I always knew he was cruel. You get to know someone's character if you grow up with them. In the case of my brother, it has been obvious since his early childhood when he enjoyed to torture small animals. It has only become worse over the years. The chances of him not becoming cruel were small to say the least. He ought to thank our mother for that. If it hadn't been for our father, I would have never known his cruelty, or anyone's cruelty to be precise. When I was given to my mother after my birth, I was not what she had been dreaming of. In fact, she screamed and dropped me: it was a miracle that I survived, though I used to think that surviving was the most horrible thing that could happen to me. All of that changed on the moment I got to know her. But let's get back to what I was saying. My father decided that they would keep me, even when my mother pleaded to have me killed. That was probably the most merciful thing she could have done for me in my entire life. He did not allow me to live because he loved me. Oh no! He could rival my brother in cruelty. He allowed it for one reason only: my mother had been trying to give him an heir to his title for more than ten years, and until I came, had failed miserably. The chances that there would be a second child were almost non-existing and since it was absolutely impossible to have a bastard inherit the domain, I grew up as the recognised son of my parents. My brother Raoul was born after I reached the age of 6, and that was the moment when my parents truly started to hate me and didn't try to hide it anymore.
Raoul grew up with loving parents who told him every day of his life that he should have been the one to inherit everything and that my existence was a cruel joke made by fate. From the moment he could walk, he tried to make my life as unpleasant as possible. He was never punished or reprimanded. I could see how disappointed they were by the fact that I kept on breathing, never once becoming ill or having an accident. I used to try to make it up to them by excelling in every art that could be learned: fighting, horseback riding, archery, drawing, painting, architecture and most importantly: music. I think that the only time when my parents were able to stand me was while I was playing the violin or the piano. Of course, their affection would disappear as soon as the music stopped, but I lived for those moments and I fought for every single shred of affection that I was able to get. My instruments were also one of the only things that remained safe from my brother's hands. He knew how expensive they were and destroying them would mean destroying something "that was supposed to be his". But my true gift of God was my voice. I know that it is able to make the angels weep. She was the one who helped me to reach this conclusion. Nevertheless, I never sang for my parents or my brother, the were not worth it.
After my father died, mother became even more spiteful and I was grateful that she did not live much longer. However, the disadvantage was unfortunate. I was left alone in one house with my brother and you can only try to avoid each other for so long (but try I did). I usually just leave him be and make sure that he has enough of money so he will not bother me. One day, he bought a magnificent white stallion. I found the poor animal bleeding severely while he was still using the whip on it's already bloody back. That was the first time that I hit him, though there would be more to follow in the future. Apparently, César, that is how I named him, did not allow Raoul to ride him, something I can absolutely not blame him for, and Raoul unleashed all of his wrath and cruelty upon the poor creature. After I hit Raoul, I paid him the amount of money back which he had spent to buy the horse, and started to heal what would later become my best friend. I have enjoyed the look of envy on Raoul's face for years and I know that he has tried several times to ride César again, only to come back with a dissatisfied look on his face and a few very noticeable bruises. I am the only one who is César allows upon his back.
But you, dear listener, still don't know why all of this happened to me. It is because of my face. I am not ugly, I am hideous! I am living death! Oh, you don't understand? Think of a skull that is able to talk and eat and drink with eyes that shine like yellow flames in the darkness of the night. And my body? Little more that a loathsome skeleton! Yes, Living Corpse indeed…
Author notes: I do not own anything. All credits to Gaston Leroux. Also: this is my first fic, so I hope you will not be to harsh and English is not my native language. I would appreciate it immensely if you will tell me when you see some mistakes. Thank you very much and enjoy the story!