Disclaimer: "The Phantom of the Opera" was written by Gaston Leroux.
Based on the musical "The Phantom of the Opera" by Andrew Lloyd Webber and
the book "Phantom" by Susan Kay this fan story is. (Ah, Yoda speak!) I
have no permission to use the characters and I am making no money out of
Leroux/ALW/Kay's work. Rightly or wrongly, I decided to give Carlotta a
past and let the Prima Donna have centre stage. Anything that appears in
'' is remembered dialogue by Carlotta.
Note: I have decided from here on to follow the events as they happen in Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical and not the events of Leroux. In addition, my writing is getting a bit weird; at least I think it is. I think the problem may lie in my tenses. Finally, I am trying to give Carlotta more reason to dig her heels in over her position than simple pride.
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +
My apartment was my sanctuary, my one escape from the truth and cruelty of the real world, yet now it felt like my prison. There I did not have to be the constant performer. I could be myself. Yet, I found that to be myself was to be the girl I had been, to be Judas. Perhaps I was too hard on myself. After all, nobody gave me thirty pieces of silver for my betrayal. Was it even betrayal? I could not tell. In the night, alone with only my thoughts for company, I tore myself to pieces reviewing every tiny mistake I had made in my life. I did not wish to stay in my apartment and I had no desire to stay in Paris, or France for that matter, during my period of recuperation.
Leaving my apartment I headed for a small nearby church but even its walls could offer me no sanctuary. God could not forgive me for I could not forgive myself. For years, I had carried my guilt but buried deep within my heart. I never let it dominate my life as it now did. It was frustrating. As a child, I had clear ideas of what was right and what was wrong. My father, thief and drunkard though he was, had taught me from an early age to respect the rules that governed society. He came from a respectable family his heart was always that of a gentleman. I never could understand why he broke the law while lecturing at length on the virtues of being a good citizen. When I asked him why he stole, he would tell me it was out of necessity. That explanation meant that we could eat and so I never argued. Necessity was a poor excuse but useful. I found that it could justify anything. Why did I act as I did? Necessity! I laughed at anyone who would accept that reasoning. I laughed at myself. It was now necessary for me to leave Paris.
I knew I had to leave Paris and soon. The pressure was taking its toll on my health and I had taken to drinking again. Ubaldo suggested that I should try seeking peace at home. I knew he did not mean my apartment but some building that once belonged to my ancestors. Never in my life have I known a home like that. I have known many different places, some quite spectacular and others not fit for habitation. A place to call home was an alien concept to me. People identify themselves by their family, their origins, and their country. I, on the other hand, had no family, no origins and no country. Who was I? Nobody. True, by birth, I was Spanish but I felt nothing for the country. My mother was Italian and as much as I enjoyed my time there, I had no great love for it. I did not even know of other family. There were grandparents, for my father had spoken of them, though they had never made any appearance in my life. From what I heard said of my mother, she had been an only child, a spoilt, self-indulgent daughter of noble parents who had too much time and money to spend on their little princess. She smiled constantly, one of her admirers once told me, with her pretty, white teeth and her dark eyes shining brightly. The more stories I heard told of her and of her perfect life only fuelled my growing hatred of her. No, I had no great love for Italy or for my mother and her family.
I knew of a family in Rome who would offer me a place to rest. My good friend Isabella, she was like a sister. She had been a chorus girl in Venice during my early days. When first I had arrived in Venice, she was the one who took me to the opera and helped me acquire a position though the management were more than happy to offer what they could to the daughter of a former prima donna. If Isabella had not found me that first night in Venice, my life would have been so very different.
Isabella was the only person who could claim to know me truly. In the chorus together, we shared our secrets including Erik and even had the pleasure of making his acquaintance. His voice entranced her and I dare say she would have done anything he asked but she was no fool. Isabella knew the dangers all girls faced with men and warned me to be always on my guard. When I became prima donna, Isabella was married to a rich patron of the opera ten years senior. The two had six children, four sons and two daughters, the eldest, a girl, named Elisa after her godmother. Although I had kept in contact with the family over the years, I had only seen Isabella twice since taking the position of prima donna in Paris - at my first performance and at her husband's funeral. Three years had elapsed since last we met. A few months earlier, I had received an unexpected letter from her inviting me to stay. It seemed that now was the perfect time to accept her hospitality.
Note: I have decided from here on to follow the events as they happen in Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical and not the events of Leroux. In addition, my writing is getting a bit weird; at least I think it is. I think the problem may lie in my tenses. Finally, I am trying to give Carlotta more reason to dig her heels in over her position than simple pride.
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +
My apartment was my sanctuary, my one escape from the truth and cruelty of the real world, yet now it felt like my prison. There I did not have to be the constant performer. I could be myself. Yet, I found that to be myself was to be the girl I had been, to be Judas. Perhaps I was too hard on myself. After all, nobody gave me thirty pieces of silver for my betrayal. Was it even betrayal? I could not tell. In the night, alone with only my thoughts for company, I tore myself to pieces reviewing every tiny mistake I had made in my life. I did not wish to stay in my apartment and I had no desire to stay in Paris, or France for that matter, during my period of recuperation.
Leaving my apartment I headed for a small nearby church but even its walls could offer me no sanctuary. God could not forgive me for I could not forgive myself. For years, I had carried my guilt but buried deep within my heart. I never let it dominate my life as it now did. It was frustrating. As a child, I had clear ideas of what was right and what was wrong. My father, thief and drunkard though he was, had taught me from an early age to respect the rules that governed society. He came from a respectable family his heart was always that of a gentleman. I never could understand why he broke the law while lecturing at length on the virtues of being a good citizen. When I asked him why he stole, he would tell me it was out of necessity. That explanation meant that we could eat and so I never argued. Necessity was a poor excuse but useful. I found that it could justify anything. Why did I act as I did? Necessity! I laughed at anyone who would accept that reasoning. I laughed at myself. It was now necessary for me to leave Paris.
I knew I had to leave Paris and soon. The pressure was taking its toll on my health and I had taken to drinking again. Ubaldo suggested that I should try seeking peace at home. I knew he did not mean my apartment but some building that once belonged to my ancestors. Never in my life have I known a home like that. I have known many different places, some quite spectacular and others not fit for habitation. A place to call home was an alien concept to me. People identify themselves by their family, their origins, and their country. I, on the other hand, had no family, no origins and no country. Who was I? Nobody. True, by birth, I was Spanish but I felt nothing for the country. My mother was Italian and as much as I enjoyed my time there, I had no great love for it. I did not even know of other family. There were grandparents, for my father had spoken of them, though they had never made any appearance in my life. From what I heard said of my mother, she had been an only child, a spoilt, self-indulgent daughter of noble parents who had too much time and money to spend on their little princess. She smiled constantly, one of her admirers once told me, with her pretty, white teeth and her dark eyes shining brightly. The more stories I heard told of her and of her perfect life only fuelled my growing hatred of her. No, I had no great love for Italy or for my mother and her family.
I knew of a family in Rome who would offer me a place to rest. My good friend Isabella, she was like a sister. She had been a chorus girl in Venice during my early days. When first I had arrived in Venice, she was the one who took me to the opera and helped me acquire a position though the management were more than happy to offer what they could to the daughter of a former prima donna. If Isabella had not found me that first night in Venice, my life would have been so very different.
Isabella was the only person who could claim to know me truly. In the chorus together, we shared our secrets including Erik and even had the pleasure of making his acquaintance. His voice entranced her and I dare say she would have done anything he asked but she was no fool. Isabella knew the dangers all girls faced with men and warned me to be always on my guard. When I became prima donna, Isabella was married to a rich patron of the opera ten years senior. The two had six children, four sons and two daughters, the eldest, a girl, named Elisa after her godmother. Although I had kept in contact with the family over the years, I had only seen Isabella twice since taking the position of prima donna in Paris - at my first performance and at her husband's funeral. Three years had elapsed since last we met. A few months earlier, I had received an unexpected letter from her inviting me to stay. It seemed that now was the perfect time to accept her hospitality.