Short and sweet.
Chapter 1
The former phantom said nothing. His gaze wondered to the group of jurors seated in their stands—their gaze already condemning him. Then, to the audience—watching him in disgust, whispering amongst themselves. Knowing what awaited him—what he deserved.
Marcus Noir, his attorney, had filed a motion asking that his client be allowed to appear in civilian clothing, accompanied with his mask—instead of the prison garb—and without restraints. Of course, it was overruled. The presiding judge deemed him far too dangerous to be without some sort of bondage at all times.
"Court is in session, the verdict in."
The judge cleared his throat. "How does the jury find the defendant, Mister, er, Erik on the charge of murder in the first degree?"
"Guilty." The phantom winced at the single condemning word.
"The charge of aggravated assault?"
"Guilty."
"Attempted murder?"
"Guilty."
"Kidnapping?"
"Guilty."
"Stalking and harassment?"
"Guilty."
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
"Sir," the judge said addressing the former opera ghost. "You are to be sentenced to life in prison." He picked up his gavel. "This court is adjourned." Thud.
The walls were cold and gray. The floor—stone. The only furniture: a small cot and a waste bucket. His cage, made of steel.
Alone, he dropped to his knees. His breathing, the only sound. Screams filled the room—demons cluttered around. How did it end up like this?
The former phantom held his face in his hands. The craters and bumps of his disfigured face made his stomach sick. He longed for his mask. He longed for his music. He longed for Christine.
Weeks passed. Months passed. Seasons flew by.
Erik awoke with a start. His left wrist cuffed to the bed on which he lay. His eyes darted left, then right—his body unwilling to move. Empty, made beds on either side of him. A pain rose in his abdomen. Using his free hand, he pulled the sheet away, and lifted his black and white prison shirt. His entire abdominal region was wrapped tightly in bandages.
"You're one of the lucky ones." Erik snapped his head to the right, startled by the sound. He immediately covered the right side of his face with his hand. A man in a white coat stepped closer.
"I'm Dr. Brevik. You may call me Yury." The man's voice was smooth, but thick with a Russian accent.
Erik studied the doctor as he seated himself next to the bed. His eyes were blue. His short dark hair and closely cropped beard had just begun to gray. A stethoscope hung around his neck.
"It would now be appropriate to introduce yourself," the doctor said as he looked over the phantom. "It's alright you know." He paused giving Erik room to speak. "I had to drug you. You kept thrashing about—lost a lot of blood mind you."
Erik closed his eyes, trying to recall what happened.
"There was a riot in the yard," the doctor said, answering the phantom's thoughts. "They cut you pretty good. Took all of three hours to stitch you up."
Erik stared at him sorely.
"I've seen worse you know," Brevik said kindly. "You needn't hide it from me. I've already seen your face."
Erik hissed as pain rose up in his belly.
"Here, here. Give me your arm," the doctor instructed. Erik obeyed as the pain intensified. Dr. Brevik pulled a syringe from his coat pocket and injected it into Erik's flesh. "Better?"
Erik nodded.
"You need you rest," Dr. Brevik aforementioned. He stood and stroked his bearded chin thoughtfully. "Your face, sir. I believe I could fix it."
I often wondered what would happen if Erik got a new face somehow. Reviews would be appreciated.
-E.O.L.