I do not own the Phantom of the opera, only the characters, not from the original cast and the plot. I do not own any songs used in the story. This is a work of fiction based off the Phantom of the opera.
Feel free to comment! All of your thoughts help me to improve and continue writing. I don't write in third person often, so I would like to know if there is anything I can do to improve upon it.
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1874
It was a dark, cold night, a young woman stumbles around the dark streets of Paris, drunken men and street whores the only others out at this time. She had little self-preservation. Although she was well aware of the evil lurking around each corner. The sword her father had given her rest in her belt ready to be seethed if needed.
She found it humorous that her father passed down a violin to her sister and a sword for her. It turned out only fitting that she became a fighter while her sister became a performer at the Opera house here in Paris.
Paris... She had only been back for a week since fighting alongside brave men and women in western England. She has yet to pluck up the courage to see her sister.
"Have my eyes betrayed me, mademoiselle? Is this truly an angel stood before me?" A drunken man slurred as he approached her.
She took in his drunken form with distaste, his eyes leering at her prominent bust poking out of her dress. Over the years she has been on the end of many drunken encounters with men. As did many women who dared to walk these streets alone at night.
"I can assure you Monsieur, your eyes have betrayed you," She tells him, calmly trying to get out of the encounter.
"Ah- I know a beautiful woman when I see one, truly angelic," He purred, his voice getting lower in an attempt to seduce.
She may have been a patient woman, but she would retaliate if he forced himself upon her. Her patience wore thin when his hand lurched forward in an attempt to grab her. She drew her sword, the metal screech filling the silence. She held it to the man's jugular.
"It would be wise of you to return home before your force me to use this weapon against you," She hisses, her eyes narrowing in a malicious glare.
"It would be wise of you to know your place whore-"
At this point, the woman sliced her blade across his neck in a warning. She could have killed him, but she knew the man was drunk and would regret his actions in the morning. So she left him with a scar, a warning not to cross her or any other poor woman he may come across tonight. While he was stunned from pain, she pushed his shoulder causing him to fall on his backside with a groan.
"Return home." She repeated, with a stern glare.
She continued on after putting her sword back into its resting place. She was tired and knew the brothel she was staying in would be full and alive with people at this hour of the night. Men who claimed they were in love were out betraying their so called 'loved ones' for one fruitless night with a stranger.
The brothel was a quaint little place in the darker parts of Paris hidden from the rich and out in the open amongst the poor. It seemed like an ordinary place during the day. As the girl looks at the building now, she can see the shadows of people bustling about through the windows, girls screeches, giggles and men's hearty laughter.
She sighs pushing onwards to attempt to walk through the crowd without being man handled. It proved to be a difficult task as soon as she walked through the door. Men everywhere sat with a pitcher in one hand and a woman in the other. Hands reached towards her body, and she skillfully maneuvered around them. She wanted to growl at them, point her sword at them like she had done just moments ago. But this was the world we lived in, no matter how she despised it, this was the way women were treated.
"Madam! Miss Angeletta!" A woman's voice called from within the throng of people.
Angeletta recognized the woman calling her name, it was the owner of this establishment, Mama Sucile. She watched on with slight humor as she spots Sucile sitting on a young man's lap. Sucile is a mature woman, with fair blonde hair, deep smile lines and dark green eyes hidden behind hooded lids. The moment she met Sucile she acted as a second mother to her, much like she did to all of these girls, which is perhaps why they all called her Mama. That and her Italian roots.
"Hello, Sucile. Hello monsieur," she greeted the man who grinned bashfully back.
"Do come and have a drink, and tell me about your day, where did you venture off to today?" Sucile questions extending a pitched towards the girl.
"I'll have to refuse the offer. I've been to the south side of Paris exploring the woodlands there, I only just got back and would like nothing more than to retire for the night." Angeletta answered her, feeling as if she was being examined by men in the room.
"Will you ever go to see that sister you speak so fondly of?" She questions, shaking her head in disappointment at the girl. She has been through so much in England, now she is back, seeing her sister will surely lift her spirits. Sucile hated to see a woman so beautiful and full of potential wallow around alone and in a state of self-pity.
Sucile could only begin to imagine the things she saw during the war.
"I will- soon." Angeletta proclaimed, but she knew she was only saying the words, making no promise to see it through.
"I am headed into town tomorrow near the Populaire, you may join me if you wish?" Sucile offered in hope the girl would agree.
"I'll consider it, thank you, mama." With a curtsy, the girl left out the back door, to the rooms used by guests.
Her room was very quaint and didn't have much in it as she had only been here a week. A small single bed pressed up against the far wall, beside it a wooden wardrobe with its hinges nearly falling off. Besides a small lamp hanging from the ceiling, the only light provided was from the moon shining through the window at the end of her bed.
Disarming her belt, she laid it aside, followed by her corset, dress, and underclothes until she was only in her garments and Pantalones. She took a deep breath, and laid down on top of the sheets, closing her eyes she tried to drift off to sleep, not caring to put on her nightgown. Sleep never came in a peaceful manner, she was always assaulted by the images she saw at war. Children dying, women and men forcefully assaulted both physically and sexually, people tortured, battered and brutalized before her very eyes.
But the one person always tormented her dreams and followed her near every waking thought.
Benjamin... the boy she couldn't save.