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( My first fanfic, orginally written for a Creative Writers Award a year
and a half ago. The version that was published when I came second was
slightly different to this one (I changed the ending entirely, so you could
call this the "rough draft". Enjoy it, please R&R, I'd like to know what
people would have thought should I have published this instead.)
Prologue
She spins. Her arms are outstretched, towards the many rows and stalls that tonight, will be full of people and faces. Her throat is filled with music, the notes are sharp and bittersweet to hear.
He twitches, flinches at the sound of her voice. He forces himself to fully face the stage, and to look at her. He briefly closes his eyes, then open them, and watches, wrapt.
Watches as she turns, throws out her arms to an imaginary audience. Watches as she bends and sweeps, dancing to the music she is creating. It hurts.
Those pale grey eyes, wide, childlike. Those dark curls. The slender body. The white skin, flushing faintly over the cheekbones. She is beautiful. Beautiful to see, and the voice, the voice holds one captivated.
But to him, it hurts. Her very presence brings back memories. Memories pushed deep inside, and locked in boxes inside his head. She stepped back like that, as he advanced towards her, his own throat filled with music, as he sang to her, seducing her. She trembled and swayed like that, though then his arms had been around her-how he'd savoured that moment, wishing it to never end.
Chapter 1.
Erik snaps himself out of his torment and turns away, concealing himself carefully against the prop-wall. His breath is burning, fast and hot. He forces himself to glide slowly away, and Christine's voice become fainter as he walks through the off-stage corridors. His attention dosent escape the fact that every door is closed. Trying one, Erik discovers that not only were they shut up tight, but locked as well. He passs by door seven. It is boarded up. Erik frowns. Christine appears to have lost access to her old dressing room; probably boarded up because the secret path behind the mirror had been discovered by the raging mob, over a month ago. The mob had destroyed his home, his underground kingdom. And now, he guesses, there are no more secret paths, or corridors. Erik passes the door, and continues down into what was known as the common room. It is silent, no one is here. He helps himself to a couple of stale biscuits, delicately brushing the crumbs from his shirt-sleeves.
They'll all be over at the "new" lodgings.
"They" being the dancers, chorus, singers and soloists of the Opera Populaire. Erik gives a sour smile. For some odd reason, no-one wants to be here. The Opera Ghost wasn't found-therefore must still be at large. Still, it means I can wander around more freely, he thinks.
Footsteps sound. Erik turns and quickly flattens himself behind the door. His breath catches...
Prologue
She spins. Her arms are outstretched, towards the many rows and stalls that tonight, will be full of people and faces. Her throat is filled with music, the notes are sharp and bittersweet to hear.
He twitches, flinches at the sound of her voice. He forces himself to fully face the stage, and to look at her. He briefly closes his eyes, then open them, and watches, wrapt.
Watches as she turns, throws out her arms to an imaginary audience. Watches as she bends and sweeps, dancing to the music she is creating. It hurts.
Those pale grey eyes, wide, childlike. Those dark curls. The slender body. The white skin, flushing faintly over the cheekbones. She is beautiful. Beautiful to see, and the voice, the voice holds one captivated.
But to him, it hurts. Her very presence brings back memories. Memories pushed deep inside, and locked in boxes inside his head. She stepped back like that, as he advanced towards her, his own throat filled with music, as he sang to her, seducing her. She trembled and swayed like that, though then his arms had been around her-how he'd savoured that moment, wishing it to never end.
Chapter 1.
Erik snaps himself out of his torment and turns away, concealing himself carefully against the prop-wall. His breath is burning, fast and hot. He forces himself to glide slowly away, and Christine's voice become fainter as he walks through the off-stage corridors. His attention dosent escape the fact that every door is closed. Trying one, Erik discovers that not only were they shut up tight, but locked as well. He passs by door seven. It is boarded up. Erik frowns. Christine appears to have lost access to her old dressing room; probably boarded up because the secret path behind the mirror had been discovered by the raging mob, over a month ago. The mob had destroyed his home, his underground kingdom. And now, he guesses, there are no more secret paths, or corridors. Erik passes the door, and continues down into what was known as the common room. It is silent, no one is here. He helps himself to a couple of stale biscuits, delicately brushing the crumbs from his shirt-sleeves.
They'll all be over at the "new" lodgings.
"They" being the dancers, chorus, singers and soloists of the Opera Populaire. Erik gives a sour smile. For some odd reason, no-one wants to be here. The Opera Ghost wasn't found-therefore must still be at large. Still, it means I can wander around more freely, he thinks.
Footsteps sound. Erik turns and quickly flattens himself behind the door. His breath catches...