Demon of the Opera

Prologue:

Solitude is a dangerous companion for a child. When the moon rises in the engulfing darkness and the stars twinkle a little dim brilliance upon Paris, a haunting melody whispers from the depths of silent chaos. At night, the opera house is ominous and the residents are in slumber. Yet an eerie song lingers in the air, dancing through the delicate crystals of chandeliers and twirling upon a stage. The song could be traced from an infinitesimal crevice, hiding the rumbling pain from each note and leading to the abode of the half man. His voice is consumed by his hollow walls and is echoed off as faded monuments of sweetness turning into great suffering. His hands search for the keys in a piano, accompanying the sorrow in his melody, swimming in the tears of complex majestic sound. Candles surround him, flickering a minuscule light, beckoning him to see a warmth and luminescence from the harshness of his night. Yet the light does not prevail. And so the clouds above, weakly illuminated by a bright moon, hear his mourns for compassion and tell him that even the angels weep at this sight. Broken wings and a half finished dream. The pitiful creature continued to sing:

Shamed into solitude

Shunned by the multitude

I learned to listen

In my dark, my heart heard music

The eyes of his released the tears of an ocean for he held all the grief of the world upon his indigo vision:

I longed to teach the world

Rise up and reach the world

No one would listen

I alone could hear the music

And as he continued his half finished dream,

No one would listen

No one-

A pleasant surprise occurred when the voice of another interrupted:

Angel of music, guide and guardian

Grant to me your glory

His crescendo stopped and the ocean was held back. "Must this be a hallucination? Such beauty and magnificence tempted by the roughness of my undoing perhaps," he thought to himself, "Such bliss is a feigned hope."

Yet this gentle melody rose again,

Angel of music, wondrous angel,

Allow me to give you your freedom

He slightly smiled and then frowned, remembering his monstrous soul and the mask that covers it. Only a fool would call him an angel or such a noble saint. Only an illusion would ignore his hideous anger and his hideously worse appearance. Or perhaps...just perhaps...it was an actual girl calling to him; telling him that even monsters can be loved.

And he felt the dawn of a new beginning.