Prologue (Christine)
The red rose with the black ribbon was his trademark. When he gave it to me, I thought of it as a trophy. It made me feel like I was different from all the rest. Like, in some way, I was special. But soon the admiration toward it turned to the fear of it. What used to give me happiness now only gave me grief. Now, the rose symbolizes tragedy, mystery, and genius turned to madness. He was a musician, a composer, and an inventor; an architect, a genius, a magician, and a master of illusion. He used to make me happy. My soul would fill with bliss upon hearing his voice. I used to love to hear his voice. To be taken down to his lair. To sing both with him and for him. He would teach me, help me, inspire me, coach me. He made my voice better. He inspired my voice in ways no one else could. The way I felt when I was around him was a way no one had ever made me feel. Upon hearing his beautiful, almost angelic voice, I would hold my breath, and my heart would beat a thousand times a minute. When we sang together, I was in awe with his voice. When he touched me, I felt as though I might faint, but it was because of knowing it wasn't a dream. He used to make me feel safe. I used to feel calm when I was around him. Going down those catacombs to his lair was magical, as was going back up to the auditorium. Singing to him, and him singing to me as we walked down felt...breathtaking. However, soon, all I could think about was fear and hatred, directed toward a man who was born in hell, but secretly yearned for heaven. A man who was deemed disfigured and ugly to the world, yet he secretly dreamed of beauty. He dreamed of happiness. He dreamed of finding someone to love, someone who could love him back. Someone who could look beyond the face, and learn to love the man for his soul, not his appearance. Someone to be his forever and always. Someone who he could call beautiful everyday. Someone he could wake up next to every morning.
I thought I loved him; I thought I could trust him. I know he loved me, and continues to love me to this day. Yet still, he frightens me. He has caused me tragedy and misery. When I look at the rose, all I can think about is the way he murdered my father, Nancy, and how he tried to kill Daniel. Yet despite all of this...I may still love him. I could've looked past his face, the trouble it has caused him. Soon, it showed no fear for me, because in his soul, he was deformed. I could've loved him, even with the face he had, yet he caused me too much pain. I could never have learned to love him after what he did. He did it without a thought. I could never love someone as horrible and mad as him.
Every year on my birthday, July 21st, I get a rose with a black ribbon tied around it. I never throw them away. While this act causes me pain, it shows he still loves me, even if I can't love him. He ruined me. He murdered me on the inside, and yet this love...may not go unreciprocated. I cannot help but feel a sort of demented attraction to such a demented man.
Many people said he had the face of death. They said that if you saw him, or knew too much, he would hang you with his magic lasso, as if it were a noose. They told people to keep a hand at the level of your eye, because he couldn't put the lasso over your hand, so you may have a chance to live. He was described as having no nose, but simply a hole in its place. They said he had so little facial skin that you could see his brain. His shriveled up, black, demented brain. Those people, however, were all wrong. He didn't look anything like what they said. He didn't look like the face of death. They were wrong about his appearance, but they were right about his personality. They were right about how he would murder without a thought, as though he had no conscience, as though he had no soul, as though he was just an empty shell.