Sorry for such a long wait, school, college applications, portfolios and ectera have gotten it the way. Plus it also took forever for me to be happy with this chapter, but thanks to much nagging from oldagevampirelover, here it is. Thanks for the help with this chapter, Nicki! This chapter is crucial to Geneve's POV for the rest of the story. I do not own the Phantom of the Opera, although I am one of many who wish they did, because it is just that awesome. Hope you enjoy and without further ado, Chapter 7...


Chapter 7 Undisclosed Desires

Geneve's POV

It's amazing how life can change so drastically in such brief passages of time. In a moment, lives can be crushed, hearts can be shattered, and yet, just as easily, they can be awakened and brought back from the brink of isolated anguish. Sometimes the change is almost frightening, but in a way that makes one anxious for the future… It's funny to think that I met Erik little over a fortnight ago, yet it feels as if we have known each other for so much longer than just that short while.

At first we were so unsure of each other. It wasn't uncomfortable, just cautious. He was uncertain to what extent he could trust me, but due to society's contempt toward him, I was content knowing that he was willing enough to try to overcome this barrier. He isn't who society depicts him to be. His rules were simple: I must never mention or touch his mask and even more crucial, he had quickly made me swear upon pain of death, that I was not to reveal his presence to the outside world. "They all think me dead, I wish for it to stay that way." I hastily agreed and upon my response, much to my relief, his imposing and intimating demeanor dissolved, melting back into what I had come to know as his typical kind and docile manner. He truly was a conundrum; one moment he was as volatile as a cornered animal, and the next he was warmly insisting that I must never walk around the opera house without his guidance, for fear that I might stumble upon injury. He went on to clarify his reasoning to be that when the Paris Commune occupied the Populaire, many "unwarranted additions," were made that in the opera's current condition, could prove treacherous if the proper precautions were not taken.

Yes, he was most indeed a man of contradictions and while he had proved to be quite an upstanding gentleman, in good conscience, I could not let myself forget about the thinly leashed fury that I had witnessed within him. That was the Phantom… That frightful memory of those glowing cat-like orbs and the shadow of a rope as his crouched figure teetered on the box's ledge, prepared to launch himself off at any given second. And then his lanky, yet imposing stature would tower over me as a malicious sneer would pull at his pale lips, revealing his flawlessly bone white teeth- I shivered.

The image was just too vivid, but logically I knew the latter was just the result of my runaway imagination. However it was true, I did fear him; that was beyond certain; but I also understood that it was no doubt his loneliness that had driven him to be so. If he could not inspire love, he would instead inspire fear. It filled him with the feeling of having control of something, something to manipulate, just like he must have felt controlled as a piece of comical fodder, created for the amusement of a vindictive higher power.

Without a doubt he was cynical toward society, and consequently their Creator, due to his bitterness and insecurities regarding the deformity that every member of the Parisian aristocracy twittered about.

But, as to be expected, the insipid masses had vastly exaggerated the appearance of this unique man. His frame was skeletally thin yes, but he was no living corpse, nor was his skin yellowed. He did not have a flaming death's head, but on the contrary, the portion that was visible was extremely handsome, with a sloping angular face, high cheek bones, and expressive, alert eyes. His dark full hair fell neatly to just past his chin, instead of the straggly patches of hair that seemed to be society's current favorite description of him. He was also always impeccably dressed and clean-shaven, not slovenly like they insinuated. In sum, the only description that they had been accurate about was that he always wore a white mask.

Yes, the man they saw as the diabolical Opera Ghost, was most certainly not Erik. The man I knew was an insightful and morose being, who was courteous yet witty. While he was extremely reserved in our conversations, he showed an earnest amity that I had nearly forgotten was capable of humanity. Erik had become an honest and invaluable friend to me and in such a short time…remarkable…

I picked up my blue and gold entwined hair ribbons and studied them with interest, turning them over and over again in the palm of my hand. Blue and gold… a flash flitted through my mind… like a candle's reflection in the water…His eyes are the most peculiar that I have encountered, and yet they are the most beautiful. In an ordinary situation, they are a brilliant clear blue, but when he is overtaken with a strong passion- particularly when discussing music or on the frightful occasion of his temper bubbling to the surface- the golden flecks glow to life, giving him the illusion of being even more feline than his graceful movements already revealed…

It was these little details and nuances that I looked forward to with our daily meetings. He was just such an interesting man. For someone surely not too much older than myself, his knowledge and wisdom rivaled that of a century old sage. His knowledge of music seemed infallible and so enlightening, as we would discuss the myriad of scores that the opera had once performed. But often he would just ask me to play and he would make corrections and instructions as he saw necessary.

For the first time, in far too many years, I can honestly declare that I had let someone in close enough to be a friend without pretense- It has been far too long since I could say that. I smiled, smoothing out my dress, before closing my door and descending to the light chatter of my younger sisters already seated for breakfast.

"Geneve, it is about time you came down." Annabelle giggled, her precious curly ringlets bouncing to and fro about her shoulders as she wagged her fork at me.

"Annabelle, is that anyway for a young lady to behave at the table." Our mother chided from the far end of the table. Instantly my sister sobered, "I'm sorry, mother," and resumed taking dainty bites.

"Yes Geneve, what on earth were you doing up there for so long?" Sophie goaded.

"Thinking, Sophie. Just thinking." No one could miss the boredom in my reply.

She rolled her eyes as a servant helped me into my seat at the table. "Ah yes, thinking. That is what you always seem to be doing."

"Is this a crime to do so?" I retorted with an eerie calmness. I saw mother shoot Sophie a pointed glance and Annabelle's eyes widen in understanding. I had an abysmal temper that everyone in the aristocracy whispered would never get me married off. The Auclair shrew, I was often called.

"No," she paused, knowing what was truly building underneath my placid veneer. "It's just bizarre… and unhealthy." She finished carefully.

"Unhealthy? Using your God-given brain is unhealthy?" I replied, placing my fork down coolly while fixing a hostile gaze upon her. "I hardly follow your logic, sister." I all but sneered at my ignorant sister.

"Geneve." My mother cautioned, clearing her throat. She always tried to play the mediator between the two of us.

"No mother, let her continue to make a fool of herself. It is these little demonstrations that underscore the reasons why she is approaching the age of twenty and still has not a single suitor."

A constricting jab shot through my heart. 'Damn her! She had to levy that against me! I mentally growled as I forced back the pricking in my eyes. They all believe they know me so well; that my temper and defiance are my only defining qualities. They don't understand where they are wrong, I am not above love, I crave it, but it- it has always deserted me. I- my heart shatters into a quivering and distraught mess at the sight of two carefree lovers, holding hands on a stroll. The simplest and most innocent caress, to free give to one who will not shy away, but instead long for it as well… From a far, it appears to be a most beautiful thing, but nonetheless it seems to never be meant for me. No one was ever willing to try to understand...'

My shoulders sagged dejectedly- it seemed as if this one admission had whisked away all fight from my being, leaving me just barely clinging to my last shred of composure. I needed to escape; free myself from my sister's taunting jeers. I will not cry. My throat felt arid and an unseen force was slowly tightening its grip around my heart. I will not cry. A distant voice asked solemnly if they could be excused from the table.

"Of course, Geneve." Came the reply.

A twisting wave of devastation. I cannot breathe. I will not let them see me cry.

A broken ghost swept through the manor, pausing only to snatch a quill, a small instrument case, and a cloak, before vanishing... without a trace.

Rapid footsteps echoed down the cobbled drive, a clink of the garden gates, freedom. Here, I let myself surrender; here, I did not care who saw me cry.


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