A/N: Okay so here's Chapter 10. Things are really gonna start getting crazy. Emotions are about to run high! I had a really good idea for this chapter. (: Enjoy! There's going to be a lot of Susan Kay references but I'll make them fit tastefully.

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom.

Chapter 10: Mother

I didn't sleep that night. When I started to sleep I was haunted by horrid nightmares. I sat up in my bed and glanced down at Christine. She was happily asleep, surely dreaming. I remembered the dream so vividly I was surprised I hadn't lost my sanity. I rubbed my eyes wearily. I carefully tossed the covers off my legs and stepped out of bed.

I walked over to one of the shattered mirrors and looked at my jagged reflection. The gash in my ribs had started to scar already. I had always healed rather fast and I was quite thankful for it. I averted my gaze from that scar to my deformed face. I closed my eyes, remembering when I had first seen my reflection. I shook my head to rid myself of the memory. I went to my bureau and dressed in silence before walking over to my organ in a daze, other childhood memories filling my mind.

I sat down and quietly played Kyrie. I sang along softly, recalling when I had sung it for the first time.

Father Mansart listened intently as I sang during one of our home Masses he performed so Mother would not have to leave the house and face embarrassment. The first time he heard me sing, his eyes filled with tears.

I listened carefully as he spoke to Mother of my voice. I watched them from the piano bench.

"If it were not blasphemy to think such a thing," he muttered slowly, trying to prevent me from hearing. "I would have said I had heard the voice of God here in this very room."

It was silent and Mother turned to look at me, her eyes catching mine. I felt triumphant. Father Mansart beckoned me forward and I obeyed. He told me solemnly that I had a rare and wonderful gift. He walked me to the piano, Mother's eyes following us. The priest's hand rested tensely on my shoulder.

"I should like to hear you sing the Kyrie, Erik. You know the text, I believe."

"Yes, Father."

He played softly on the piano as I sang rather meekly.

"Kyrie eleison . . . . Christe eleison. . . ."

Lord have mercy upon us. . . . Christ have mercy upon us. I sang the invocations three times. But before the next phrase took breath, Mother slammed the lid down on the piano, almost catching the priest's fingers. She started to sob. My heart sunk. Mother was not happy with my singing. . . . I felt afraid and rather miserable.

"You are overwrought," said the priest briskly, pushing Mother into a chair. "It is understandable. Great beauty is often perceived by human senses as pain."

She seemed to shudder. "He is not to sing again, Father. . . . I will not permit it."

I quietly wept, not wanting Mother to hear and be more ashamed.

"My dear child, I can't think that you mean that. Forbidding expression to such a gift would be positively unkind."

Mother sat upright in the chair, staring past the priest and at me.

"His voice is a sin," she said grimly. "A mortal sin. No woman who hears it will ever die in a state of grace."

I sighed as I finished the song. My heart ached at the old and haunting memory. I looked over at Christine, remembering my mother's words. I scowled at the bitter thought. Surely it wasn't my voice alone that lured her in. . . . was it?

I was suddenly fighting the urge to be sick. I stood from my bench and sat on the floor, leaning against the organ's mahogany side. I heard the covers rustle in my room and I felt Christine's presence. She had woken up. I watched her sit up, looking around trying to find me. She glanced over in my direction, her eyes finally finding mine. I tasted bile in my mouth as she smiled sweetly. I took a deep breath before calling her to me.

"Come to me, Christine." I said softly, fearing if I spoke much louder I might vomit.

Worry creased her face as she approached me. "What happened? Are you okay?" she said, sitting in front of me. She reached up and placed her hand on my forehead. I silently savored the coolness but also felt another wave of nausea overcome me. I felt guilty for her loving me. I had to know if she truly loved me or if she was only a victim of my voice like so many others.

"Christine. . . ." I whispered. I reached up and pulled her hand from my forehead, placing it in her lap. Her touch made me feel worse. "Are you sincerely in love with me? Or is it my voice that keeps you lingering?" My eyes watered slightly and I blinked the tears away.

She looked at me, shocked. "How could you think I don–"

I quickly cut her off, placing my hand over her mouth and yanking it back as soon as I had. "Please. . . . Just answer my question."

She looked slightly hurt at my attempts to keep from touching her. "I do love YOU, Erik. Not your voice. Never question that. . . ." she trailed off at the end. "What made you think it was only your voice?"

I sighed and wrapped my hands around her wrists. "Christine, I feel like you should know more than you do. I wasn't entirely truthful in my story I first told you. I feel like I must tell you everything. Christine, I need you to know every daunting memory of mine before you will truly understand."

She nodded slowly, her mouth agape. "Are you sure. . . . ?" she asked quietly.

"Yes." I truly meant it. I felt very uncourteous leaving her with nothing to know about me but my name and an overview of my past. I wanted her to know every haunting detail about me.

"Please listen and please listen closely because if I must repeat myself, it will be quite tedious."

She nodded again and folded her legs up to her chest, resting her head on her knees.

"I do not remember much of my birth. Not even the date of my birth. The only information I do recall is my birthplace. Boscherville, France. I remember my mother's dearest friend Marie Perrault. She was at the house most of the days along with Father Mansart. I was kept in solitude in the attic of our house. Marie had given me my first pleasure in life. She tied a string of bells to the side of my cradle. Even being a new born I played repetitive melodies with those bells. The most memorable event I can recall before turning 12 months old was when our pet spaniel, Sasha, made her way up to my room for comfort during a thunderstorm. She knocked over my cradle. I flew from my resting spot and Sasha pranced over to me. She pressed her nose against my face and my hands. She befriended me.

Mother caught sight of our bonding and tried to get her out. I remember her yelling and Sasha disappeared from my side. I had to find her again. I had managed to pull myself forwards, progressing towards Mother and Sasha. My mother backed away from me. I desperately pulled myself towards Sasha. She had watched me warily yet curiously. I finally reached her and grabbed her paw. She growled at my sudden advance. I managed to pull myself into a sitting position and reached out uncertainly towards her face. I spoke my first word that night and I don't believe my mother was at all disappointed that it was 'Sasha' and not 'Mama'."

Christine looked at me intently, a small smile on her face. She seemed fascinated with my story.

"When I was three months old I had began walking and talking. I actually slept with Sasha quite often, curled up beside her in her bed. Even though Sasha acted more like a mother to me, I still called my birth mother 'Mama'.

By the age of four, I was reading the Bible with beautiful clarity and mastering exercises on the piano and violin. I climbed like a monkey and nothing was out of reach for my groping hands. I dismantled Mother's clocks multiple times and would throw appalling tantrums at my inability to put them back together.

I was fascinated by figures and from the basic principles Mother taught me, I formed complex calculations which she could not follow, but I would patiently explain them to her. I discovered my grandfather's architectural library and spent several hours pouring over the wondrous sketches of Abbe Cordemoy and Laugier, Blondel and Durand. If I was not supplied with paper, I would sketch on the flyleaf of the books, on the reverse side of my plans, and sometimes on the wallpaper on the side of the steps.

I managed to take a pair of needlenose scissors and carved an intricate castle into the polished mahogany of Mother's dining room table. She turned the house upside down looking for those scissors but she never found them."

I smiled slightly. But was replaced by a frown. "I was quite unable to distinguish right from wrong though and I could draw like a seasonable artist but I could not -- would not write. Mother tried to beat me into submission but I had a will of iron that would not be bent and a temper which often reduced Mother to violence.

Music was the main outlet of my genius though. I could not sit at the table without unconsciously beating time with my heels against the back of my chair or tapping a rhythm on my plate with my knife. Mother would slap me every time, but it would only temporarily cease my tapping.

Mother used to sing operatic arias to pass the hours and when I heard her voice I would stop whatever I might be doing and go to sit by the piano in wondering silence. Shortly before I was five Mother started to allow me to take over the accompaniment. If she failed to master a difficult tonality I would cease playing, point out the offending note, and sing it back to her with perfect pitch."

I glanced at Christine to see if she had lost interest yet. She continued to watch me closely. She nodded, gesturing for me to continue. I took a deep breath.

"One day Mother was leaving to go to Sunday Mass with Mademoiselle Perrault. I had held the doorknob to prevent her from going. I wanted horribly to go see the organ and choir Father Mansart always told me about. She told me I must stay home. I continued my questions about the church. Was it beautiful? She claimed it was quite ordinary and was filled with villagers who would be unkind to me and frighten me. I pursued my act of trying to convince her to let me go. I sat on the steps patiently. She told me to study my text and copy it out. I refused and she was angry. She claimed she wasn't interested in what I wanted to do. I told her firmly: "I'm not going to study my text. I'm going to make it disappear so that you can't find it . . . like the scissors. I can make anything disappear if I want to . . . even a house!" I then ran away for I feared she was going to beat me again. I ran to the drawing room and sat on the rug in front of the fire with Sasha. I gazed into the flames as I heard Mother walk in. She decided not to go to Mass. I was quite satisfied with my doing and stated: I knew you would."

Christine had seemed to scoot closer to me, her mouth slightly ajar. I smiled and reached out to her, stroking her cheek once before dropping my hand.

"I started to learn to hypnotize with my voice, luring Mother towards my attic room. She caught on and put the operatic scores away for good, refusing to teach me any longer. Mother refused to leave the house for Mass afterwards. She didn't want to be ashamed in public. So Father Mansart started coming to our house for a private Mass every Sunday.

One Sunday, he heard me sing and claimed if it wasn't for blasphemy he would have said he heard the voice of God in that very room. I was ecstatic and triumphant. The priest walked me to the piano and wanted me to sing Kyrie. Mother interrupted us, slamming the lid shut. She started sobbing uncontrollably. My heart fell and the priest took her to a chair and sat her down. I started weeping as he spoke to her. She told him I was not permitted to sing again. I tuned out their conversation and watched as my mother went to the bureau and took my drawings from it, handing them to the priest. He believed them to be copies. Mother convinced him otherwise and he sat down and stared at me in awe.

I already explained to you what incident occurred on my fifth birthday and I don't wish to repeat it. But that wasn't all. I had no idea what a birthday was so Mother patiently explained it to me. I thought it to be like a requiem. I was rather confused. I was upset that there was not a Dies Irae or an Angus Dei. She told me there would be a supper which we had never shared together and a present. I said no more and gazed at her thoughtfully. She told me to go change while she set the table. I asked her if she would give me a present too. "Of course," she responded. She wondered if there was something particular I wanted. I was afraid to answer her. I asked her if I may have anything I wanted and if I could have two. She wondered why I needed two. "So that I can save one for when the other is used up." I had stated. She asked what I wanted but I was still afraid to answer.

She started to get angry with my silence. I finally found the courage to say "I want – I want two . . ." That was all I managed to spit out before she snapped. She wondered what I wanted two of."

I paused. The next part was particularly painful for me. I looked up and noticed Christine was sitting between my legs and leaning in towards me. She gave me the courage to continue.

"'Kisses.'" I had whispered. "One now and one to save." Mother stared at me in horror and burst into uncontrollable tears and sank down at the table. "You must not ask that." she sobbed. She told me to never, ever, ask that again. I shrank away from her noisy grief in horror and backed away to the door. I asked her why she was crying and she denied it. I was filled with rage. "Yes you are!" I had shouted. "You're crying and you won't give me my birthday present. You made me ask – you made me ask – and then you said no." I claimed I didn't want a birthday anymore and I hated birthdays. I rushed up to my room where I stayed the rest of the night until I was called down for supper and . . . well . . . you know what happened after that."

I looked to Christine to make sure she remembered. She nodded slowly.

" After Marie had finished nursing my wounds that night, she sat beside me as I tried to sleep. Shortly before dawn I awoke from a terrible nightmare, screaming. It was only one of the many nightmares I had throughout the day and every one I woke up screaming in fright of the monster in the mirror . Marie left me and not much longer my mother came up. I reached desperately for her, crying for her. I told her I didn't feel well and she told me to go to sleep and I would feel better in the morning. I clutched at the coverlet in alarm. "I don't want to go back to sleep," I panted. "If I go to sleep it will come back . . . the face! The face will come back!". She tried to comfort me. She didn't seem to understand how much that face had frightened me. I sobbed ferociously, staring in to my mother's eyes for reassurance. She told me the mask would make the face go away. I was intrigued and questioned if the mask was magic. She said yes and that she had made it magic to keep me safe. I was reassured and started to calm down. She handed me the new mask that fit more properly than my previous one had and I clumsily put it on with my bandaged fingers.

She got up to leave and I grabbed for her skirts. I begged her not to leave me in the dark. She showed me the candle she left in the room but I refused to let go. She sat back down on the bed until I fell asleep.

Father Mansart was a friend of a professor in Paris who was intrigued by a number of drawings Father had given him. Professor Guizot was his name. He tested me with tedious quizzes, boring me with them. He was shocked at my genius as well. He agreed to teach me privately at my grandfather's house in Rouen. I dreamt of spending five years studying architecture at the Villa Medic as a pensionnaire of the French Academy.

A few months after Professor Guizot had started instructing me, I asked Mother for a mirror. She reluctantly brought me her small hand mirror. I asked her if I took off the back if I would still be able to see things. She inform ed me I wouldn't and I was glad to know it had a safe side. I asked permission to look at the inside of it. Mother allowed me and I would discover that it was just a silly strip of tin foil on the back of a piece of glass I didn't understand that it reflected what peered into it and I believed it transformed its visions into monsters. I was curious of how it worked. I was convinced it was magic. Mother finally got me to see that what appeared in the mirror was what the beholder appeared to be. I did not scream in understanding but rather took it in silence. I wanted the mirror to keep and Mother allowed me t oo. I broke the mirror into a dozen pieces and laid each one intricately on the chest of drawers in my room. When she asked me why I explained that it made bet ter magic that way. I proceeded to prop the pieces of glass above a drawing at angle which produced a strange and distorted maze of reflections. I told her she was wrong about mirrors a nd you can make all kinds of magic with them.

I begged Marie to go buy me a glass cutter, glass and tin with money I had stolen from my mother. I pleaded that she kept it secret. Mother found out but was not angry . She bought them for me, presenting them to me at the end of the week. I worked all day trying to make a mirror but when my mother returned to my room that evening I was rigid with fury at my failure. I decided to ask my Professor. I discovered I was missing mercury but Mother refused to give it to me.

One morning Father Mansart came and told Mother about my nightly escapes I had been making for about a month and the previous night I had snuck into the church and played the organ. She was furious and I cringed in fear, expecting her to slap me in front of the priest.

Father Mansart told me I must stop and what I was doing was foolish and put us in danger. He stated that if it continued there could be reprisals. I wondered why the men hated me . Father said it was because men feared what they didn't understand. It was then I discovered men hated me and feared me for my face. Father took my arm demanding we pray but I refused. "Why should I? God doesn't listen to me." I was sent to my room and it was decided that I would be boarded and bolted in my room.

That night I listened as village boys pelted rocks at my window and our house shouting to bring out the monster so they can see.

Mother soon met Monsieur Barye. This angered me when I discovered them walking together. I wouldn't let her pass until she told me who the man was she walked with alone. She told me he was a friend. I told her I didn't wish the friendship to continue and she screamed at me. To this very day I remember the exact words she told me. . . ."

I paused and Christine reached up and took my hand, giving it a squeeze.

"'You do not wish?" she had screamed. " How dare you speak to me like this! You ruined my life the day you were born – ruined it. . . . ruined it! I hate you, I hate the very sight and sound of you . . . your devil's face and your angel's voice! There are plenty of angels in hell, did you know that? I wish to God you were there with them, where you belong. I wish you were dead, do you hear me? I wish you were dead!'"

I let a few tears escape my eyes as my voice broke at the end. I glanced at Christine and she silently sobbed, my hand on her trembling lips as if she were using it to muffle them.

"All I could do was stare at her with a wretchedness that was utterly beyond tears. . . . "I hate you too," I said with a pained surprise. "I hate you too."

Monsieur Barye insisted Mother put me in an asylum. Sasha was at an old age and dying and Mother didn't know how to tell me so she had Father Mansart do it. He asked if I knew she was surely going to die soon. I said yes and that I knew God would take her to live in heaven and we wouldn't be separated forever.

Father then proceeded to tell me that, though God had compassion for all his creatures, it was to man alone that He had granted an afterlife. Animals have no soul . . . .

It was silent before I screamed in grief and rage, smashing my mother's clock into the hearth and grabbing the coal tongs. I lashed out at the priest, shrieking terrible obscenities. Mother tried to get between us and I struck her full force on her shoulder. The priest drug her out and left me in the room to tear it to shreds. Little did I know they thought I was possessed and he would perform an exorcism the next day.

Afterwards I refused to continue the voice lessons that had previously given us both delight. I performed my disappearing tricks, claiming it was the work of a ghost.

The two of us, Mother and I, were slowly approaching a dangerous precipice. After she claimed I smashed a cup by tying a silk thread to it – I had the thread in my hand when she caught me – I still claimed it was the ghost Father Mansart tried to send away. She shook me wildly, my mask dislodged itself and fell to the floor. She screamed at me to stop and finally let go of my arms. I quickly replaced my mask with shaking hands. I was terrified.

"What would you do," I whispered, not looking at my mother, "if I were no longer here?" She told me she would marry Doctor Barye and he had already asked her and I was all that prevented the marriage so I better take care and do as she said. She tried to make me promise no more flying or disappearing objects would occur again. I leapt out of her grasp and ran to the door. "There is a ghost," I told her steadily. "There is a ghost here, Mother. And it's going to stay with you forever and ever!"

After that incident I discovered my birthday present from so long ago. A copy of Le Ventriloque ou L'Engastrimythe. I learned ventriloquism from that book and convinced Mother her wooden carving of a shepherd boy was the baby she truly wanted. I convinced her to leave Doctor Barye. I asked her if I was helpful if I could stay. She agreed happily, content with her new 'baby'.

Marie became suspicious when Mother asked her if she wanted to see the new baby. I told her it would be best if she left, pulling her out of the house. I played concertos for my mother by memory as she lavished the wooden boy in her arms.

I worked endlessly, creating masterpieces. Sasha had come up to me, whining for attention. I picked her up impatiently and shut her outside in the dark garden.

It was dark when I finally laid my lead down with a sigh of exhausted satisfaction. I glanced over to the hearth and check in surprise. "Where's Sasha?" I demanded with concern. Mother reminded me that she was in the garden. I didn't recall placing her there like Mother had said. I told her she shouldn't put Sasha out into the garden at night and that it was too cold for her since she was old.

I heard a dull whining outside the door which changed to a frenzy of barking as Sasha deserted her patient vigil on the doorstep and rushed to the gate.

"Look!" I heard a voice. "There's the monster's dog!" My heart dropped and through the window I saw the glare of lanterns. A few moments later, stones began to rain in the direction of the gate. When Sasha gave a yelp of pain I jumped to my feet and rushed to the door, Mother making it before I did. She tried reasoning with me but I was livid and would not listen. I threw her aside and rushed out the door. I yelled at them in rage telling them to leave and threatening to kill. A man reached for Sasha and grabbed her. I pushed through people as they slashed out at me, trying to injure me. I punched a man out of the way, feeling a sharp pain below my rib cage as I approached him and watched as Sasha's barking rose to a crescendo and ended in one long, piteous howl as another man twisted her neck, killing her.

I shrieked in demented anguish. "I'll kill you! I'll kill all of you!" The men turned and left us. I stooped down and picked Sasha up, sobbing. I struggled back down the paved path to the door where my mother stood. She stretched out her hand to me but I pushed past her and went to the kitchen, my shoulders shaking with the harsh violence of my sobbing.

My mask had been torn off in the struggle and my flesh was slashed in several places. Blood slowly trickled into my eyes, blurring my vision and burning my eyes. Mother tried to get me to back away from Sasha but I refused. "I must bury her," I said with despair. "I must bury her and sing her requiem." She tugged on my shoulder and told me I couldn't. "She will have a requiem!" I sobbed. "A requiem to take her soul to God!"

I swayed to my feet and carried her to the garden. I struggled to dig a grave for her while my mother watched. I refused to accept her help.

When it was done I stumbled back to the house and collapsed on the sofa in the drawing room. I felt my mother rip open my shirt and search for the source of the blood that pour from my torso. I heard Doctor Barye in the open doorway. In a single stride he was beside Mother at the soda and leaning over me. Mother asked if it was serious and he probed the wound with his expert fingers. I bit my tongue in pain. It had missed the lung. The man claimed I was lucky.

I lay very still, watching the man with guarded hostility. I asked if he was Doctor Barye and he smiled in agreement. "Why are you helping me?" I asked. His response was he was a doctor. Its his duty to help those who require his skills. He told me I was brave and he was going to give me something to help me sleep.

I accepted the draught without a murmur of protest and soon my breathing had become even and my eyes started to close wearily.

I listened vaguely as they spoke. I remember him speaking of an institution again and Mother denied it. She refused to send me away. Everything after that was left unheard.

I awoke in the middle of the night and decided it would be best if I left. I broke the wooden baby into bits and threw it in front of my altar of mirrors. It reflected back in them as a whole shepherd boy. I wrote a small note across the glass. 'Forget me.'"

Christine had tear stains on her cheek and so had I. I reached up and rubbed my hand over my face.

"That's enough for today." she said quietly. I looked up at her, curious. "You are exhausting yourself."

I sighed and nodded in agreement. She leaned forward on her hands and knees, her face inches from mine.

"Thank you for telling me, Erik." she pressed her lips to mine in a passionate kiss.

When we broke apart she wrapped her arms around my neck and I buried my face in the base of her neck.

I finally let myself go. All the pain I held with my past: I let it out. I sobbed quietly as we sat together.

Maybe Christine may not ever understand. I hoped dearly that a better realization of my past may help her realize what she has gotten herself into.

A/N: WOW! This thing is long! I'm really afraid it's bad though. ): Please review and let me know! I spent hours on this thing. Haha. Thank you for reading and I'm soooo sorry if you're disappointed.