Author's note: Welcome readers, lurkers and Phanatics one and all.
I am familiar with the works of Leroux's, Andrew Lloyd Webber/Joel Schumacher and Susan Kay and have borrowed bit and pieces from each artist and author. Because of the opposing contrast, my Erik looks like the Gerard Butler version. Expect mixing of various characters. The Phantom will eventually experience the joys of being a man. There is a strong M rating for future chapters. I welcome your useful criticism and opinions.
-Leesainthesky
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from the phantom of the opera et-all. Gabrielle and her pals belong to me.
Time, the Avenger: Ch 1 Alpha and Omega
New York City, June 2005
The Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end; life happens between the two. Yet sometimes the end is the beginning. That was my father's theory.
My father was a wonderful guy. He had twinkling bright blue eyes, dimples and a facetious laugh. Dad embraced music, nature, science and the endless mystery of life. He was know for his wicked skills on the chess board—a fact he relished holding over me ever time we played the game. My father also possessed amazing intelligence and a vivid imagination--a blessing and a curse if you happened to be his offspring. We were close, both hungering for purpose and love, seekers merely brushing our fingertips against answers.
Dr. Jonathan Thomassen, aka dad, was a physicist who worked closely with Kip Thorne of Cal Tech; one of the world's leading experts in the general theory of relativity. Both men subscribed to the idea of the fourth dimension--a possible hole in the fabric of reality used to explain strange disappearances in the Bermuda Triangle. What that means in layman's terms is that my Father believed in the absolute possibility of time travel. He was head of research at the Time Travel Institute in Chicago, Illinois. Dad's colleagues understood that if Einstein's theory of special relativity entertained the possibility of traveling through time, then Dr. Thomassen's theories might also hold merit.
My mother thought he was a crackpot and often introduced him to strangers as "My husband the mad scientist." Dinner-table conversation in our home often centered on the speed of light, wormholes and invisible tears in the fabric of the universe. Being a dreamer myself, I considered dad's life's legitimate; after all, wasn't space travel a loose version of time travel?
Such theories was tough to prove. If people did take vacations in time, they must have decided to stay in their newfound epoch, because few ever returned to tell their story.
Throughout the centuries, reports of disappearances were substantial. In 610 A.D., thousands of Mayans vanished from their cities. The Caribbean's infamous Bermuda triangle routinely gobbled up planes and boats. Back in the year 1876, a Parisian fellow retired to his front porch for a mid-day smoke only to wind up on a New York City street instead.
Could a Frenchman in 1876 France suddenly exchange places with a person in New York City's Times Square?
Yes. It had happened to Rudolph Fentz and it happened to me.
June 16th was opening night for the Broadway production of Sweet Charity starring Christina Applegate. The TV magazine show, Chicago Tonight, had dispatched me to cover the show for a weekend getaway segment.
My producer and occasional fiancé, Tony Lansdale and I arrived at the Al Hirschfeld Theatre mere moments before curtain time, which meant there was zero opportunity to drop off our luggage at the hotel. I begged the manager to let us stash our horde of bags and broadcast equipment in her office until after the performance.
After two and a half hours of mediocrity, both my bottom and my brain were numb. I urged Tony to hurry and beat the crowd out to the lobby so we could retrieve our belongings.
There I was, standing pretty in my strapless pomegranate red Todd Oldham dress, my feet perched atop Manolo Blahnik stilettos, schlepping around a large suitcase, a carry on bag, one weekender bag on wheels and my Kate Spade handbag. Not only were my arms growing weak from the strain of carrying so much bulk, I was freezing. For the life of me, I don't know why theatres keep their thermostats turned to the approximate setting of a meat locker.
Craving the warmth of a muggy New York City night, I navigated my way through the lobby crush. Once on the sidewalk, I twisted around to look for my fiancé. All I saw was the phallic shape of his gray boom-mic sticking up from the middle of the crowd.
Geez, Tony, would you please move your skinny ass, I mussed through gritted teeth.
My feet felt as if I'd been walking on hot coals and my arms were atrophying from the weight of our luggage.
That man doesn't have a talent for crowd surfing like I do, I tisked, stopping to wait for him and making sure that I had a firm grip on my belongings; this was, after all, New York City.
Scanning the chaos on West 45th Street, my gaze stopped on an odd sight (even for the city). Seven or eight feet in front of me, a middle-aged gentleman stood on the sidewalk. It wasn't so much the pipe he clutched onto, his waistcoat, caveat, tidy waxed mustache or mutton-chop side burns that made him appear peculiar, it was the look of utter terror in his dark eyes. I was staring into the eyes of a frightened animal.
Frantically looking around for something or someone, he was disoriented and dashed straight into the path of an oncoming taxicab. My mouth opened for a soundless scream that dissolved into a swirling vortex of darkness.
Wham. My knees and palms hit the cold hard ground. Had I also been hit by the cab or merely tripped on the sidewalk?
Damn, there goes another pair of expensive panty hose, I cursed aloud.
That uncomfortable watering sensation one gets before losing the contents of one's stomach filled my mouth.
No, please, no barfing in front of the Times Square crowd. Breathe, Gabrielle, I pleaded silently.
I quelled the urge to toss, and once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, scanned my surroundings. The floor was rocky and earthen, not a concrete sidewalk; it was dark, damp and smelled slightly of what—ash and mold? This sure as hell was not Times Square.
Directly to my right a pond lapped softly at the rocky shore. Several feet to my left, I saw something akin to a stage strew with candles and antiquated props.
What in the frickin'-dickle am I doing here? I wondered audibly.
"An excellent question, Mademoiselle--what are you doing here?" A resonant and cultured French accent demanded from within the gloaming.
- o -
Yes, it begins as a time travel, but the story focuses more on the twists and turns of the relationship between a 21st century woman and a 19th century man. Please give this a chance and please read & review, I truly want to know your thoughts. - Leesa
Note: The reference to Rudolph Fentz is a true story, said to have happened in June 1876. He allegedly reappeared in Times Square 1950 so here I have altered the time line. In 2002 researcher Chris Arbuck he learned that the Fentz story was just that, a story.