Author's Note: Many of you who are reading this story may recall the original story in Gaston Leroux's novel The Phantom of The Opera. Then came the lesser known sequel by Fredrick Forsythe titled "The Phantom of Manhattan", and the even lesser known version titled "Phantom". All of these books tell the story of a man who is an outcast from society trying to fit into the social norm, and attempting to woo a young woman. This story I am going to convey is not from the outside. I am going to attempt to tell the story from the view of the Phantom himself, as if he were writing onto the page. Please use constructive criticism when you are finished. Advice is always welcome, but vulgarity is not appreciated.
The Rise and Fall of the Angel of Music.
Music. From the time when I was a young boy, it has been central to my existence. I live for music. I even composed a bit in my time, though most people have never heard of the score. I doubt there is a copy of it in print anymore, and I am willing to bet the original has not been copied. But I am getting ahead of myself. My story is one of tragedy. I have loved, and lost. The saying "It's better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all" must have been stated by someone who has never loved and lost the person that was the object of such love. But again, I digress.
My beginnings were less then desirable. I was born to a somewhat wealthy family in central Europe. Do not ask me where, for I cannot tell you. The reason should become apparent. When I was born, from what I was told, I was not expected to live longer then a few moments. Most children born with as many defects as I was were dead by the end of the day, either killed by their parents, or overcame by the defects afflicting them. However, I survived. According to the maid of the house, one of the few people to ever show me kindness, my voice was the reason I lived. Even as a child only moments old, I had the voice of an angel. It held back my mother from killing me. For you see, I was born with two thirds of my face deformed.
My skin was a dead, waxen color. My eyes were yellow and sunken into my skull. My skull had assumed a molten shape under the dead skin. My hair, what little I possessed, was sparse and patchy. The rest of my body was little better. I was thin, extremely under weight. You could count my ribs. My fingers even then were boney and long. The house maid said that the midwife took one look at my features and ran screaming to get the priest, who declared me possessed. However, when I cried my first scream, my mother moved like a woman in a trance and nursed me. If she had been able to resist that initial moment, I would not have lived, for the priest would have had me killed in order to remove Satan from the world.
Despite my voice, I still was not able to live a normal childhood. My mother immediately fashioned a mask for my face, so she could bear to be near me. She constantly locked me in my room, with no light for me to see, aside from what little came through the shuttered window. As I grew up, I came to embrace the darkness as a friend, instead of fearing it as most children do.
My one solace came every Sunday. My mother's house was close to the church. Close enough that I could enjoy the music if I pressed my ear to the shutters. For a brief period, I was free. I could soar among the heavens and frolic in the fields. I could almost feel the wind on my face, the sun on my skin. I never wanted that music to end. However, as it is with most good things, it did end, and the darkness and silence would seemingly crush me in their power.
When I was around six years old, my maid, my one childhood friend, held a small celebration. Apparently this was a custom for people to celebrate the day of their birth. Another little thing that my mother conveniently avoided. When she asked what I wanted for the day, there were two requests. One was to be able to learn music, and the other was to go walking outside for a few moments. She was not readily agreeable to the second, but in the end she relented. As I meandered my way, I came across a small dog lying in the road, abandoned. The pitiful thing looked at me as I approached. I couldn't stop myself. I picked it up and carried it home. The maid didn't say a word when she saw me carrying the thing. She just watched as I nursed it back to heath over the next few days. Then my mother came home. Surprisingly she didn't object to the animal in a house where no other pets were kept. I suspect now it was because I would be away from her more if she let me keep it. It was only a few weeks of happiness for me, and it ended with some kids. They killed my dog. I stood at my window crack and watched them do it. The anger....the rage I felt when I saw her lifeless body on the pavement...I broke the shutters and jumped after them. They heard my scream of rage and fled, which is just as well, because I knew then that if any of them had stayed, I would have killed them.
As for the first request, the maid kept her end of her promise. She went to the priest and persuaded him to teach me music. The man was reluctant, as he had heard from his predecessor about me and my...uniqueness. But he was agreeable to teach me, so long as I kept my mask on. And I, so eager to learn the very music that I heard, was all too happy to abide by that small request. And learn music I did. I studied furiously. I learned all the notes the voice could master. I learned each cadence, each adagio, each staccato. I memorized countless arias and solo pieces sung by the clergy and the choir. I was even permitted books on music and candle-light to read them by, studying works of the great composers of the time and imagining the sounds in my head. My teacher called me a musical prodigy.
One night, after my mother was in bed and my maid went home, I crept out of the house and walked into the church. There I saw one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. I knew from the reading I had done it was called a pipe organ. I had always wondered what one looked like, and now there I was, a few feet away from it. I couldn't stop myself. I just had to play it. The sounds! Never in my short life had I heard such wonderous noise! I played for only a few moments, for I was afraid that I would be seen outside, but those few moments were enough. I was satisfied with just being able to spend mere moments alone with music and freedom. However, as time wore on, I became increasingly bold and spent longer and longer time at the organ. Eventually, as with the music on Sunday, it ended. THAT day I remember all too well.
I had to have been eight when the priest came into my room. I thought it was going to be just like any other day when he arrived. I thought he had come to teach me music. However, he had a different agenda that day. He informed me that I was not permitted into church ever again. Apparently he had seen me leaving after my last visit. Then he had the gall to tell me that one who bears the devil's likeness must be cleansed. Naturally, I was confused, and I said as much. He then proceeded to spout such nonsense at me that God would strike me down and I would have to burn in unquenchable fire and such foolishness. I swore the man was quite insane. Then he did the unspeakable. He took my mask away from me. I begged him to give it back, but he refused. He started talking in Latin, the holy tongue, attempting to "exorcise the demon from my soul". After about five minutes of this, he took a piece of wood and started beating me with it. I couldn't take any more. My vision went red and i broke the lash. I still remember every moment. The fear in his eyes. The sensation of power that swept through me as I wrapped my hands around his throat. The look on his face as I strangled him. For you see, even though I was very young, I was incredibly strong, and rage only lent more to that power. I still remember the sound that his final breath made as it left his body...the death rattle, as it is known. I picked up my mask from where it had fallen, claimed the man's cloak, even though it didn't fit me, and walked out of the house. My mother and maid had left. Later I found out that my mother knew what he was going to do, and left with the maid so she couldn't be held accountable for anything untoward that would happen toward me.
At last, I was free. I could do whatever I want, whenever I wanted. Or so I thought. It took a single day before I realized that I could not be in public. People took one look at me and drove me away, even with my mask. They could not tolerate someone who was so very different than them. So I took to stealing what I needed. I learned to become light on my feet. I learned to be quiet. I learned to pick locks, what sort of tools I needed, what doors were best to enter, what sort of hiding places people put things that I wanted. As it was with music, I learned quickly. I also learned over the space of four years where to sleep if you wanted to get through the night unmolested by other thieves and cutthroats, as well as to kill or be killed. Over those four years I killed 5 men. I also paired up with a few and learned some helpful tricks, and I survived by my own hard work and my own determination.
One warm night, I was sleeping in a little clearing some distance from the main road, when I felt something moving about my person. I had removed my mask, as the thing was too small to fit properly and it was incredibly uncomfortable to sleep in, so I immediately assumed that some animal had mistaken me for a corpse and was about to make a meal of me. So I shifted slightly. Then I heard them. Voices. It turned out that what I had felt were hands. And it wasn't an animal who thought I was a dead person, but a young boy. I leaped up and he ran off. I thought I scared him away and laid back to go to sleep. However, I was mistaken. He had run off, but returned with several other people. I awoke again to being poked with a stick. When I rolled over, I saw four men leaning over me. My hands flew to my face at once to cover it so they wouldn't see. But it was too late. As I soon became accustomed to, they flew into some sort of maniacal fit and beat me senseless. When I came to, I was in a cage!
Over the next few days, I was confined to the cage, where several men and teens looked at me and discussed what to do with me. When I asked them for my mask, they laughed. Eventually I gave up on that idea. So I curled up into a ball and slept. The pattern repeated, thought I became aware that the location was changing. When I awoke one time, it was to kicks to the ribs. When I sat up, I was informed that I was to be a star attraction in the circus, which is apparently what I was captured by. My title was to be the Living Skeleton, or something of that nature. The man who was talking to me was incredibly drunk and slovenly. But he held my mask, and said that if I cooperated, I could have it back. I informed him that I needed a new one, or it was no deal, and he proceeded to beat me senseless once again. But he acquiesced to my request, and I awoke to find a new mask in my cage.
Life in the circus was terrible, even when I cooperated. I was forced to stay in a coffin that was built for me until I was introduced, then I was to rise from the thing while eerie music was played and scare the younglings. What usually ended up happening was the adults would demand their money back. When that happened, I was beaten for losing the fat man his money. When the circus was not traveling, I was confined to my cage, unable to leave even to relieve myself. When the circus was moving, I had to be out to help move various things, carts and the like. During these times I would talk to some of the other oddities that were along, the bearded lady and the like. Always I kept my mask on though, to avoid the beatings.
One particular trip changed my standings with the circus. During the break time, I came across a ventriloquist practicing throwing his voice around. Now, you must understand, circus performers guard their arts with incredible suspicion. But this man was not in his normal frame of mind. He ended up teaching me the secret of his art. After a little practice, I became better then the man himself, though I never let on. When the fat man came for his usual ranting about how I better earn him his money, I decided to let loose my secret. I told him no, and that I wouldn't help him unless he made some concessions. When he started on his rant on how could I be so ungrateful and about all the things he did for me, I threw my voice in his ear and told him that he had no idea of the money I could bring him if he would listen. Then I made the coffin talk. If I remember correctly, I made it say "Behold...I house the living dead....but soon the living shall remain the eternally dead". Then I made the lock of the cage say "I am the lock that holds the door shut." And the key on the man's belt said "I am the key that will unleash the monsters from the cages". The look on the fat man's face was priceless. When he asked what I wanted, I decided that I wanted to have more freedom to move around. Not to be caged at all times like a common animal. I also wanted to change a few things in his show. He didn't like the second one, but gave in once he heard me out. And to say the least, I am sure he was glad, after the first night of the new living dead. I made my voice sound like angels themselves, singing above the tent to the haunting melody of the music he played. Then I arose in all my ghastly glory, in a pitch black cloak and breeches, no shirt. The audience was frozen. Not a single sound could be heard, not a single jeer, no cries of horror, no wailing children. For my voice did not just sound from above. It rang directly in their ears. And when MY show was finished, they all left in silence.
