DISCLAIMER: I own nothing of "Phantom"--the musical, lyrics, books, etc.--except this (once again) sketchy plotline, my characters, and these words.

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UNENDING NIGHT

CHAPTER 1: Nikole

"You're never alone… No one is alone…" were her last words.

It was a muggy, sultry July day in 1858… and the words of the late Cecelia Viollet echoed in the ears of the daughter she left behind. She sat by herself in the covered wagon, the surprisingly cool Paris breeze whipping through her long, dark, straight hair and brushing against her naturally tan skin. It was the day before the eighth year marking her mother's death, and the hours were closing in on that twelfth stroke of midnight so intensely. It was the most unlucky "lucky seven" she could think of… July 7th. And to think, in one week, she'd probably have the luckiest "unlucky thirteen" of all: her birthday--July 13th--her thirteenth birthday, in fact. Still, even that fact couldn't comfort her. Her eyes were closed, trying to imagine her mother's face one more time. It seemed to be harder to recognize and remember with each passing day…

"Nikole?"

She snapped back to the present and she opened her eyelids, slowly revealing the most stunning, misty, silver-gray eyes. Though on the outside the colour was strong and deep, sternly fixed in a piercing gaze, if you looked deeper, deep enough, on the inside, there was a melancholy awe swirling beneath the surface. She finally looked up to see a man about triple her age kneeling before her. It was Bouchard, the double-jointed wonder, more famously known as "The Rubber Man."

"Nikole, dear, are you all right?" Bouchard asked. She didn't respond, but instead, just stared at him with her dashing silver eyes. Nikole Viollet was not a social person, especially ever since her mother died. He understood her--one of the few who could. He looked at her warmly and took her hands in his. He knew what was wrong.

"Your mother?" She nodded, slowly. He thought, then stood up, helping Nikole up, as well. "Let's go join the others. Heaven knows, it's hot enough outside, let alone in this helluva wagon." Bouchard jumped down and out of the wagon, helping Nikole out, and led the way. "We arrived in the city a little over two hours ago. Everyone's finally finished setting up, the tents are all ready." He looked at her and saw that she didn't really seem to care.

Nikole had spent her whole life in a covered wagon and a tent, traveling from city to city, every week, performing… or being exploited. The Gypsy fair had become her existence, the very thing that kept her alive…

…And she hated it. Not for the sole fact that she had to perform for people--no, she loved to perform. She could sing and dance and act for her audiences with no trouble and great pleasure. No--what she hated was the reason for her audiences' presence… the reason she was a part of the fair… the reason she was exploited… her eyes.

Her eyes were two of a kind. Through her emotions, with every feeling she felt, Nikole's eyes could change colours. And it was because of this that made her the one thing she despised being considered most… a freak. An onlooker would simply say Nikole was a part of a freak show--one of them--and the audiences loved to make fun of "freaks."

Nikole's mother Cecelia was just a sweet, normal Gypsy girl who lived and loved to dance for the crowds and befriended her fellow performers. She fell in love at a fairly young age, about sixteen, and married quickly. She stayed with the fair and her husband traveled alongside her. Sadly, he was killed a year later by a drunken spectator, who threatened to kidnap his beloved. But fortunately, a few months later, in July of 1845, Cecelia gave birth to Nikole. However, it was bittersweet, considering Nikole was born into the world of the strange and mysterious; or rather, the hated and abhorred. She had no choice. And especially when Lucius Jouvet discovered the spectacularly unique peculiarity of her eyes, she was caught in the webs of his sideshow.

Cecelia attempted to fight for her daughter, but it was no use. Not only did Jouvet never take no for an answer, but Cecelia's health started rapidly declining, and six days before Nikole's fifth birthday, she passed away. And Jouvet took over complete custody of Nikole.

Since then, it had been eight years of exploitation, torment, harassment, torture… and abuse. Lucius Jouvet wasn't exactly what you would call a "gentle-man." In fact, he was a purely twisted, sadistic bastard. Nikole had once made an attempt to run away while performing in Bordeaux, when she was seven. Jouvet, a good eighteen years older, found out, stopped her in her tracks, dragged her horridly into his tent by her beautiful, dark hair, lashed her to a post, and proceeded in scourging her with his prized cat o' nine tails, for her punishment and his pleasure. An hour later, he threw her into "her fellow freaks'" tent, leaving them to take care of her bruised, bloody, and lacerated body.

From then on, whenever Nikole would make the smallest mistake or try to make one of her many escape attempts, he would virtually beat the image of it into her mind until little drops of crimson could be seen scattered on the ground. Although, as the years went on and Nikole grew older and more mature, Jouvet's mind began ticking. He didn't just crave her pain and suffering anymore… he began to get cravings of lust. Her pure, sweet, youthful essence was just what he wanted… and with Jouvet as the barker and considerable manager of the fair, Nikole had nowhere to go…

Finally reaching their destination, Bouchard gentlemanly let Nikole enter the tent ahead of him. There sat the freaks: Guinevere, the beautiful soothsayer, Byron, the Herculean man-of-strength, Lisette, the scintillating fire lady, Madame Millicent, the unbelievable bearded lady, and Claude, the amazing sword-swallower. They all looked up and heaved a sigh of relief as Nikole, the mood-eyed girl of many talents, trudged through the opening.

"She's fine, perfectly unharmed. Thank God for that," Bouchard announced to the others. As Nikole took a seat, everyone came to her comfort.

"How do you feel, sweetheart?" Millicent asked her.

"I'm fine," Nikole replied. Byron went to the far side of the tent and returned with a cup of water, kneeling as he handed it to her.

"Drink this, you look flushed. God knows, you shouldn't be dehydrated in this weather," he said. She smiled slightly and took a sip. As she lowered the cup, though, so did her gaze and her smile. Everyone noticed the brilliance, yet the dullness in the colour of her eyes, still that misty gray hue, their spirits falling along with hers. Guinevere stood up and took Bouchard to the side.

"Cecelia?" she asked.

"Yeah." They both turned to look at Nikole.

"Oh, the poor girl…" she said with the same sadness reflected in Nikole's eyes. "Bouchard, we have to get her out of here, she's not meant to be here. We made our decision; Nikole didn't have that choice… She deserves better." Guinevere started to cry. "More." Bouchard put a comforting arm around her.

"I know, Guin… I know." They all stood still, until they all suddenly felt a bitter chill in the air sweep through them and the tent flap whipped open. They all turned to see a dark figure at the entrance.

"Hello, my freaks."

It was Lucius Jouvet.

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A/N: A big change from the psycho-parody, huh? LOL. Eh… I was in a mood for a change, hehe. Gotta know--worth continuing? Although, I'll most likely continue anyhow, I'd just like some feedback. Reviews are very good friends… that I DESPERATELY need more of, LOL! Please review:) !

PS: Don't worry--for those of you who DO like this Phic--Erik's coming next chapter!

Cheers.