Chapter 1

Chronicles of the Silent Ghost

What I seek to do here perhaps cannot be done in words. Perhaps it can only be done in music. I want to try to do it in words. I want to give to the tale that only a narrative of sorts can furnish—the beginning, the middle, and the end—the charged unfolding of events in phrases faithfully reflecting their impact on the writers.

You read that correctly: writers. Not one, but two. Two voices acting as one greater voice...or not.

You should not need to know the demons I mention often within these pages nor the torments and woes, which they so cause—the music there was both bitter and sweet—my words shall impact the very essence of the sound to you: the music.

If not, then there is something here which cannot be written.

But since it is the story in me, the story I am compelled to unfold—my life, my tragedy, my triumph and its price—I have no choice but to attempt this pointless record. Even if it is all in vain, I sit here scrawling on yellowing parchment with quill and ink soon to be bound in this leather covering.

As we begin, do not seek to link the past events of my life in one coherent chain like that of melodious notes to an aria of a great opera. I have not done so. It cannot be done. These scenes came forth in waves of disarray, as chords played carelessly in haste from the dark of one's madness and fury like that of the devil once he is given a fiddle. And were they strung together, to make a perfect harmony, in which two voices sing as one—and my years are the very same as the notes of gratifying music—grand and many—my past would not make a set of mysteries, not sorrows, nor joys, or torments. No such music could redeem me. So I give you the flashing moments that matter here.

See me, if you will, not as I am now as I write. Age today is nothing: merely a number and nothing more. Picture me if you must as I was: six feet two inches tall, thin, with a strong torso that has remained quite built despite the lack of my activity, but with dark hair, and broad shoulders. Again, age has not changed my facial expression I had when I was of youth—indifference, self loathing, intelligence, torment of inner demons...I could go on. But when I cover myself in dark elegant dress and flowing capes, I see a former phantom—another shadow in the dark—stalking the halls—on the walls—an indestructible being not of heaven nor of hell that has grown numb to the land of the living, but is itself one of the undead.

My face was a joke in the eyes of God—If he is indeed there, the supreme being that created all men, why mock me so? I do not jest what is concealed by mask. It is typically the façade of a phantom—a secret ghost. Green orbs for eyes, and my hair, black and slicked back with the most rigorous care against my skull—a mask as white as ivory, if you will—disguises my worst features, which is the source of my sorrows: others fear and loathing. "Opera Ghost" is what they have said of a man like me—if I can be considered a man when humanity itself has shamed me into solitude and shunned me like a leper. My features are insignificant.

If I were to catch the eye of the passerby, it was completely accidental and unintentional by my own wandering and watchful eyes—they are at fault as well for searching the shadows for invisible phantoms that haunt their mind as they stroll on alone in the gloom. Only those who wander in the dark corridors at night might glimpse this phantom—this opera ghost. When our gaze does meet for that brief second or two, fear and fright meet madness and malice, and for that instant I truly look ghostlike. They flee in terror. They always flee…as she had fled

You wish for a number of my years? I do not conceal this deliberately, for I can be sure myself. One can only guess. Perhaps half a century? How long has it been since I paid homage to music? How long has it been since catastrophe? How is one to know when one is incapable of measuring life? How can one measure life when one only wishes for the comforting cradle of death?

In our later years, it does not mater what age, most wander as their health will allow them to—some freed, powerful, dressing as they desire—as the young ones do, sitting with feet propped up or strutting about, casual like a fop or dandy—preserving youth to the very end or as far as life will allow. I have had no such luxury nor do I desire it as I once did. It sickens me so.

So that is your hero, if a hero I am to be. No—not a hero—a demon perhaps. Perhaps only a man—not a hero. No, heroes rescue the damsel in distress and win her heart and whisk her away to a happily ever after. Not a hero, it is not my place. Perhaps I am the demon—the adversary—the enemy...or perhaps I am the victim of this cruel story.

And your heroine? Ah, she had lived beyond me in ways I never could fathom.

This tale begins when he came—like that of a dark angel and guardian—a sinister and troubled charmer—a secret embodiment of romance, a mysterious being of magic and illusion, the tormented and loathsome angel in hell—and the artist, genius, and composer behind it all, which he was, and most deservedly was so. He was true to his title, exquisite and profound, tragic and alluring, and he paid for all that he was. He paid.

This is...what happened.

I must admit that this is quite different from how I normally write...in this diary format, if you will. Think of it as an experiment of sorts. I would greatly appreciate any reviews that you would see fit to submit. Thank you for reading and reviewing (if you choose to do so).

Happy Day,

Erik's Other Lover

B.T.W. I would just like to let you fine people know that I have edited this chapter and the following ones after this and I would like to apologize if I have missed any grammatical or spelling errors.

Disclaimer: Of course, I own nothing associated with Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera. I wish I owned our dearest misunderstood O.G. though. *tear*