Defacement

Author's note: My first Phan fiction! I love Phantom, and always wanted to write one. I had this idea in a dream, so I hope it isn't too bizarre or anything. Also, there isn't any music in this. It's also modern day! Enjoy!

Summery: Erik is what society believes to be a vandal, hiding in abandoned buildings and filling them with magnificent murals. He believes he has no need to ever interact with others, as his imagination and art nourish him more than anything else. However, fate seems to intervene when Christine, an aspiring illustrator and portrait artist, comes crashing through his structured yet flawed reality. His world is then totally thrown into complete and beautiful chaos.

I believe that the day was my twenty-fifth birthday. It was a day like any other, which started out identical to all of my days at Schrade. I had recently moved there, after my last settlement became occupied. I knew it would be a matter of time before Schrade would become active again, or just be destroyed. After all, they were turning my last home, an abandoned supermarket, into a Walmart. They bulldozed the building completely flat, and all of my work was ruined. I left as soon as there was word of that impending doom - before the lot was even sold. I couldn't afford to be found out. It wasn't much of a surprise, to be honest, that a Walmart was coming into town. The area had been getting more and more depressed each year, starting with the closing of Schrade in 2004.

I was seventeen when the factory shut down, and it left a very bitter taste in my mouth. When I was a child, I would pretend that I had a father who worked in the factory, who would wake up every morning incredibly early and come home when I would be fast asleep. I imagined he had dark hair and rough hands, with strong broad shoulders and a kind smile. It warmed my heart on those frigid October nights in the cabin, and I would sleep soundly. As I grew older, my imagination proved to be less of a comfort and more of a hinderance. Perhaps that's another reason I chose Schrade, even though the Nevele Hotel was available. I wanted to be close to my imaginary father.

I arrived at Schrade when I was nineteen years old, in the summer of 2007. It was very annoying to pick up my things and move to the neighboring town, especially with the supplies of cans I had back then. I lifted the large sack of metal onto my back, and walked into the night, making sure to stay unseen. I suppose it wasn't uncommon to have a strange man walking around at three in the morning, especially in the town I was moving to, but I didn't want to take the risk. The clinking of cans in the sack drove away any animals that might've been eyeing me for a midnight snack, so I felt safe. I broke through the "private property" fence, and made my way toward the gigantic structure.

The walls at Schrade were incredible: massive, cream-colored walls, blank and endless. I believed the entire building was my canvas, and it belonged to me. I remember the first time I walked through the obsolete machines and technology, savoring every little nut and bolt. The tiles were chipped and the windows cracked, and a thick layer of dust blanketed everything. All was silent and still, and I wondered if there was a large switch hidden somewhere within the large factory, where I could turn everything back on again with the flick of a finger. I imagined everything becoming reanimated and functioning, bursting into technicolor. The building enchanted me, and I knew it was mine.

I began my work almost immediately, flooded with ideas and inspiration from the beauty around me. I covered several walls in the basement and slept there as well, making sure nobody knew of my existence. I had a source providing me with paint on the outside as well, making sure I was fully stocked. The policeman had always felt pity toward me, so he made sure I was relatively comfortable wherever I settled. I suppose he was the closest thing to a father I had ever truly had. He even left me food, although I seldom ate anything. Art was what sustained and nourished me, to say in the most cliché way.

I had begun drawing at a very young age, covering the walls in my small room with drawings of whatever I dreamed. Some days they would be of my mother, and other days they were just patterns. Whenever I read a book that my mother would bring home for me, I'd imagine what each character looked liked, and I'd draw them. I would create scenes from the novels on the paper my mother provided me, living through them, imagining I was the main hero of the book. I was the brave knight, or the wizard. I was special. Soon, the entire house was covered with little white sheets of computer paper with my work on them.

Despite that, my mother never complained. She would leave for work every morning, and come home late with another stack of white computer paper, ready for me to become distracted once more. I would go through the books she got me from the public library at hyper speed, always requesting more challenging work. When I was younger, I believed I had above average intelligence, which is why I never went to school. I believed I was severely allergic to the sun and pollen, which is why I couldn't go outside. The windows had thick, heavy shades because my skin was fair, and everything was sealed so no harmful dusts could get into my lungs. I truly believed I was never supposed to leave.

"You are my beautiful boy," She would distantly say, with a soft, dreadful smile on her face, "I don't want you to get hurt."

She would place me on her soft lap and stroke my head, almost like petting a cat. She would hum a soft, unidentifiable tune, perhaps one she used to listen to before I was born, and stare off into the distance. I always wondered what she was thinking, if she was even thinking anything at all. I felt that my mother had died the moment I was born, and her soul simply left an empty vessel for me. I could never complain, as she fed me and gave me paper. She clothed me and, of course, masked me. I was only allowed to be unmasked when I bathed and washed my face. I confronted her about it once, before I turned thirteen.

"It hurts to sleep with it on, and it's really hot tonight. Can't I just sleep with it off?"

A wild gleam appeared in her eyes, drastically different from the murky emerald-gray they normally were. Her face contorted into one of pure fury, as she screamed,

"NO!"

I shrunk back in fear, and never mentioned the mask again.

I couldn't go on fooling myself for the rest of my life, so I left when I was thirteen, and never looked back. I took my last stack of white computer paper, my new black mask made of cloth, and a few pencils I had found. I managed to open the back door (which had been locked from the outside for as long as I could remember) and silently walked into the night. I walked through the cool spring air, feeling the muddy leaves scrunch under my feet. I knelt down to avoid sharp twigs, and tried to stay on the beaten path illuminated by the moonlight. Although I was only thirteen, I was abnormally tall and lanky, but quite coordinated.

The forest was more beautiful than I had ever imagined, with it's dark, rich colors and beautiful shapes. Even the smell of dirt was intoxicating. I felt like I needed to draw all the magnificence that surrounded me. As I trudged along, I felt my foot hit against something heavy and metallic. It appeared to be some sort of can, but I couldn't make it out in the dim lighting. I decided to put it into my sack and keep moving forward, and I eventually found myself at my first settlement: an abandoned supermarket a mile from a small, country town. The town had little bell-shaped streetlights and a narrow main strip with several stores, including a florist and a deli where there were movie rentals. I heard the chatter of several men outside the deli, and waited for them to disperse before making my way toward the large, dilapidated building. I broke in, and managed to find a spot clear of debris all the way in the back, near the freezer. To my surprise, there was a small light that still was functioning, and I had already made myself at home.

I finally examined the can from the woods, and saw it was actually paint. I read and reread the label many times, memorizing every ingredient and fact. It was red "spray paint". It instructed the user to "shake thoroughly" first, and then hold at a certain distance and spray it on a clean surface. I made the decision to try it on the far wall, facing my little bed made of a few sheets and a small, thin pillow. I pushed my finger on the valve, and allowed myself to visualize all of my feelings at that particular moment in time.

The red devoured the white, screaming and crying with it's color, pushing all of the fear and hate away. The color spread and flourished, whistling and waving. I sprayed myself into that wall, with lines, with shades, with anything and everything. The whispery sighs of the paint cleansed my soul, as if I had finally moved on from my mother and all that she had deprived me of. When I had finished, I was astonished with what had actually taken place. A larger-than-life red mask was staring back at me. My eyes widened, and the air left my lungs. I fell to the ground, tears pouring from my tired eyes, my hands pink from my work. I then slept fitfully, for the first time in years, and I smiled. I dreamt of cans, clinking in the dark, and the soft wisps of aerosol paint.

The years flew by, and my work grew larger and more colorful. I had come across a policeman a few years later who provided me with paint, as long as I stayed out of trouble. It was quite easy for me, anyway. I seldom left my settlements, perhaps only to actually move to a new one. The largest move was to Schrade, and I was mentally and physically exhausted after it. I spent most of my days contemplating my next piece, planning it out, making notes. I had papers scattered all over Schrade, with designs and theories. I filled most of the bottom basement's walls, and was slowly working my way toward the first floor of the factory.

It was the night of my twenty-fifth birthday, definitely. I can recall the specific moment when I heard a door rattle open, and a piece of glass shatter to the ground. Although I was directly underneath the main entryway, I quickly gathered my belongings from working in that area, and zipped up my gray, worn out hoodie. I carefully placed my black mask on, making sure it was secure. I slowly made my way up the stairwell, staying hidden in the shadows. I saw the glinting of a flashlight in the distance, and frowned.

'Why would somebody come here now? It's probably past midnight...'

"Guys! This isn't funny anymore! I don't want to do this!"

I heard her voice, crying out into the darkness, high-pitched and frightened. The moonlight from a broken window rained down on her, and she stood.

Then my world, just like the piece of glass, fell to the ground and shattered into a million shining fragments.