In Which You Decide Whether or Not to Read

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Well now. I suppose if anyone ever finds this dusty old book, they'll probably wonder what's inside. If they care. Oh, shut up. Now, if anyone is still reading, or if I am, this is the story of Keira Keeton. This, by the way, is me. It's also the story of a certain man, whose name I will not mention now. It would ruin the plot.

So my informed reader, will you read the story of Keira Keeton and some random guy, or will you close this up tight and burn it? No, don't answer that. I don't care to know. I really think I should start now, so why don't I?

This chapter may be boring; it truly depends on who you are. It's mostly background. You know, the sort of stuff you have to know so halfway through the story, you don't shout out, "who the hell is Bobby Billy Gerry Van Tosslebuiy?" Which you probably won't, considering there is no-one named Bobby Billy Gerry Van Tosslebuiy. At least, I don't think there's anyone named Bobby Billy whatever. There is…

No. I will not give any more away. It's up to you to make the choice. Do you continue to read the story of Keira Keeton, a man, someone with something in common with Bobby what's-his-face, or put it down?

Now is the final question. Now is the point of no return.

Maybe I over dramatized. What of it?

My story starts the day I was born. But I really don't remember much of that, so I'll start on my second birthday. (To be honest, I don't remember that either, but it's the first time anything significant happens to me.)

This was the year that my dad decided life simply wasn't worth living. What a birthday present. Waking up to your father hanging by a wire in your living room. Glory, glory hallelujah. My mother, who was always madly in love with my father, I can't for the life of me figure out why, got really depressed.

Please bear with me. I know it sounds like a bad soap opera, but I swear it's not.

My mother turned to drugs. Were you surprised? Luckily for me, it was morphine. This may not feel reassuring, but it is. Morphine calms you down. So you may hallucinate and all that junk, but at least you don't kill your children.

Well, all this made me grow up awful fast (don't you dare yell at me for saying "awful fast") and this isn't going to be the story of the little ingénue who goes, "Oh dearie me, someone lied to me? People can lie? What the hell?" Er…maybe not "hell," but you get the general idea.

Surprised that I used a big word? Ingénue? Don't be. I may not me that smart, but I'm not a total idiot.

I ended up moving relative to relative till I met Uncle Jim, who happens to be a lot like Bobby Billy Gerry Van Tosslebuiy. Please don't ask me why.

Uncle Jim isn't the guy who comes and brings love into my life; he's simply the man who set me free. How beautifully poetic. Like a caged canary and all that jazz. He sent me to St. Cecilia's School for Musically Inclined Children. SCSMIC. Looks like seismic, which is fitting, for out mascot is god splitting apart the earth. I don't know if it happened. I'm not that religious. Or rather, not in that way. I have my own sort of religion.

He was a musician and thought everyone should love music. Without spending their time with him. When I first went to Cecilia's, I hated it. It was all I had, no other people to turn to, so I excelled, but that didn't stop me from hating it. I was away from my home; from every tiny thing I called my own. And I didn't call much my own.

I did fine in math, English, science, history, and what not. For my first year, as a second grader though, I positively refused to the utmost extent of my seven-year-old self to have anything to do with music. In third grade I found myself getting curious. By fourth grade I took violin, piano, voice, and dance, namely ballet. Dance was important because they needed some people to perform what the others composed.

By sixth grade I had begun to write music that wasn't bad, and I could sing and dance along to it. As well as play, though I couldn't exactly play an instrument and dance at the same time. I was working on it.

All these last few paragraphs were there for was to tell you that Uncle Jim was my hero. He saved me. After I graduated, top in my class, I was given a sort of allowance, compiled by all the relatives. When they threw hissy fits and didn't want to pay, Uncle Jim told them it was that or adopt me. I went to a college that would improve my musical talent. But don't get confused. I'm not in college until I mention Scotland. Smallish word, but it has a capital letter. You can't miss it.

Lovely, eh?

I took jobs at local theatres and coffee houses and such. You know those places that feature live entertainment, those "stars on the rise." It was meager, but it was what I could do. This story really starts when I was about seventeen. I lied before. It may have begun when I was born, but it starts when I turned seventeen and graduated high school. Yes, I graduated early. What of it?

I had tried to get into several colleges, but it was eventually a college in Scotland that became my home.

And, of course, one last thing to mention. There was the opening of the Opera Populaire again, the one that figures in the famous disaster of the Phantom of the Opera. Gaston Leroux wrote about it, and there was a movie and a musical. Forget about the musical. Forget about the movie. Forget about the novel. Trust me, you'll just get confused. By the time I'm done writing this smelly old book, you'll know the true story. Actually, keep a few things in mind. Some things are important to know.

First off, Gaston Leroux was actually the husband of the daughter of Christine and Raoul de Chagny. Also keep in mind that their descendents were not called de Chagny. This is important. Many were not even called Leroux. They had a large number of small, pert, female children. Small, pert, female children often take the name of the man they marry. They are now quite hard to recognize.

Of course, a daughter might be partial to her father. Especially over a strange and tormented angel. This book was written by her loving husband. It's true as hell that he's going to make Raoul sound better. The man was slightly exaggerated. As was his dreadful foe. As was his drop-dead gorgeous lover. Who had dark hair. (It turned very, very light in summer. That is why she is often said to be fair-haired. I have proof, so don't you dare try to prove me wrong you big fat butt. Er...)

Just another note. Andrew Lloyd Webber was not the first one to make a movie. Excluding several (unfortunately) extraordinarily far-removed ones, they were all basically by descendents and their husbands. ALW was one. He was actually blood related. He inherited the gift for music, but he did something else special. He came across music that Erik had written for Christine. He used some of it in his musical and movie, for instance: the overture, Music of the Night, the brief lines Raoul sung in the prologue (they were actually written by Christine and Raoul based on music Erik wrote), part of Angel of Music, everything from Don Juan Triumphant, and more. He even wrote the lyrics to Prima Donna as well, as a slur on La Carlotta.

Second, (perhaps this is unimportant) Meg actually had blond hair and was beautiful. This is a little pet peeve. Drives me insane. Trust me, I've seen pictures. It was only her mother who was dark-haired. And also quite pretty, to say the least.

Third, it was only the half of his face which was deformed. Not the whole thing. And he had a name. He wasn't just "phantom," he was Erik. But before he was Erik, he was Eric Lefarve. Never forget this. He didn't just have one name. He had two.

And fourth, which is quite possibly last. La Carlotta was not a dreadful singer. She was not ugly. (Lord in heaven, god in hell, is everyone beautiful in this time!) Erik favored Christine, who, in this story, I may refer to as Christine Daaé. I know she was married, but—well, just bear with me here. Carlotta was simply past her prime and nasty. Nasty people can be dreadful, in appearance and voice, no matter how beautiful their face or how lovely their song.

But all of that was in the past. The past in not, under any circumstances, the present. Many have trouble accepting that. I do believe I'm done my rant, so if you don't mind, I'll start the part when I go to college and then leave. This is the part where I learn all of that jazz up there.

Please don't kill me. Nice is good. Minimal flames, but constructive criticism is more helpful than you know. Don't be overly nice. Be truthful.

And you might want to leave the reviews in the next chapter. I know that it's often hard to review a beginning because it's just that. A beginning.