A/N: This is a tale of the despair, tragedy, and deliverance of Erik, the
Phantom of the Opera.Based on the book by Gaston LeRoux, and also the
Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. But, most of this is my own, so hardly any of
it is canon. Enjoy!
What would it be like to taste death? To savor its sweet nothingness; let the blackness engulf him. Erik drifted, his mind wandering ever further into the pits of his black despair. He often willed death to come on nights such as this. He opened his eyes and saw darkness, but it was not complete darkness. There was the faint light of the moon overhead, the glimmer of stars. Reaching out a cold hand, he grasped one of the thick, metal bars of his cage. Shuddering, he pulled back. A dull pain began to wash over him. He remembered the beating he'd received earlier, just before nightfall. His limbs ached, and he was sure one of his ribs was cracked, if not broken.
"Monster," one of the men had called him before kicking him squarely in the stomach. Alonso, the show master, had ordered the men to take him out and punish him for not doing as he was told. Erik snorted at this. He was proud, and did not show pain while the men beat him. And they continued to beat him; that is, until he allowed them one, satisfying moan. It was a cry of heartache and desperation more than physical pain, but the men couldn't tell the difference. They hauled him back to his cage, threw him inside, and left him alone.
Such hurt, Erik thought to himself, such violence. All because I wouldn't allow them the pleasure of hearing my music.
He grimaced. Alonso had promised him that no harm would come to him if he were to only play for his supper. Of course, there would be spectators, people watching carefully, but at least there would not be pain.
But oh, Monsieur, there was pain. There was pain in every note that he wrought on that wretched violin. Each string contained a world of agony for him. And though music was his hope and comfort, to play before the incompetents who would come to stare at him brought only grief.
How had he come to such a fate? There was a time when he had been almost happy. He had been content, if nothing else. Content to live in his little home in the hills of Germany. There, no one had bothered him, no one had ridiculed him. And then one day, he had decided that the little home in Germany would not do. He had to explore the world before him. How young and foolish he'd been in thinking that the world outside his cottage would treat him fairly. By night, he had traveled on foot through most of the country. But, before he had the chance to reach the borders, he'd been captured by a group of rogues. They studied his mask carefully, and a bold one had ripped it away. Cowering, Erik pulled back, but the men pursued him; that was the first of his many defeats.
Now, as he stared out from the bars of his prison, he knew that there was nothing left for him. If only his life were to end, then he would be free of his torment. Unknown to him, there was something much greater waiting for him, something beyond the cage. The world was coming to claim him.
What would it be like to taste death? To savor its sweet nothingness; let the blackness engulf him. Erik drifted, his mind wandering ever further into the pits of his black despair. He often willed death to come on nights such as this. He opened his eyes and saw darkness, but it was not complete darkness. There was the faint light of the moon overhead, the glimmer of stars. Reaching out a cold hand, he grasped one of the thick, metal bars of his cage. Shuddering, he pulled back. A dull pain began to wash over him. He remembered the beating he'd received earlier, just before nightfall. His limbs ached, and he was sure one of his ribs was cracked, if not broken.
"Monster," one of the men had called him before kicking him squarely in the stomach. Alonso, the show master, had ordered the men to take him out and punish him for not doing as he was told. Erik snorted at this. He was proud, and did not show pain while the men beat him. And they continued to beat him; that is, until he allowed them one, satisfying moan. It was a cry of heartache and desperation more than physical pain, but the men couldn't tell the difference. They hauled him back to his cage, threw him inside, and left him alone.
Such hurt, Erik thought to himself, such violence. All because I wouldn't allow them the pleasure of hearing my music.
He grimaced. Alonso had promised him that no harm would come to him if he were to only play for his supper. Of course, there would be spectators, people watching carefully, but at least there would not be pain.
But oh, Monsieur, there was pain. There was pain in every note that he wrought on that wretched violin. Each string contained a world of agony for him. And though music was his hope and comfort, to play before the incompetents who would come to stare at him brought only grief.
How had he come to such a fate? There was a time when he had been almost happy. He had been content, if nothing else. Content to live in his little home in the hills of Germany. There, no one had bothered him, no one had ridiculed him. And then one day, he had decided that the little home in Germany would not do. He had to explore the world before him. How young and foolish he'd been in thinking that the world outside his cottage would treat him fairly. By night, he had traveled on foot through most of the country. But, before he had the chance to reach the borders, he'd been captured by a group of rogues. They studied his mask carefully, and a bold one had ripped it away. Cowering, Erik pulled back, but the men pursued him; that was the first of his many defeats.
Now, as he stared out from the bars of his prison, he knew that there was nothing left for him. If only his life were to end, then he would be free of his torment. Unknown to him, there was something much greater waiting for him, something beyond the cage. The world was coming to claim him.