So, this isn't the first story I've written, but it's the first one that I've written on this account. I absolutely hated my other stories and didn't even finish them, so... this time I'm determined. I want to feel accomplished. X3 Also, I'm kind of creating this as I go so ideas would be welcome, as would constructive criticism. I dislike terrible grammar and terrible spelling with a passion, so if anything seems off to you guys please tell me and I'll fix it. Oh, I also hate when I write and keep shifting between third and first person so please tell me if you see me doing that too. Thank you! I'm not sure how this story will go so I will just start it at a T rating, just in case things get too dark or mature for any younger readers.

Anyway, this story bases the Phantom's appearance on the 25th Anniversary Opera done in the Royal Albert Hall. The beginning of my story, if it is not described too well, takes place directly after Christine removes our favorite Phantom's mask for the first time.

I'll try to update as much as possible but I have a pretty hectic schedule so no promises..

I do not own Phantom of the Opera or its characters.

Having just removed his ever present mask, Christine couldn't help but let her jaw drop at his unexpected scarring upon the right side of his face. His skin was pulled taught on his cheek, below his cheekbone. Where his bottom lip should have been there was a mass of swollen skin, creating the illusion of a swollen lip. Around his right temple was an area where skin was lacking and bone was visible, even under the dark cover of his world below the opera house. Two holes were placed on the side of his nose, black and empty, hard to look at. Although she was confused at her Angel's face, or lack thereof, she mostly felt curiosity. She could not control her hand as it went towards him, reaching for his cheek as if to caress it and see if this was just a trick of her mind.

Before her hand grazed the many scars on his visage the Phantom dropped his face and shoved her hand away. Backing up slowly, he picked up his hand to cover his disfigurement and looked at Christine, eyes full of embarrassment and rage. Feeling ashamed, Christine took a step back. As she opened her mouth to approach him with an apology for her dastardly curiosity at the face beneath the mask, he lifted his free hand to silence her.

"No. Don't say it. I can hear the impending barrage of insults and words of terror from anyone but you." He said with his eyes glazed over and looking anywhere but at her.

"But I wanted to apol-," she began, interrupted by his monotone, stoic voice.

"Get out." He looked her in the eyes, daring her to disobey him during his fury. "Now!" He thundered, scaring Christine as she could almost feel the venom in his voice as he shouted his orders. "Leave me now!"

She ran. All she could remember after taking her leave was arriving in her dressing room. She sat down in the chair in front of her vanity, rethinking what had just transpired and cursing herself for her damned curiosity. "Why?" she thought to herself. "I feel so terrible. I pried into his secrets, things he might have told to absolutely no one." Who was she to reveal his face at her own leisure? What gave her the right to get a glimpse of the face beneath his shield? Nothing did. The answer was clear as day, however that was soul crushing in its weight of how true it was. He had done nothing but teach her to sing as beautifully as the most professional opera singer, if not better. He was there for her when her father had died and she moved into the opera house, joining the ballet crew. He had done everything for her and what did she do in return? Tore off the one secret she had no right to know. "Damn it... Why couldn't I leave things alone... He's my friend, my one companion. Or he was... What shall I do now? All alone in a Paris Opera House? Damn my stupidity. Damn myself." After this thought she walked through her dressing room into her bedroom and lied down on her bed. She stared at mirror on the other side of the room wondering just how many times he had sung her to sleep with his voice of an angel after nightmares where she watched her father die, after watching herself die sometimes. How many times had she listened to him tell stories to her, calming her down after a bad day and just enjoying the silky smooth voice that can make her nightmares turn into dreams. "What have I done?!" Turning to her pillows she crashed her face into them as her previously unshed tears began grazing her cheeks in long streaks. For hours she was laying on her bed sobbing for she had caused the loss of her angel. Her Angel of Music. Hours later, after many more tears and thoughts of self- hatred and the thought of the torment she must have caused her angel, she finally fell into a restless, dreamless sleep.

How could she? He had finally let her see the real him, show her he was mortal, just a man and not the voice of an angel from above. "I am so far from Heaven it's impeccable that I could have fooled her into the belief of me being an angel in the first place. This disfigured thing, not fit to be called a face, caused the fear in her eyes. Fear of me, fear of her Angel of Music. How can I ever speak to her again? She now knows of my wretched face and nothing will erase the image of the fear in her eyes after looking at this thing." He laughed bitterly at himself. He had done it now, had he not? The one person he believed would finally accept him, the one woman he believed would finally be able to love him, was gone because of the horror that was his face. "How pitiful. How I ever got the sick idea of someone accepting me, accepting my past and my horrid face, I will never know. Of course she could not look at this face. I can hardly look myself in the mirror without cringing at the terrifying face of a demon from Hell." he turned towards a mirror nearby throwing the dreaded mask and shattering the glass into many tiny shards. Looking down into the pile, he could still see glimpses of his face, made worse by the scattered shards. With a stoic face he walked into his house and sat down at his piano, not playing anything, not looking at the keys. There he spent the rest of the day, loathing himself and dreading what may come for him tomorrow.

Aw, depressed Phantom is depressed. :c

On that sad little note, I end the first chapter. Short, I know, but that's all I can write at the moment... Please review, and be sure to tell me if you think it's alright or if there are things you would like me to clarify. I'll try to not switch through the POV's as quickly as I did just now so it's less about that, I have not written anything in a while. Thank you for reading, if I get some reviews then I'll try to type and write up another chapter as soon as I can. Thank you. Bye.! (:

-Phan of the Phantom