Hey guys, it's me (duh), back again with a new chapter . . . that was really slow in coming. It was being a problem child. Oh the horror.
Anyway, read it and let me know what you think, it might seem better to you than me, but sometimes I just feel obligated to cover stuff in a story that is more back story than anything, and this is my first attempt at writing in order, so naturally it's making me want to SCREAM!
A ginormous thank you to River Price, ElauraGrave, tinkmasked, and Guest for reviewing my story, I really appreciate it. :)
Read and review, and hopefully my next chapter will restore my faith in my ability to write in order. Happy reading!
~TPWG
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New York City . . .
"Blasted thing, does anything actually work around here?" A growl issued from the next room over, and a young woman, startled by this outburst, turned her head from her knitting cautiously. She removed it from her lap and set it off to the side of her, pushing herself up off of the loveseat she was occupying. Approaching the doorway, she stuck her head in and asked,
"Do you need any help?"
The Phantom poked his head out of the room and studied her. She had long, ash blonde hair pulled back into a French twist-style updo, complimented by her cool, calculating, and stormy grey eyes, and cotton candy pink lips that looked fit for kissing as they spread into a soft smile. He smiled back a little too sweetly. "No, unless you possess some magical capability to make the appliances in here work!" He was starting to talk with his hands, and her eyes followed as his arms waved around madly, mimicking the rage boiling inside him. He glared at her momentarily with a golden fire in his eyes unbeknownst to her, causing her small smile to vanish as she shrank back and left the room. "Why is everyone so nosy?" He asked himself, keeping his voice at a hushed tone so his neighbor in the next room wouldn't pick up on the heated conversation he was having with himself. "What did I do to them to deserve this? I swear, it gets worse every single day, they just pry me like a crowbar! No reservations at all!" He continued to mumble and rant, angrily kicking the oven that was malfunctioning beside him merely because of its proximity, but the oven chimed and the light inside it clicked on, the heating coil warming up simultaneously. "You have got to be kidding me," he said in disbelief, his eyes widening as he massaged the back of his neck absentmindedly. Crouching down to where he was at eye level with the temperamental appliance, he softly said, "If this is the way you're going to be, why didn't I kick you sooner?"
/\\/\\/\\/\\/\\/\\
"Job-hunting? Is that what they call this?" Phantom mumbled incoherently as he lay sprawled out on the bedroom floor, flipping the page repeatedly that made up the one page phone book he'd found at the concierge desk on the main floor of the apartment building. "This is madness." He smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand and sighed.
"Any luck so far?"
Phantom's head shot up at the new voice and realized that his female neighbor had returned, perhaps trying to get in his good graces, but going about it in all the wrong ways.
"Why did I give you a key again?" He asked her - a rhetorical question that mildly upset her, though she tried not to show it. After watching his female neighbor hang her head for a solid minute in silence, he caved, attempting to find a way to salvage the conversation. He let a long, drawn out sigh escape his lungs as he cleaned his pen and tossed it against the floor in frustration. "I don't see how this is supposed to be helpful, it's one page, one section on it that pertains to what I need, for all of New York City, and I haven't the faintest clue how to operate the 'phone', as you call it."
His neighbor's head slowly rose as he spoke to her, and she contemplated what to say next for only a moment. "Would you like me to teach you?" She asked him softly, tilting her head and gazing at him. She could only see the masked side of his face from where she was standing, but she soon saw both sides as he stood up, dusted himself off, and faced her.
"Would you?" He asked her, thoroughly vexed by her optimistic nature and willingness to offer up her services when they were needed. She held out two mugs of herbal tea as a peace offering and he tentatively reached out and grasped one of the piping hot mugs, bringing it from her hands to his. Watching her warily the whole time, he brought the mug up to his swollen lips and blew off the layer of steam that was swirling around the surface. He took a sip and closed his eyes for a fleeting moment. "This is good," he said, his eyes conveying mild shock and surprise. "How did I not know this existed?"
His neighbor chuckled quietly at him for a moment, then followed suit, taking a sip from her own mug. "It's pretty good, isn't it?"
"Yeah," he agreed, his words escaping him. "Exquisite."
"Ada," she said, extending her free hand to that of her neighbor.
"What?" He asked her, confused once more.
"I'm Ada, she repeated. "Ada LaRue."
"Oh," he replied, his eyes widening at the idea of having to shake a stranger's hand. He stared at her hand for what felt like hours as thoughts bounced around inside his head regarding all the ways that this particular situation could go wrong. "Who knows?" He thought, his neurons firing on all cylinders. "If I cave and shake her hand now, that could let in a world of trouble later, and on top of that I don't like touching people, people make me nervous, really do NOT like people-"
"Hey!" Ada shouted, waving her hand in front of his face. "What are you doing?"
Phantom snapped out of his trance at the sound of Ada's sharp voice and seized her wrist as it was waving around in his face. Gripping her tightly, he spat four words at her like venom. "Don't . . . do . . . that . . . again . . ." he seethed, every ounce of him screaming fitfully at the fact that she had breached his defenses as easily as one snaps their fingers. His eyes searched her for any sign of an apology, but he got nothing. He finally let her go and acquiesced with her polite demand, gently relinquishing his trembling hand for her. After a brief moment of meditative thought, he simply said, "Erik Wren."
As she firmly shook his hand and stormed off, only one thought raced through his mind.
/\\/\\/\\/\\/\\/\\
Several hours later . . .
"So you mentioned that you like the arts?" Ada said, twirling a loose strand of blonde hair while waiting for his affirmation. She was sitting in the loveseat again, this time cross-legged with a mug of coffee one hand and a strand of hair in another.
"Mhm," Erik hummed, taking a cautious sip from his own coffee mug, as Ada had given into his persuasive nature and poured him some as well, deciding to forgive him. "Do you?"
"Of course, I play in the symphony!"
"Wow, really?" Erik asked, leaning forth in sudden interest, "What do you play?"
"First," she said, leaning in closer, "what do you like to do?"
"I like to do all sorts of things, really. I play piano and violin, I compose, I sing, I had a small acting gig-" he stopped talking suddenly, "but that didn't last long. I also sketch and I'm a quick learner, so I can pick up on most anything thrown my way. I love music with everything in me."
"That's remarkable," said Ada, gawking slightly. She continued. "I just play the violin."
"You do?" He asked, giving her a peculiar look. "Playing one takes skill, don't belittle yourself by saying you 'just play violin'. It isn't fair to you or the violin."
She smiled, and when she spoke again, her voice was warm and sweet and kind, just like her smile. "I've played it since I was a little girl. The only reason I'm here is because of my passion for music. Women aren't allowed a lot of leeway here, and I'm considered a radical . . ." she trailed off until her voice was merely an echo, but Erik still looked confused, so she elaborated. "You really have been kept in the dark, haven't you? Women in this day and age don't have much freedom to do as they choose, we're considered the 'subordinate gender' or whatever the newest term people coin for us is. I'm really not that concerned. I'm here on musical scholarship and am in the symphony, playing violin. A great many people see me as queer, but I prefer to carve my own path in life, even if it's an odd one. I'd rather not let others' opinions dictate the direction of my dreams, and I sure as hell don't want to live to be some subdued housewife who raises my husband's ten kids while he goes and has multiple affairs behind my back. That's a sorry life to lead, and I'll be damned if I'm caught up in the middle of it."
"Wow," was all that Erik could say. He sat in silence, waiting on the right words to come to him. "That," he said, "was one hell of a soliloquy."
"It's true," she said quietly. "I don't want the high point of my life to be my marriage, and I don't want ten kids, and I don't want some unfaithful husband. I've been here long enough to establish myself and become respected for my skill; I won't give that up for much, if anything at all." She quietly sipped her coffee, slurping it slightly once she reached the end of the mug. "The only reason I was - and still am - hospitable to you is because I felt you were different somehow - please don't think me too naive for saying that."
"No, no, I'm definitely pretty different, you got that one right on the money. Just for the record, though, I'm not a big people person in general, but I hold women in a high respect and wouldn't for a second consider them - or you - subordinate."
"Good," she sighed, truly relieved. "I think I might have a job just for you." She glanced down at her empty mug and looked up at Erik. "Wanna refill?"
/\\/\\/\\/\\/\\/\\
"Excuse-moi?" Erik's soft, heavenly voice rang out in the lobby of an empty Manhattan concert hall, its melodious hum reaching the rafters high above him. He cleared his throat, and tried again, this time in English. "Excuse me, is anyone there?"
"Yeah, someone's here," an older woman said as she filed her nails with a small pumice stone. "Whaddaya need?"
"I need to see the manager."
"And you are?" She asked him, raising her eyebrow and glancing at him like a bug that had crawled into bed with her.
"No need for the condescending looks," he said, getting defensive. "Where I come from, I'm typically ignored."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"Yes, a young woman named Ada LaRue helped me get it, she said that it was handled."
"Oh, Ada! You know her?" The old woman asked him, her personality suddenly morphing into something - someone - totally different. "She's a tender soul, that one. Full of purpose and poise. Wonderful young lady."
"Yes, that's charming, she's wonderful, et cetera, et cetera, I just need to know if there is an appointment scheduled under the name Erik Wren or Ada LaRue."
The woman opened a cabinet and flipped through a stack of papers bound together with twine. "Yes, there is one appointment under Erik Wren . . . That you?"
"Yes, madame. That would be me."
"Can I see some identification?"
Erik gulped, his palms he could feel getting clammier by the second. "Sure," he said, but in a higher pitch than anticipated. He reached inside the bag he was carrying and pulled out official-looking documents with his pertinent information on them.
The woman looked them over, squinting to read the miniscule font, but gave up only a short time later, handing them back to Erik. "Okay, the manager is in a meeting currently, he'll be with you as soon as he can."
"That'll be a few hours of his life he won't get back," Erik said with a sardonic laugh.
"I take it you're familiar with running a business."
"Rather," Erik replied with a sarcastic smile.
"Well, while you're waiting, if you could find it in you to leave me alone and not touch anything, that would be marvelous."
"I'm sure it would," Erik mumbled, casting the old and patronizing woman a begrudged "thank you" and a smile, quietly slipping off into another room.
/\\/\\/\\/\\/\\/\\
The room Erik had ducked into had merely been one of opportunity. Its doorway had shown itself in a time of need, and he seized the meager window he had to go exploring in peace. What he found, though, was something far greater than he expected.
A concert hall. Completely void of any trace of human life besides himself - the way he liked it best. A stage stood erect and proud before him, beckoning him softly to come and visit. He tiptoed to the stage in nervous anticipation, passing rows and rows of seating. Though the concert hall wasn't as lavish as the Opera Populaire, he still thought the venue was refreshing and wonderful, and the fewer reminders of his other life, the better. Upon reaching the stage, he gripped the edge of it tight with his long, bony fingers and jumped, pulling himself up onto the stage with ease. What lay only a few paces ahead of him made his heart soar even higher.
A grand piano. Jet black and shiny, void of smudges - the way he liked it best. He approached the magnificent instrument slowly and silently, not uttering a single sound. A cushioned black bench was tucked under it, so he delicately slid it out from underneath and ran a hand over his coattails, smoothing them to himself as he swiftly sat down. His bony fingers flourished themselves in excitement as they brushed the pristine and polished ivory keys. He closed his dark eyes blissfully and inhaled through his nose, lifting his head in order to absorb the aura he was submerged in. He paused for a few seconds, then ducked down, pouring everything he had into the instrument before him. His fingers flying across the keys, he created an unearthly melody with just a few swift key strokes. His head moved fluently with his hands as he got lost in the rich sound of the grand piano and the music coming from it. The deep sound reverberated throughout the concert hall, seeping into Erik's heart and resonating through his body. He felt his heart pound to the beat of the music as he hammered out notes and delicately tapped others, creating an experience that banished every bad feeling from his heart and his mind. He was fast approaching his crescendo, completely enthralled in the thump of the pedals and the grace of the keys. The rhythm of the music ensnared his mind as he continued to play, hitting his crescendo and loving every second of it. His heart throbbed in his chest, and he could feel the music pounding in his diaphragm, but none of that mattered, so long as he could play. As he hit his final note, his fingers sprawled out, his hands drooped, and his head hung limp as he stared down at the black and white keys.
For the first time in a long time, he felt safe, secure, like no harm was to come at him. These thoughts relaxed him as he sat on the black cushioned bench, silently thinking what he dared not say out loud, for fear of it slipping out of his grasp. As he breathed in and out methodically, his thoughts suddenly slipped away like sand in an hourglass, like a dream you wake from and can't remember, as he heard a foreign noise.
A man who looked to be in his fifties, wearing a black suit-jacket, slacks, and an awestruck smile stood clapping at the back of the concert hall, but he started walking closer as Erik's head shot up in fright.
"Who are you?" Erik asked coldly, his eyes going from blissful to angered. He stood up abruptly and backed away from the professionally dressed man fast approaching.
"I'm the manager here, Frank Roth. I was told I had an appointment with a man by the name of 'Erik Wren'. I suppose I can only hope that that's you."
"Yes," he said warily, still backing away. "I'm Erik Wren."
"Why are you backing away? And what's with the mask?"
Erik gave this some thought as Frank mentioned it, as his heel kissed a music stand at the back of the stage and he tripped, falling backwards. His arms went behind him to catch his fall, but this did very little in the scheme of things. He landed on his back, the hardened stage giving him no reprieve. His tailbone screamed bloody agony as he scrambled to get back up on his feet. Once up, he dusted himself off, casting the manager a decisively dangerous glance.
"I don't appreciate being startled."
"I see that now," Frank said, "Are you alright? Do you need help-"
"I'm fine, I'm fine!" Erik growled as he brushed any dust or dirt off his coattails before whipping around to prop the music stand back up on its legs. He whipped around once more to face the manager and approached the edge of the stage at a rapid pace. "What can I help you with?" Erik asked, still fuming.
"I need you first not to fall off the stage," Frank said, urging him to take a step back. "I need you alive."
"What for?" asked Erik, his eyes widening with a fear very familiar to him. "Crap, I got mad at him, now he's mad at me, what's he gonna do to me?! He probably wants to bring me to his secret torture chamber - wait, no, what if he's anything like Firmin or Andre? Even if he had one, you could outsmart it, you're okay, this clown's got nothing on you-"
"Would you be willing to play again?" Frank asked.
"No," Erik replied shortly.
"Why not?"
"Because I can't."
"Why not?"
"It's really very simple, I can't compose when I'm being hounded by a man who wants to play Twenty Questions!" Erik huffed impatiently. "And, strrrrrike two! Done it again!"
Frank stood dumbstruck for a moment, then sighed. "Fine. I must say, I was warned you were abnormal, but I didn't know it was this bad."
"Thanks," Erik sneered.
"Mhm. On your resume you mentioned you can compose."
"So you actually read it?"
"Course I did, does that surprise you?"
"A little bit, but regardless, I can compose."
"And you can sure as hell play, I haven't heard anything like that before," said Frank, gesturing to the piano on the stage.
"I guess that warrants a thank you . . .?" Erik thought. He cleared his throat. "Thank you," he said quickly, tucking his hands behind his back in a way that his pinkie fingers on each hand stuck out. He bit his lower lip and rocked back and forth on his feet, nervosity seeping into every thought bouncing around in his head.
"Anyway," said Frank gruffly, "I was curious if you could do us here at the concert hall, and the whole city of New York, a favor."
"Oh, I actually have a really strong aversion to doing favors, you see, they never end well-"
"Nonsense. Help me, help you, boost this city's urban atmosphere and entertainment, and we all fare better!"
"Sounds like a load of post-war propaganda to me," said Erik apprehensively, still rocking on his feet.
"What do you want from me? We just got out of the freaking Civil War! Damn Confederates . . . You aren't one of them, are you?!"
"No, I'm from France," he said, taking a wary step back. "I want a job."
"Sorry?" Frank asked, his rambling interrupted.
"I want a job. Can you do that for me?"
Frank smiled widely and clapped his hands together happily. "That and more," he said, "I want you to be our composer for the symphony. We've needed a fresh perspective and some fresh notes for a good long while now. Not only that, if you'd be so willing, I think it would be great if you perhaps did piano concerts on the side. For extra pay, of course. Will you take my offer or leave it?"
"Only a fool would decline," Erik said offhandedly, "And let me assure you, Mr. Roth, I am no fool."
"So you accept?"
Erik paused for a brief moment, then closed his eyes and jumped off of the stage, landing quietly on his feet. He opened his eyes again, reluctantly stretched his hand out to Frank and said, "Jury's still out on the piano concerts," he paused again when he knew he had Frank puzzled, but smiled coyly and said, "Yes, Mr. Roth, I accept."
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Hey, hope you enjoyed the chapter, this one was indeed a challenge! I appreciate all the reviews/follows/favorites I've received and just wanted to say thanks again for those following/supporting the story. "Everything is connected" as the brilliant Detective Taylor puts it, and you'll soon see why. Let me know what you think!
Thanks a bunch! :)
~TPWG