Phantom of the Cinema

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of M. Laroux, nor his story plot. If I did then I could easily say that Erik was mine.

Summary: It's present time and a young girl by the name of Chris has a new job to support herself away at college. When odd things start to happen at her work, she is driven to figure out the mystery of the Phantom.

Memories

I was curious on how long the cinema had been standing, considering the odd architecture. Half of it was fairly new built at the end of the nineties, but for some reason or another it seemed to merge with an older part of the building that looked as if it was from before the era of the talkies.

The couple who ran the establishment were in fact homosexual. I had no problem with it, but there was still some homophobia floating around, which resulted in a slight decrease of customers. Andre and Firmin they called themselves, I had no doubt that their names were changed, and when I asked them about it, they replied that they had 'stolen' their names from a book called Phantom of the Opera. Their real names I found out were actually Frank and Tim. Go figure.

The name had rang a bell to me, and I quickly remembered that a movie was coming out that had the same title. But I digress, that's not where my troubles started, no.

They started when I first ran into my ex-boyfriend near theatre eight….

It was October, and employees were all ready decorating for Halloween. I had just started my first term of college, and I was as excited as ever for being away from my hometown, which had no more excitement than a peanut butter sandwich.

I was a new employee back then, just starting so I could pay for my ramen and water to survive off of. I had cleaning duty that night, which included picking up the spilt sodas and scraping the gum off of the bottom of seats after customers had left the theatre. To say the least it wasn't the most glamorous of jobs.

My troubles hadn't ended that night however; my ex had popped his head out of the projection room to yell down "Hey! Christine!" I hadn't looked up yet, and I was about to yell back never to call me by my real first name, when I caught sight of that tousled brown hair of his.

I froze, staring at him, as a triumphant smirk crossed his face, and he ran down the stairs to the ground floor. My eyes were still agape as I looked at Ray; he unfortunately took this as a 'Welcome back' and pulled me into a hug.

It was then I snapped to my senses, and wedged my hand between him and me, and pushed him away, a look of utter sock and horror crossing my face. "What are you doing here?" I asked my voice failing me as I looked frightened half to death as I gazed upon his lengthy form.

"I could say the same for you. I work here! I'm assistant manager." He replied excitedly.

So he was my superior? He was my boss!?

Thoughts flooded my head as I stared at him. We had gone out for two months during junior year at our high school. When I decided that I wasn't all that into him, I tried to casually break up with him. After all he was possessive, cocky, and all most all ways controlling. But apparently the feeling wasn't mutual, and he practically stalked me for the rest of high school.

He had ruined my dates, beat up my boyfriends, and even blackmailed my friends into leaving me until I went out with him. I had been excited to get away from my hometown for many reasons, but one of the greatest ones was to get away from Ray.

Now here he was standing in front of me, smashing my hopes with every word he spoke. A lump grew in my throat, as he babbled on about something useless and stupid.

I couldn't stand it anymore!

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I ran back to the exit, struggling to keep them back. I wanted to go into a place were he couldn't find me, where anyone couldn't find me.

I pushed my way into the vacant bathrooms on the talkie side of the building, and bolted myself into one of the stalls. I didn't hold back anymore, and I sobbed out my heart's desire feeling like vomiting into the toilet next to me. Why did everything have to wrong for me?

I had cried for at least ten minutes, and when I felt as if I couldn't cry anymore, I resorted to the sniffles. My legs were crumpled beneath me, and I just realized that the pins and needles feeling had started to creep up my legs. I supported one hand on the toilet bowl above me and made way to stand up. It was then when I heard the most glorious thing in my life.

It was singing, and of the kind I'd only heard in my dreams. Transfixed I stood up, and unlocked the bolted door. The room was empty, yet the sound seemed to echo through the entire room. I crept out, unsure of what exactly to do, but my curiosity overpowered me, and I neared where the glorious sound was coming from.

It was as if I was hypnotized, and I moved towards the mirror, without recollection that I ever did so. There was a full length mirror that was embedded into the wall of the bathroom, with a faux gold leaf trim, and as I drew nearer I grew more certain that the music was in fact coming from behind it.

I pressed the tips of my fingers to the cool glass and stared into it. It was the last thing I remembered.

God had cursed me with a life that seemed eternal, I had not died, nor did I think I could. You ask why god has cursed me with an extended life? It is the simple thing that Christine died before I, and thus she was not there to give me back my ring. My one wish had been shattered as if it were the chandelier. I did not attend her funeral, all though I wish I did, but the mere thought seeing the angel lie in an enclosed coffin as I do, it was unthinkable. To see her golden curls about her face, frozen in time, her sea blue eyes closed, in her eternal sleep. Yes she would be dead.

It would also be a risk, considering her Vicomte was still having nightmares about my Punjab lasso, and my looming figure. He was alive, unfortunately, and blamed me for every little thing. If a vase fell down it was Erik who had pushed it. If their child had cried, it was Erik whom had frightened it. If I had appeared to give my respects, in broad daylight, her Viscomte would pull out his pistol faster than one could say Phantom.

I moved to the states soon afterward to escape the all too curious reporters. It was then when I told Nadir to let slip to the papers that I in fact was dead, and to bury a poor soul where my house was. Laroux however had made my story into something it was not. Having even let that fat, bastard of a man live was more of a trouble than it had been to even glace upon his face.

I lived in New York, a different feel than Paris had been. Paris was more about beauty, while New York was about business. But it was better than reliving my memories day after day. I soon took residence in a local cinema after Lon Cheney had impersonated me on the silver screen. I destroyed the film of every shipment of that accursed movie that they received. Things were quiet about me for the longest time until another man; Andrew Lloyd Webber decided to plague the city with his show.

A musical no doubt! Had I truly been reduced to musical material?

I went quiet for the next twenty years, until I spotted a familiar face that had entered the cinema. It was no other than the accursed Vicomte! Yet…he was different. His youth had been restored to its original state, and his clothing was of the new styles. But it was the Vicomte no less.

I did nothing to disturb him as he filled out an application, but the rest of a month I tortured him by overturning his cleaning supplies. Yet he had been quickly promoted to Assistant Manager. I found this utterly annoying and voiced my opinions as I all ways did, through my letters.

Of course the Vicomte's looks had increased the visits of the female customers. And business was of course business. It was one of the few things I did to forgive the managers.

It was soon afterwards, when I saw a ghost from my past.

The first day I saw her again my heart stopped, had she too faked her death? Granted her hair was shorter, and like her Vicomte her attire was nothing less than current. But there she was, alive and not a day older than when I left her to her Vicomte. A certain joy lit her face, still innocent as if I hadn't even laid a hand on her.

Did her memory fail her? Did she fear her Phantom still? My heart ached with longing. Had it been so long since I touched my skeletal fingers to her hair, and smelled the sweet perfume that made her my angel? I kept back, watching her as if I had been her Angel of Music once more. In hearing distance, but never close enough to see.

But a sort of hesitation lied in the back of my mind, prompting me to go through with it, and prove myself that once again I was a fool under going a lost cause. She had after all chosen her Vicomte over me quite easily. To think that she could actually consider looking at the mask that hid my disfigured visage would send shivers down her spine.

After all had we not all played part in a Greek tragedy? She the Persephone, that I Hades had selfishly drug into the darkness that was the underworld?

My obsession had come back to me in minutes, and every moment she spent in the theatre I watched her. My thoughts had once more turned not to myself, but where she was going, who she was going with. Oh how my thoughts were not my own!

Sleep there was none, nourishment there was none. My whole life had quickly taken back its role as protector of the Angel.

I found it odd however that Vicomte and Vicomtesse had not encountered one another until the incident in Theatre eight. Apathy had grown in my soul since her departure, yet when the accursed boy drew her close again, as a look of disgust rose on her face, rage swelled once again in me.

Hatred had grown in her heart against him, and for whatever reason she felt as I did. As he embraced her she pushed away, shocked at the boy's very presence, and stared at him, as if he was the most horrid thin on this planet.

It was a brief moment in time, and for less than a minute she stood there looking at his form. It was soon afterwards she ran away, looking as if about to cry. The boy stayed behind, shocked that she could even refuse him. He truly was an imbecile.

I followed her, dancing through the hidden catwalks I had installed above the ground, until she disappeared into the lavatory, her face streaked with tears. It was then I vowed to myself, that I would kill the boy if he ever made her cry like that, without reason. Without purpose.

She had remained in there for the longest time, and I found it necessary to enter, to comfort her. But I did not directly walk into the lavatory; no I comforted her with my voice, hopeful that she would remember her lessons well.

By then she had stopped crying, but still her sorrow had remained. She grew increasingly curious as my voice projected from behind the mirror. My dreams had finally come true, to feel her warm flesh against mine, but this time, her silly Vicomte would not be there to steal her away.

I had to remind her once more of the life we shared.

Christine…

For those of you who are unaware of the titles that Erik is mentioning,

Vicomte: Viscount

Vicomtesse: Viscountess

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