*~A Past of Despair, a Future of Hope~*
If I had not fallen in love with Christine, my life would have been much less painful. No doubt, I have endured plenty of pain in my life, from my abusive childhood to the carnival freak show I was sold to. And not just physical pain. Mental pain knowing every person who looks at your face will run, screaming in terror. That everyone who looks into my eyes sees a monster. And is right.
But I had not endured the pain Christine had caused me, and which was by far the most excruciating anguish of all my torments. Christine kindled a small seed of emotion which had never been lit; she gave me something to love.
I, who had never loved nor been loved, was not one to waste energy on emotion for people. No, I stored all that for my music. But there was something about the girl, her innocent eyes, coy ways, and pure voice that drew me to her like a magnet.
As her invisible music teacher, we spent many happy hours together. But it wasn't enough to stop my craving for her. Instead of fighting it, I gave in. I allowed her to see me, took her to my lair. How foolish I was, now that I look back on it, to put her in such a situation. To put me in such a situation. But it was not to be. She had a lover. Naturally, how could an angel as perfect as my dear Christine live and not have a suitor? I was surprised she did not have scores of men flocking about her. But the one she did have was as terrible as ten score of men.
Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny. A fair boy as young and naïve as Christine herself, with enough money to buy himself half the opera house. The moment I saw him with her I suspected trouble. And trouble he was indeed. For in less than an hour, Christine had fallen into his trap of courtesies and his elegant, gallant ways. There was only that, the money, and the face to tempt Christine, he had no character, no soul. But compared to such a face as mine, how else could she choose? I fought for her and lost; staked everything for her, to have her be mine.
In the end, she had choose between her lover's life and her own. In this I am more at fault of being a monster than ever, to give my angel such a choice as to live in hell with the devil or kill another. I knew she would choose to sacrifice herself and live with me, then to ever harm a fair hair on Raoul's head. And she did. But the minute we kissed, I felt like something had broken inside of me. I let them go. Begged them to leave, gave them my blessing, practically had to shove them in the boat. The mob gave me little choice, but I knew it was the right one.
The irony was disgusting. The boy got Christine, and I was left with a horror-filled past, an empty future, a simple gold ring, and a music box. A very convenient time to kill myself, don't you think? If only it were so. I faked my death, or disappearance, then left the opera for good. What else could I do? The days of the Opera Ghost were over. I had nothing; death would have been a sweet gift. But it could never be.
I remember the night after I let them go. The mob had come and gone, I was picking up a few remaining items, digging through rabble to find my scores of music, which I had hidden. I looked into the fireplace, and was taken back into a memory...
"Why do you come, boy?" The old woman pulled herself up into her chair, shoving aside some fabric. "Do not be frightened, Marinette knows all. What do you wish?"
"I-I wish to be great. Beautiful. Talented. Rich. A genius. Loved by all."
"My son, why do you wish to be beautiful?"
"My face, madame. It is not like others, but ugly. Papa beats me for it, Maman cries at night. I have no friends, they are too scared, or tease..."
"I see it, my son, I see all. My son, I cannot change what is, but what is to be. You will be rich. Talented. A genius, like you ask. You will be great, well-known, but even I cannot make anyone love you. You must do that yourself."
"Please, madame, is there no way? I am not loved, it would take more lifetime than I have! I only wish to experience love, like any other."
"Then, child, I would give you something that is more curse than gift. I could give you lifetime upon lifetime to make yourself loved. Only when the love is true, perfect, and unconditional will you be released from the spell. Until then, you are eternal."
"Forever until I love?"
"Forever until you are loved, boy."
"I will take it, madame."
"Then you are granted it, child. Everlasting life until everlasting love."
"Merci, madame."
Even now I shudder at those words. The plea of a young, foolish boy who still craved emotion, and suddenly I was faced not with a lifetime of pain and loneliness, but several. Perhaps until the end of time I was to roam the earth, a nothing bit of man. This was my gift, this was my curse.
Such a romantic fairy tale it would have made, as in the tale The Beauty and the Beast. The ugly man finds a beautiful girl to love him and the story ends happily with them living happily ever after. I did not even ask for that much, I only wanted to live happily until the end of my days. But I was not to have that. Too bad things are so different in real life.
And now, with Christine gone, I had nothing to live for. I had all eternity to be nothing, do nothing. My music meant nothing, my life meant nothing.
But let me bring you up to where I am now. I spent several weeks in my friend Nadir's flat, but his hospitality and kind words were more than I could take, and I soon left. With only my health and my violin, I wandered the streets of Paris for sometime. Now and then I would play for pleasure, to calm myself out of a rage, or to sooth myself out of misery. Sometimes a passerby would throw me a franc. Street urchins ran about me, throwing rocks and yelling. Officers strolled around, eying my mask and dark cloak suspiciously. I realized I couldn't live like this much longer.
I needed to find a reason for living, a purpose, a goal to set my life on course. Teaching music lessons was out of the question, I had patience only for Christine, and it would have been too painful. Finally I saw an advertisement in the paper.
Looking for experienced designer.
Must be willing to travel, little contact needed.
M. Dupres.
I seized the opportunity. Within months, I was working under the nom de plume M. Garnger. I had several building designs for new hotels, and a large opera house. Not only did M. Dupres use my work, but he circulated it, offering it to other companies for a small fee. For some reason, my designs became popular and I began to make a large amount of money. I bought a small flat just outside of Paris, and sent ideas and designs to companies.
All this time I had been keeping an eye on Christine, like she was a precious item I had let someone borrow. She was all in the papers, as well. Vicomte Married. De Chagny and Bride Christine Daae travel to America. Vicomtesse de Chagny, once an opera star, resigns from stage and resorts to mother hood. Son born to Raoul, Victome de Changy and his wife, Christine de Changy.
A son! Christine had a son! I saw him several times on the street, chattering with friends, playing in the park. I began to lose track of time, Christine aged gracefully but I remained in my late twenties. I watched Philippe, Christine's son, grow through school, watched him take hold of a girl's hand. Saw him kiss, love, cry. I saw him exchange wedding vows. Saw him comfort his wife, Charlotte, when their child didn't survive the night.
By this time I had an increasing business in design. When France failed to comply with my demanding increase of commerce, I expanded my business to Europe.
Then I heard Christine was sick. Panic struck, I rushed to her house, stood by the door, unsure of what to do. I could not go in. Finally I settled myself on a bench across the street. The doctor went in and out several times. The last time, a maid escorted the doctor out, and Philippe tore out of the house, shouting and crying. I knew my Christine was gone.
The angel had gone to rest.
I visited her gravestone weekly. It was like a dream, I could not believe she was dead. But it was true. I saw Raoul visit the grave, Philippe and Charlotte with their newborn girl kneel in the earth to put flowers on the still freshly overturned ground.
One night I was at her grave and the reality struck me that she was gone. A flood of memories came back, her singing at the opera house opening night of Hannibal, her closing her eyes as I sang to her, the shudder I felt as I touched her, her warm, sweet lips closing over mine, and I cried. Three hours I sat in the rain and the mud by Christine, crying over what I had lost, what I had done, what could not be. That she should leave this earth, this perfect creature, and I should remain, was dreadfully unfair, and for the first time I understood my curse.
Margeruite, the granddaughter of Christine, was everything she should have been. Dark ringlets, large green eyes, pale skin and the sweetest disposition. Unfortunately she couldn't sing a note to save her life. It seemed Philippe had inherited Raoul's apparent lack of musical talent, and Margeruite from him. Christine's talent was buried with Christine. I watched Meg grow just as I had watched Philippe. She matured, married, and moved to a small town near Paris.
Business opportunities were booming for my company. I had several workers beneath me, and I managed the entire corporation without being seen, or at least, hardly at all. Now, not only did I design, but engineered and did construction as well. However, the biggest market appeared in America. The time was around 1980, and New York City, Los Angeles, and Chicago were practically growing bigger than Paris herself. But I felt reluctant to leave the family I had grown attached to.
To my surprise, Meg and her husband announced they were moving to New York. No one was more surprised than Philippe, however. He begged his daughter to stay, ever bit the selfish man Raoul had been. The senior Vicomte had just passed away, and with Charlotte sick, Philippe wanted nothing more than his only child near him. But Meg was insistent, and later that year, Meg and Louis set forth across the Atlantic. I myself was upon that very voyage. Once, Meg left her book on deck, and I returned it to her. It was like looking at Christine again.
"Why, thank you, monsieur!" She had exclaimed, eying my mask curiously.
I merely bowed, overcome by the resemblance.
The day we pulled into harbor, the famous Statue of Liberty standing tall amidst the blue ocean, I felt like a new man. A new chance, a new home, with new people. I was beginning to find that people in the twentieth century were more forgiving of deformities. I had seen more change than I had thought was possible, cars, electricity, telephones, computers. Even clothes were changing. Ladies wore pants now, and a strange denim material called jeans. Dresses were shorter, much more skin was exposed, and gentleman did not wear suits, unless it was a special occasion. To my relief, however, I found several gentleman wore suits, walking up and down streets in New York. I bought myself a building, living in the top floor. I felt like a bird, but I had all the windows tinted, as sunlight was still irritating to me.
Four years I lived and prospered in America, learning to speak English, branching out into several different companies. One delight I found was in stock marketing, where I was able to make millions. In America I went by my own name, Erik Mulhiem.
In 1985, Meg had a girl. A tiny bit of a thing, Katalina was her name. She looked nothing like Meg, but had enormous blue eyes, blonde curly hair, and fair skin dappled with freckles. I passed her in her carriage once, and she smiled, a dimple popping out of her cheek. She looked like a sun goddess, with the sunlight streaming over her golden hair. Hardly like Christine. But she carried the spirit of Christine, somehow I could tell that right away. Katie, as she was called, was much harder to keep an eye on than Philippe or Meg had been. For one, you don't let a child run around the streets of New York. I used to watch her on her way to school, giggling with the girls, flirting with the boys. Her charm glowed from every small bit of her.
When Katie was 4, she started dance lessons. Another dancer, I thought disgustedly. At least she appeared to have a small amount of musicality in her, which was more than I could say for her parents or grandparents. I went to her dance recital. Even then she had talent. If only she could sing.
My life was so different. I could barely recognize myself, business entrepreneur, in the middle of New York City, 1989. I still looked 29. I hadn't looked at a woman since Christine, but suddenly it occurred to me that the only way I would be free is to fall in love. However, the thought was still too painful to act upon, and I shoved it into the back of my mind. I concentrated on the future, my new future, one filled with hope.