This chapter is told from Erik's POV. I like to switch POV fairly frequently in my writing as it helps me to develop characters and justify their actions. I want you to know as much about all of them as I do! For now I'll probably stick to one POV per chapter or series of chapters. But, as things progress, there might be times where I switch mid-chapter.

Enjoy!! :o)

Disclaimer- I don't own Phantom of the Opera…I don't own anything at all! :o( Well, my fictional characters are mine…but I start to wonder if that's healthy. **sigh** Writers are a crazy lot, aren't we?

Chapter 1 – "The Blood On One's Hands"

It was truly finished now. Really, there was no point to his frantic running. Winding though the alleys of Paris may be, they would do nothing to save him from the mob of stagehands, actors, patrons, and ordinary street people; all set out for the sole purpose of assuring the demise of the beast that had by now panicked the entire City of Lights. Yet, whether for pride or primal instinct, he could not will himself to stand still, to throw himself before their fury, and to give up. So run he did.

Blindly, he fumbled down any street and around any corner that looked promising, grasping every handhold his shaking fingers could find. His eyes could not aid him, they were clouded by tears or his own mental state, he knew not which. Then, as he turned another dark corner, a shock up one arm awoke him to some semblance of reality. A loose nail, a splinter, a sharp cornerstone; some unknown object had pierced his hand and he watched, almost transfixed, as deep red pigment drew patterns across his palm.

He bled… perhaps he was human. Whether that was a comfort or a torment he could not decide. For if he was, in fact, human, his actions against his own kind were surely inexcusable. If he was truly a monster, then he had no right to live among men. As this paradox floated across his fog-filled mind, he was still. His running ceased as he thought of himself, for the first time in God knows how long, as part of the world of men. For he was indeed part of it, however much he tried to exist elsewhere. From the moment of his birth he had been hidden, put away in an attic like a particularly moth eaten coat, concealed behind a mask of cloth and shame. But no amount of darkness can keep a human isolated from the flow of life that is all around. And so, though the entire world seemed to believe that he needed to be somehow imprisoned, he saw, experienced, and accomplished more than almost any of them.

Yet, never had he felt like a true, living man. Always, whether he was being abused by the gypsies or pampered in the Persian palaces, he was seen as a novelty. He was never an equal, never a person to be treated as social customs insisted, but rather a strange trinket that was taken care of differently by different owners. Even when he had at last been taken to the sanctuary of the opera house by the young ballet teacher who would become his only friend, he still felt less than human, perhaps even more so than before. While he no longer had to worry about physical attacks from others he now had to contend with a mental attack from within himself.

The longer he spent underground, in his own surreal palace of covered mirrors and dripping candelabras, the further he became separated from little Erik. Though he knew he was cleverer than almost any man in the world of light, he still came to look upon himself as an unworthy monster. The more time elapsed, the wilder his ideas became. Soon, he was a demon of hell, a gargoyle, and even a fallen angel. The leap from these things to a fully fledged ghost was not hard to make. And so, the menacing Phantom of the Paris Opera was born; and little Erik hid from him in a dark, secret place. Then, of course, she arrived. He tried valiantly now to think of her name but nothing appeared except a burning pain across his mind.

She had been so beautiful, talented, and so very sad. As soon as he had glimpsed her, he took a liking to her. She seemed to be so like himself in her lost, parentless state. Like himself, but with an angel's face. At first his plan was simply to entertain her in her sorrow. Then it became training her to sing, then to make her a star. Before long, she consumed him entirely and he set every one of his powerful thoughts on the idea that she would become his bride. There was a point in the madness where the voice of young Erik did dare to call out, though quietly. This is not right! She does not know you! You do not know her! She is deceived! This is not right! But little Erik was a trinket in the closet and the Phantom thought him a fool.

For a while it seemed that all was happy and good, that his fantasy would be realized, and that he might at last be granted happiness from the God who had afflicted him with a devil's face. Christine gave her soul to him when she sang each night and together they were in bliss. Erik's obsession grew and he believed with his whole being that she loved him as dearly as he loved her. How wrong he had been. How foolish he had been to think that a creature of Hell could be granted any shred of joy in this world. Christine, the one whom he had thought might love his song enough to see beyond his face, had turned from his revolting features and fallen in to the arms of her handsome vicomte. She had rejected him as so many others had done. But this loss he could certainly not survive. If she, perfect creature, could not love him, what hope did he have for anything but more hellish torment, more abuse, and a miserable death?

The Phantom of the Opera now stood, frozen in time, watching as warm blood ran down his freezing fingers in thin lines. How strangely poetic that as he was moments from being bludgeoned by an angry mob, the only blood on his hands was his own. The liquid pooled in his palm, covering a fine white scar that he had received as a boy. He had been building the pieces that would later make up his underground home. The wound had been fairly serious. He may even have bled to his death had Madame Giry not been there to stitch it for him. The scrape that so fascinated him now was not nearly as deep but it seemed to be finishing the job the first wound had begun. All those years ago he had started killing little Erik by shutting himself out of reality's light. Now the innocent and brilliant boy's blood was flowing on his hands again as he awaited his final demise. If the Phantom was guilty of murdering anyone, it was the man he once was.

The sounds that reverberated off of the buildings of Paris made it clear that the mob, growing larger and wilder all the time, was nearing its prey. But he wouldn't run anymore, the instincts that had powered him previously now seemed to have been conquered by fatigue and grief. Erik slumped to the ground against a wall, his mind clouded by incomprehensible images and broken phrases from his memory. The scrapes on his fingers began to clot, allowing the blood on his hand to dry to a deep maroon.

Suddenly, new footsteps could be heard, a single pair, separate from the mob. At first he fancied it to be some sort of scout sent by the main group to canvas the area, then,

"Erik!" The quickly materializing figure spoke in a harsh and desperate whisper. All the same, his mind recognized the voice, but he showed no reaction.

"Erik! My God, Erik! Thank the Lord I have found you!" Antoinette ran to his slumped figure and placed a tentative hand on his shoulder.

"Why, Madame? So you could kill me yourself? Do as you will. You have more right to my blood than any of them."

Her continual mention of the deity that had created him as an outcast prodded at his painful misery and as a consequence Erik's words came out so bitter that one could hardly perceive his seraphic voice beneath the menace.

"No you mad fool!" was her frantic reply, "Now, get to your feet! They'll be upon us in a moment!"

"I'm afraid I don't understand your meaning. Is it that you'd rather I face them standing like a man? Or do you merely want to look as though you've caught me yourself?" He had obliged her request and now stood, towering over her petite frame, his voice still an intimidating growl while his face betrayed his all-consuming hopelessness.

The ballet mistress's eyes flashed dangerously. She was of half a mind to slap him for his idiocy while the rest of her thoughts were screaming that she should flee as quickly as possible.

"No! Erik, you must run! Flee not only Paris but France entirely. They will hunt you forever with the de Chagnys backing the effort. I-"

"What makes you so certain that I want to escape them, Madame Giry?" The rage had left his voice, it was flat and empty now, as though his state were beyond telling.

She faltered for a brief moment before continuing.

"I-I will not see you led to the guillotine. I will not! At the same time, why I so want you to live is beyond me. As you said, I have more reason than any in that mob to want you dead; anyone else would say you deserve your just punishment. Even you seem eager to snuff out your genius……do not ask me why I feel as I do, Erik!" she was suddenly furious, "I will not see you tried and killed on my watch! So run, Erik! If for no one else, run for Antoinette Giry who has been your only advocate for all these years."

Erik was astonished to see tears well in the old woman's eyes. He backed away slightly, nervous.

"There is no where for me to go," he managed, "I cannot simply board a train or ship."

"I have a friend from years ago. He quite liked me when I was young and would have proposed if Claude had not beaten him to it. He's a ship captain by day but he smuggles goods across the Channel for a wealthy merchant by night and has been known to take questionable passengers as well. He should take you without questions if you mention my name. Cover yourself with this," Here she produced a wool cloak from over her arm that seemed to have been stolen from a costume room, it was grey as chimney smoke with a black lining that seemed iridescent in the half-light of the alley. Then, she withdrew from the pocket of her own coat a small purse of coins, "This is all that remains of your savings. I'm afraid they found most of what you'd hidden. It should be enough to appease Emile if he demands payment." Finished at last with what she needed to say, Madame Giry seemed suddenly out of words.

Erik, meanwhile, starred aghast at the woman whom had saved him so long ago. He slowly slipped the cloak around his shoulders, making sure the hood hung low over his face, and placed the purse in his own pocket. His rattled brain searched desperately for something to say, but nothing seemed to fit. He could not thank her, as this fleeing was against his every wish and will, but something compelled him to heed the old woman and snatch this only chance for escape. Those green eyes bored into her brown ones for what seemed like endless minutes. Finally, as the mob drew dangerously close, he vanished into the shadows without a word; just as little Erik had done all those years before.

I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! Expect the next, which will be from Christine's POV to be posted in the next day or two! Until then, please review and let me know what you think so far. :o)

Your Obedient Authoress,

~Ms. This