Hey everyone! This is my first Phanfic, because I've been waiting for a story that wouldn't: a.) be like everyone else's, and one that would do justice to the phantom in a good way. I adore Erik like everyone else, but I have to say here:
As in the usual disclaimer:
I don't own any of the characters, nor the music in this wonderfully magnificent musical. I give Andrew Lloyd Webber credit for that.
One other thing: I have not read the book, nor seen the stage production, so I don't really have much to compare to. So if you're laughing at me or sneering because I haven't seen the originals, you might want to stop reading now. It'll just get worse. :D
Let's see… I was going to say something else… hmmm… but I can't remember what. So, just ignore my thoughtlessness and continue down the page to read my story!
Thank you, and enjoy!
-MaroonPhantom
After Christine Daae and Raoul left the catacombs of the Phantom's lair, Erik was heartbroken.
Through his heartbreak, the Phantom continued to write songs. Some were sad, dark, mysterious, and longing. They summed up his state in a nutshell.
Prima Donnas came and went from the Opera Populaire, but none of them could catch his interest for very long. None of them held even one tenth of the attraction he had felt for Christine Daae.
The Phantom seldom left his dark and gloomy home. The outside world was too unforgiving. If anyone saw him, they would have probably hunted him down and brought to trial. Since the arson of the Opera Populaire, no one had done much to find him.
He figured that they thought he was thinking over his actions and feeling remorse for what he'd done.
Depending on his mood, Erik did feel ashamed. Other times he felt Andre and Firmin deserved the demise of their inherited opera house. After all, they hadn't even bothered to pay his salary!
Erik wallowed in his scores, putting his heart and soul into them, for they were the only way he was living.
The idea came to him one day. It was both painful and beautiful at the same time.
In sleep he sang to me….
He penned the words of his first coherent opera since Don Juan. It wasn't just any opera.
It was his own.
But our story begins nearly two hundred years later in a small town, rocked by a seventeen year old boy looking for compassion- anywhere, and a girl caught up in the middle.
And so, the opera Erik Le Fantome wrote is not myth, but a tale drenched in reality.
This is their story.
