Chapter 1: Full Circle

I waited for darkness in my small cavern beneath the Parisian streets. When it arrived, I would go in search of something extraordinary tonight. For tonight, it was a night most worthy of celebration. A full year had passed since the burning of the Opera Populaire. A year since I had brought down everything that I had created, and for the past twenty of so years had called home, out of self-pity. Out of anger. Jealousy. Love. One year ago, tonight, I had thrown it all away for her, and it had ruined everything. So tonight I celebrate.

I got up, and began to pace about the small quarters. There being no other way to determine the time, I tick off the minutes distactedly according to my internal clock. Nearly 20 or so minutes left till it would be dark enough to set out. I rolled my eyes internally, and pace more leisurely. No point in wasting useful energy.

Having much time at one's disposure is a damning thing, especially for someone with memories like mine. It only invites the inevitable, and no good comes from that. But, I allowed myself to succumb like the fool I was. How so much had changed in the past year. I was nearly suicidal after her rejection, forcing myself throught the time, hardly alive. Nothing had mattered anymore. My closest friends, if you could call them that, more than distanced themselves from me after the incident. They believed I had gone too far this time, even for myself. Deep down, I suppose I believed them, but I am not known for looking deep down, and so I coninued in denial. Only one friend would have stood by me throught my trials. Antoinette Giry. But I had pushed her away as well, and in the end she stayed away. So I was left to suffer alone.

I spare you the details of my life those first six months, by only saying that I became-ironically enough-a phantom, something which I had previously been assumed to be at the Opera. I will go on to mention that one day I became aware of my situation, and the rapid decline of my my position. I had no intention of ending my life, and so I made necessary changes to support myself in a...tolerable, if not questionable, lifestyle. I began to return at each dawn to my cavern beneath the streets. I stole wood from abandoned shipping crates, and fashioned a bed from the planks, and a small table set. I could find what I needed by stealing, and what I did not steal, I bought using my enormous profits from years of swindling hundreds of thousands of francs from previous Opera Populaire managers. However, I much prefered to steal from the local bars, and so my fortune lay, for the most part, untouched. And so I have lived the last six months in such a manner.

Disconnecting myself from my thoughts, I realized I had around seven minutes before I needed to leave. I drew out my street mask, which was nothing more than a mask painted a fleshy color; and while it was useless in the daylight, it provided a rather preferable concealer in the dusk of Paris. I could pass almost unnoticed beneath the dim streetlights, drawing only the rare double-take. Adjusting the mask so it covered my diseased half, I donned my thick, high-collared cloak, a top hat which I tilted at a slight angle to better shade my mask, and left. It took about a minute to reach the grate that covered the tunnel entrance. I quickly reached it, and listened intently for sounds above. There were none. I deftly undid the spring latch, and climbed out of the sewer. I reset the thin string stretched across the entrance to my tunel's grate. In the gloom and darknees of the alleyway in which my entrance was shrouded, it was invisible. I was careful to check it after each venture to Paris above. There never were any signs of entry, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

I dusted my cloak, and moved out to the end of the alley. The street was deserted except for the petty street corner whores and a few small groups of auspicious looking people, undoubtedly on their way to a bar. Usually, I would head in the same direction as those groups, but I was in search of something nicer for tonight. So, I turned left, and swiftly traveled towards Paris' commoner district. Here I would have a harder time blending, but I would fare well enough by sticking to the shadows. I continued on, slowing my pace to a less conspicuous one as I met the throngs of late-nighters. I caught the scent of hot stew and beer, and swiveled slightly to glimpse a tavern. It would do. I did not want to remain in the district much longer; my mask was already drawing curious second looks from several passersby. I turned, and angled toward the ally along the tavern. I found the kitchen door easily enough, and began my wait.

It must have been nearly an hour by the time a fight broke out near the rear door. Both the cook and a man who appeared to be the tavern owner appeared, as well as a dozen men, who began to pull the brawlers apart. I edged along the small crowd, and ducked into the kitchen. I located a basket used for deliveries, and packed away as much hot food as it would hold. Then I lifted a bottle of ale, and one of wine, and left. The fight was apparently winding down, and people were dissipating.

As I made to turn the corner, the cook looked up and, noting my pilfered goods, pointed. "HEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING, SWINE! COME BACK WITH THOSE!"

Cursing my damned luck and logic, I swiftly began towards a more populated street, listening to the sounds behind me. I could sense the rapid footfalls of several men, and quickened my pace towards the road. I immersed myself in the throng, too late, I realized, to notice how crowded and harried the people were. The vast swarm of them swept me towards a billowing pillar of black smoke, that gave the air a more distinct charred smell as I and those surrounding me drew closer to the source of the smoke and commotion. I tried to break free from the center of the crowd, fighting the fleshy sea, and it cost me. An elbow that shoved back knocked my mask from my face, causing me to hiss in anger and draw my cloak high about my face. By now, I had dropped my feast in the midst of everything, and simply surrendered to the tide. I could not break free of the crowd, what with more people were adding with each turn, but at least my drawn cloak attracted no unwanted attention. Several people had pressed articles of clothing to their faces in attempts to block out that horrible smell.

The crowd then ceased pulling, and had given wide berth to the burning building, a church with an immensely high steeple, watching from afar. I pushed through, and came to the dark edge of the crowd, intent on scavenging something to eat, but was caught by the scream. I turned to face the church once more, and saw nothing. But upon climbing on a large shipping crate nearby, I saw the hell that had broken loose.

A woman ran screaming from the church through a side door. Her clothes were on fire, and she was becomming engulfed in the flames. She dropped to the cobblestone street, and began rolling feverently. A group of men, numbering around twenty or so, laughed, and one poured the contents of a bottle on her. The flames rose, and she screamed louder. Alcohol. The men jeered, shouting insults at her.

"Gypsy!"

"Whore! Daughter of Satan!"

"Burn, she-witch! Burn!"

The woman made an attempt to crawl, but halted as her body collapsed into a smoldering pile of ashes. My temper began to rise, memories of my own mistreatment resurfacing. I held my position on the crate, and watched as more burning, crumbling bodies fell on the streets, and no one in the crowd moved to help them. From the screams emitting from the church itself, many more were trapped inside. I felt my face harden in fury of this hellish abuse, and my nails dug into the bare palms of my hands. I knew I should have left, I knew I shouldn't have stayed to watch, but now I couldn't tear myself from the agony.

The screams faded, and stopped, and yet I still watched the flames, as the scene laid bare before me. I had been slowly gathering the strength to turn and scrape back to the tunnels, and as I made to dismount from the crate, I heard a whisper of astonishment flicker through the crowd. Whipping my head, I saw a blackened form of a man stumble from the rear of the building. The twenty-odd men turned to him, and their faces stretched into a look of rage.

"You!" One man shouted, advancing a few steps with a finger raised. "What sort of man are you. Bâtard! You should have burned, along with the rest of your devil trash! You befouls the streets of beautiful Paris, with that scum you lodge in a church on our streets! For that, you must pay your debts, Prêtre! Tonight, you will see your father, Satan, once more!"

The drunken group jeered loudly, and advanced. Several broke off the ends of empty bottles, and stabbed the priest with the sharp edges. I watched a moment, my blood boiling, fury roaring. Then I could take it no longer.

Leaping, I cleared the crowd, and roared at the men. They turned, anger on their crazed faces, but shock took over as they saw my hideousness. For the first time in my life, I was somewhat thankful for my deformity. But I chose not to dwell on the consequences of my choice, and simply handed all thoughts and emotions over to instinct. Charging at them, I roared louder, and bared my hands menacingly. The men stared, frozen in terror, and then fled. The large crowd behind me began to scream, and flee away from this insane, disgusting, ravaging monster that had interrupted their fun. I drew closer to the priest, and knelt close to him. He was very badly burnt, and had a collection of deep wounds from the glass. But, yet, amazingly, he was alive. His eyelids fluttered, and his breathing was shallow. I could tell he would not last long in his state. I had a thought to leave him, and be on my way, for someone would send for the polizè, and it would not take long for them to arrive, but instantly dismissed this notion. I could not leave him to die in such pain after having saved him from the crowd. No, I would have to take him back to the tunnels. Damn me and my impulses.

I gathered him in my arms, and he stirred slightly, and moaned. I began to carry him away, and his head lolled to face the flames, still eating away at his church. I glanced down again at him as we reached the mouth of the alley, and was suprised to see his eyes looking up at me, unfocused, but still on my face. I felt a flare of irritation at my exposed face beneath his eyes, and I stopped. His mouth twitched, and I inclined my head closer to his cracked lips. His eyes shut, then, and he again twitched his lips, but this time I had heard what the priest had said. The shock of the word nearly caused me to drop the man, and the flinch roused me. I started foward, into my familiar darkness, pondering the single word he had called me. Angel.

French Translations:

Bâtard: bastard

Prêtre: priest