Alrighty then here we go. I don't own Phantom in any of it's forms, so please, don't sue me, all you will get is crumbly cookies and some pocket lent. My main insperation for this has been the current Phantom of the Opera movie as well as the Kay and musical versions. And now...on with the show.
Chapter 1
Boards and tarp were put up on the large building afer the fires had been calmed. But the devilish red tongues of heat had destroyed much of the right side of the once beautiful Opera Populaire. Now only a lifeless shell of plaster and melted and marred metal remained, but the left looked almost untouched, with the exception of the long black lines of ash that wrapped about the whole building like the very claws of death. Inside the broken glass doors, clinging to twisted hinges, the rest of the silent building seemed to brood. Busted windows let in sunlight that crept across the dust and debris riddled marble floors and only a few humans would venture in from time to time, often only doves or stray cats would call the abandoned opera home.
People who passed by on the busy street from time to time would gaze up at the sad sight, commenting about how the whole place seemed to be waiting for something to come along and put things back to the way they once were. But to most the days of the operas glory were over, and the dust and cobwebs grew. No one seemed to remember the tales that once circled the famous disaster that fateful night, the night when Christine Daae had been abducted during the first act of a new opera. Only a few kept the memories fresh, mainly to earn a few francs from tourists in Paris who had heard rumor of the silent building and wanted to know of the occurrences of that fateful day in 1870. No one thought that anything would come from the musty shell of a building. But fate it seemed had other plans for this rotting landmark.
Erik 1873
The years passed by so slowly. I sat down in this hell that I called home doing absolutely nothing. In the past music had been there to pass the time, I often sat for hours, days, weeks at a time simply scratching in notes on the bars of paper, ignoring hunger, exhaustion, and even my loneliness. Or I would travel to the world above the layers of concrete and stone, to a world filled with life and light. No matter how misplaced I was up there I still found myself drawn to the simple pleasure of just watching others play out their own dramas, wishing so desperately that I could just walk down and join in. To be a normal man. But a simple glance at my reflection in the clear, cold lake told me otherwise. I had been shunned for as long as I could remember, I could still see my mother, a beautiful, untouchable being, gazing at me coldly every time I walked into the her presence, her eyes flashing in fear and apprehension. The small piece of leather that wound its way over my face, hiding me, protecting me she said. Every moment it seemed she checked and checked that the strings that held it to my face had not come loose. For awhile I had believed her when she said she wanted to keep me all to herself, that I was too precious for anyone else to see. Though she never told me she loved me, or held me in her arms, I pretended that she did. I once used to dream that she kissed my forehead and cuddled me in her warm embrace when I was frightened, but as I got older they slowly faded into the darkness.
I loved the dark. It held me as nothing else ever could; promised me that it would protect me, and yet I had betrayed it so many times. I longed so deeply for the light, for a utopia of my own, filled with the soft caressing sun, no shadows to cover me. Yet I always came back to the simple black filled life I had been forced to live. But I still fought with my chains, I still went up to the now empty world above.
The passages and tunnels under the opera had hardly been touched by the fire, only a few were rendered useless to me, but I had thankfully installed several doors and two way mirrors in many of the rooms about the place so their loss was hardly noted. I had dutifully checked most of them soon after the chaos by my hand had subsided. The only main entry to the underground layer of the opera house that had been damaged was the one in the middle of the staircase in the main hallway. The circular trapdoor had collapsed on one side, rather dangerous for someone who wasn't watching where they were going and would create a sense of curiosity for those who happened upon it, leading them straight to me. I had no doubt that the mob who had so rudely intruded my home that night had something to do with it's sad shape. After all I had installed the deadly trap when I first came to live here, and my workmanship was not something that randomly fell into disrepair.
That early morning, just as the sun was rising over the shattered windows and silky cobwebs I set about fixing the triangular iron flaps that closed over the trapdoor. The two that were the most damaged lay in a crumpled mess of green and silver, they looked as if they had been smashed with a heavy object, for the dents in their sides ran deep in the metal. Pulling off my now tattered and stained black leather gloves I tenderly lifted one up to it's full height, surveying the damage. Aside from the deep cracks the pieces seemed fixable. Sitting there among the silence of the once populated opera house I felt more alone then I had in months. Often I would sit up in the rafters gazing out across the now empty stage, imagining her standing there. Her long brown hair, her glowing eyes, the little smile that graced her face as she raised her voice to the ceiling, the echoes shaking me to my very soul. My hands stilled on the trapdoor lost in memories.
Everywhere I looked now days I saw her. I had never stopped hating myself for tricking her so. Distorting her fantasy filled head, bending her will to mine. I can still see her, a small child, not much younger then my seventeen years at the time. She was crying, her round face red with her sorrow, she kept saying one thing over and over. Angel of Music. My cold heart, which had been still for so long began to beat again, a low thud resonating in my mind. I sang to her then, my voice light and warm, I used the only thing I could call beautiful in my twisted existence, my voice. She stopped weeping, her light brown eyes widening, she called to me softly, her gentle words almost missed my ears. Angel I hear you. Papa promised that you would come. She smiled, her whole face lighting with the sheer radiance of that simple act. Peering at her from behind the vent I nearly moaned at the gesture. No one had ever given me such a look, no one had ever smiled so sweetly because of me. I decided then, my heart acting on this one chance for a normal life, this one chance for me to make a friend.
I came to her every night, and I kept a silent vigil over her during the day, gazing at her train in the operas ballet, seeing her befriend some of the younger girls, watching her live, while I rotted slowly in my darkness. The fist time I heard her sing, a simple melody late one night as she prepared her bed, I knew that she had potential. And that with my help she would become one of the greatest singers in all of Paris. Oh how I had fed my mind with her glorious triumph, to know that something that I alone could perfect would soar to new heights and amaze all. Perhaps it was my vanity in her, or my mistake of watching her grow from the gawky girl who tumbled about the stage, to the graceful, elegant woman that the fates made her over time. I do not know exactly when she became more then someone who I could talk to, someone who made me forget my loneliness, but one day I felt a stirring in my heart. It was small, but oh, how it grew over time. Soon simple acts that she made caused my inexperienced heart to pound, my body grow tense with un-named feelings. Oh Christine.
I sat back on my heels, cursing myself for being so weak with need for someone who was not going to return, no matter how I wished she would. Running a hand over my mask and hair I rose, laying the panel down on the marble of the floor. I surveyed what little work I had gotten done, the only evidence that I had fiddled with it on one smooth side, while the other lay jagged and bent. Sighing softly I began to make my way up the steps, my boots causing the layers of dust to rise and swirl about in the shafts of light, creating a soft dance with air and golden rays. As I made my way to the oak doors that led one into the auditorium I mentally made a list of the supplies that I would be needing soon. The spring had begun to fade into the fall and I felt a need to re-stock what little I had saved over the summer. I had lived for the past four years on the money that was given to me by my previous managers, an allowance of 20,000 francs that I received monthly and had protectively saved for the past eight years had served me well after the opera was shut down. Soon after the final performance I had snuck out into the streets of Paris stealing what I could and purchasing what I could not. I entered the doors, shutting them firmly behind me, as I turned in the darkened room my eyes roved over the empty velvet lined seats that ran down the small incline in rows. There in the middle of such order it lay. The twisted and broken chandelier, it was resting in the middle of the opera, a heart that had been torn from it's place and cast offhandedly aside. I pulled my eyes form it and glanced up at the gilded ceiling, studying the paintings and brace where the fallen chandelier once hung proudly. Below it the boxes were silent, and the stage was brooding in the chaos of it all. I smirked softly, if anything was dissatisfied with how the current situation had turned out it was the stage. It seemed to glare at all who came near, resentful of the harsh punishment that had been placed upon it, and it despised me most of all. Though I still climbed up into the flies from time to time I never felt as comfortable there as I once did, for now the harsh shadows seemed to shun my very presence.
I silently made my way to the hidden door beside the right wings of the stage. Passing the red seats, the quiet cooing from the doves who had decided to nest in the upper rafter was the only sound, but it echoed about in the empty space. Large overlapping shadows hovered about as I passed under the small doorway and I glanced about before I walked in, a habit I had made from the years I had spent sneaking about, always casting about for people that I might bump into. Even now, when I knew that no one was there I still found the task a hard one to break myself of. Once inside I took the small winding stairway up to the top level. I hadn't ventured up here in months and I wanted to visit one of my favorite haunts in the days before I had buried myself in self-hate and pity of that fateful night. Perhaps it will take my mind off the past, off the horrible memories of my mother and Christine. My hand gripped at the iron railing, something that I hadn't had to do the last time I had come up these stairs. I felt older suddenly, as if the ages had suddenly crept up on me and I became smaller, weaker then I was only a few moments before. Then the steps stopped, I looked up and saw the small window above the chains that once held the mighty chandelier. They were covered in a healthy layer of dust and cobwebs as was everything else, but they shook and danced about in an strange wind, the low creaking mournful to my ears. I pulled one of the chains to a halt in its strange unseen path, the cold metal a shock to my warm hands. I hooked it back it place and did the same for the others, all that was missing was the gem of the opera, the shining star that I had made come crashing down. But the rusty links seemed content once more and I passed on, opening another door that led out into the backstage area.
I soon found myself standing on one of the many flies, scaling from one to the other with perfect grace. As I reached out for each rope I made myself throw caution into the winds and picked up my speed till I knew I would be little more then a blur to anyone else. But my firm grip was never off, I knew these fragile wooden planks suspended in mid-air better then anyone, and I pressed on. My cape swirled about me, the soft black and velvet lining spreading out like wings, my boots clicking on each landing. Soon I was heaving for breath and I pulled myself over to the small staircase that lead further backstage. The darkness was deeper here, not even a candle to cast a small patch of light, but my eyes could make out everything. I carefully sidestepped several fallen backdrop, recalling the many times I had let one loose on the opera diva, La Carlotta, when her shrieking, wavering voice had become all too strained on my ears. My feet moved with out my mind to guide them, retracing paths from habit, but I knew where they were leading me, and I found myself powerless to stop them in their flight.
All too soon I stood by the mahogany frame, the door had been ripped off long ago by the stampede of panicked opera goers and stage hands, inside a single mirror gleamed. Wilted flowers, most only brown stems waved me in, I could see her. She sat in the chair by the dresser, a spot that she had chosen to wait for my nightly lessons at, she was pulling absently at a black ribbon on a blood red rose, a token of my delight in her first performance. Sighing I took another hesitant step toward her, her head rose, eyes bright with joy, a smile pulling its way across her perfect face. Raoul. It was the only word she had uttered to that golden haired vicomte, the boy that she had known from her childhood, but looking at her features I could tell that he meant something more to her. I halted suddenly, upsetting a small table by the door. She was gone, the vanity seat was empty, and I was alone in a dark room.
With a roar I threw open the two way mirror, slamming it shut so hard the glass threatened to smash into a thousand pieces. I gritted my teeth as I made my way down the endless passageways till I came to the cellar where my small boat was resting. The plush black velvet sat tattered and marred by the steady march of time, I hadn't used it since she sat against the pillows, rasing her voice in song, or simply talking, but that was when she had believed me to be her Angel of Music, but a demon cannot be an ethereal being for long with out being discovered.
I leapt lightly into the boat, picking up the pole from where it rested against the wall, and slowly rowed myself forward. The sloshing water helped to clear my fogged senses, and I pushed my thoughts to what I would need to do for the time being. The trapdoor would have to be fixed, I could not let over curious Parisians who ventured past the front doors to come into my home, and there was also the issue of food and clothing. I peered down at my ragged gloves and suit, the black had begun to turn grey and my cloak was ripped in many places. Even though I lived in a hell from which I could not escape I still felt the need to look my best, it was almost like I dressed well to make up for my other lacking features. The small boat soon scraped the cold cavern of my home carved from concrete and rock. Candles flickered, their smoke giving off a rich musty smell that I found comforting and relaxing. My organ sat up a bit from the lake, and I quietly made my way up the crudely cut out steps to it, resting my gloved hands lovingly on the keys. I hadn't played in years, I had never felt the urge to do so, for my spirit was no longer in my work. I lightly put pressure on the white keys, electing a small lullaby from the pipes, it grew louder and more powerful as I went on, and soon it was no longer a light and sweet melody but a harsh groaning cry. Closing my eyes I let my rage flow on to the helpless instrument, pounding harder and harder as I played. This was my drug, this was my escape from my hell, music. Never had something owned me more, never had I needed something with such a force. It had broken me, but it had taught me to live. The notes echoed about, the water in the lake rippling under the sounds, and I let envelop me, let it drown out all else.