boy was rocking slowly back and forth in the middle of a self-made snow angel. His body wracked with sobs as he shook from his grief and the bitter cold night air. His clothes were far too light for this weather and were much too big on his small frame. I stepped forward towards the poor soul. "Are you alright?" The boy froze as if petrified at the sound of my voice. I knelt down beside him and he hastily backed away from me, much like a beaten animal would. Wild fear and surprise was evident as a pair of red-rimmed, startling green orbs stared back at me. The rest of his face concealed by a burlap sack with two holes for those wary eyes and one for his mouth, the sack appeared to be a make-shift mask.