Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. I guess I own Garcen and Monsieur Shaman.
THE PHANTOM'S NIGHTMARES
Erik felt sick. Illnesses had always frightened him as a child. He stumbled into his room
And collapsed into his coffin. Not for the first time, he wished he had a bed. Erik groaned as he realized that he had not removed his shoes. Slowly he got back up, kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket over a chair. He got right back into his coffin and made a mental note to buy a bed when he felt better. He started to doze, then fell asleep.
His sleep was plagued with nightmares.
A boy, maybe fourteen years of age, lay trying to sleep. It was sometime around midnight, and the boy was in a cage. He wore a worn pair of trousers, the shirt that he owned he wore during the winter months. A bag was on his head, it served as a mask. The boy's name was Erik, and he was exhausted. Many people had payed to come into his little tent that night, and Garcen had been merciless.
Erik sat up as he heard someone approaching. His dull yellow eyes that had once been golden could see in the dark – and also glowed in the dark. Three men had entered. One was
the lion tamer, Garcen, who also ran Erik's show. His ever-present whip was in his hands. Next was the Circus Master. The third and last was a man who had been present at the show earlier that night.
Garcen entered the little cage where the boy was now standing.
"Hullo, Corpse," Garcen said, sneering at him. "Are you comfortable? Does your back hurt?"
As a matter of fact, Erik's back did rather hurt – but he was not going to grant Garcen the pleasure of knowing. He stood absolutely silent.
The sneer left Garcen's face to be replaced by a look of anger. "Answer me, Freak!" He
Screamed. Erik still stood, unmoving and silent.
"You'll pay for humiliating me!" Garcen pushed Erik face-down into the straw and raised
his whip. Erik tried to get up, but Garcen put his booted foot on his head – the whip rose again and again, Erik struggled as hard as he could, but to no avail. . . . Why wouldn't he stop? Erik wallowed in pain and misery, blood – his own blood – spilled onto the floor. . . . Shouldn't the third man have called out by now, stopping Garcen? Then it all turned red, not just the straw under him, all but Garcen's face, which was laughing and jeering. . . .
"Talk to me, Corpse!"
"Unhh. . . ."
"Does your back hurt?"
"Just leave me alone. . . ."
Erik woke. He was wrapped up in his sheets, if he had a mirror, his face surely would have looked paler than normal.
"Water. . . ." He croaked to himself. He slumped out of his coffin, feeling so warm that he began to crave the cool, refreshing drink. He drank deeply from a jug on his desk and gave a sigh of relief. He longed to go back to his coffin and sleep, but he was afraid of those nightmares – the kind that relived a moment from the past, but somehow made it worse. . . .
He crawled into the coffin anyway, and fell asleep almost instantly.
And more nightmares came.