A/N: I have been accosted by the angst-bunny. It made me do it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Meg, from whose point of view this fic is written, nor do I own Erik, the Phantom of the Opera [insert phangirlish sigh here]. They are the property of dear M. Leroux. All I own is my Original Cast Recording CD set and my (beaten beyond hope of recovery) copy of Phantom of the Opera. I also do not own the Emily Dickinson poem from which the title of this fic was taken. (The poem starts with, 'I held a jewel in my fingers')
~
All of the other ballet girls were afraid of him. I should have been, too, I suppose. But for some reason, I felt differently towards this.whatever he was. Specter, I guess. The Phantom of the Opera, shrouded in mystery, always appeared in a dress suit and had a death's head, said the girls.
I saw him, only once, but I did. I was going to the dressing room and it was dark in the corridor, but I know it was the phantom. He just-appeared, materialized from the shadows. I was startled, and started to turn back, but he froze me in place with one glance from the eyes in those shadowed empty eye-sockets. He put one pure-white gloved hand up to his lips, or rather, the place where his lips ought to be. I realized that he was wearing a mask, and did not really have a death's head. Silenced from anything that, by off chance, I would say, and rooted in place, I saw him cross the hallway and disappear into the shadows on the other side of the corridor.
I shall never, for as long as I live, forget that incident.
And at that moment, my heart belonged to no one else but that mysterious figure.
Silly, I know, that this mysterious ghoul should have my affections. A schoolgirl's childish fantasies, I want to meet the Phantom of the Opera!
Mother would have scoffed if I told her, so I kept quiet, keeping my secret all to myself, like a gem I clutched close to my heart.
Even now, I do not know whether this really happened or whether it was just a figment of my overactive imagination, but I don't care-as far as I know, I met the Phantom of the Opera.
He silenced me with a gesture and unknowingly won my heart, and I can almost see the way the candlelight emphasized and defined the deep shadows on the mask he wore.
But now, as life slips from me, the memory fades from me and onto this paper. I hope that perhaps my children will read this, or perhaps I don't.
Perhaps I will still keep the memory a secret, like a gem held close to my heart.
~ Please review and feed my inferiority complex! Tell me what you really think of this story!
Disclaimer: I do not own Meg, from whose point of view this fic is written, nor do I own Erik, the Phantom of the Opera [insert phangirlish sigh here]. They are the property of dear M. Leroux. All I own is my Original Cast Recording CD set and my (beaten beyond hope of recovery) copy of Phantom of the Opera. I also do not own the Emily Dickinson poem from which the title of this fic was taken. (The poem starts with, 'I held a jewel in my fingers')
~
All of the other ballet girls were afraid of him. I should have been, too, I suppose. But for some reason, I felt differently towards this.whatever he was. Specter, I guess. The Phantom of the Opera, shrouded in mystery, always appeared in a dress suit and had a death's head, said the girls.
I saw him, only once, but I did. I was going to the dressing room and it was dark in the corridor, but I know it was the phantom. He just-appeared, materialized from the shadows. I was startled, and started to turn back, but he froze me in place with one glance from the eyes in those shadowed empty eye-sockets. He put one pure-white gloved hand up to his lips, or rather, the place where his lips ought to be. I realized that he was wearing a mask, and did not really have a death's head. Silenced from anything that, by off chance, I would say, and rooted in place, I saw him cross the hallway and disappear into the shadows on the other side of the corridor.
I shall never, for as long as I live, forget that incident.
And at that moment, my heart belonged to no one else but that mysterious figure.
Silly, I know, that this mysterious ghoul should have my affections. A schoolgirl's childish fantasies, I want to meet the Phantom of the Opera!
Mother would have scoffed if I told her, so I kept quiet, keeping my secret all to myself, like a gem I clutched close to my heart.
Even now, I do not know whether this really happened or whether it was just a figment of my overactive imagination, but I don't care-as far as I know, I met the Phantom of the Opera.
He silenced me with a gesture and unknowingly won my heart, and I can almost see the way the candlelight emphasized and defined the deep shadows on the mask he wore.
But now, as life slips from me, the memory fades from me and onto this paper. I hope that perhaps my children will read this, or perhaps I don't.
Perhaps I will still keep the memory a secret, like a gem held close to my heart.
~ Please review and feed my inferiority complex! Tell me what you really think of this story!