Disclaimer: I've made it, in a painful confession, clear that I do not own this wonderful story/musical/etc. If I did, the Phantom would be a VERY happy man today. I like my money where it is, thank you.
This is the first chapter to the story "I Do Not Regret," and I'd like to thank all who've reviewed me so far. They're very heartening, and I also invite criticism, as well as praise.
Chapter One: The First Time I Saw You
My meeting with you was strange Christine…Our relationship and my feelings I never intended, yet…they occurred anyway…
Breaking away from my fanatical work, I angrily introduced my fist to the keyboard of my organ. It was all wrong, from the flow of the music to the burning words, as otherworldly beautiful as it all might have seemed to any casual listener had there been any. There was something missing from my composition, this unearthly Don Juan Triumphant, but its deformity was impossible to place. Something was missing entirely from it!
Showing my aggravation with my situation, I stood, unable to do more than give the keyboard another pound, before flinging my organ stool moodily. It landed with a crash nearby, breaking a rather expensive candelabrum. Before this destruction continued further, I came back to my senses with a breath, pushing down my rage even as the fallen candles dwindled into darkness. Luckily it was not a more important object to me; it did little to brighten the death-like decorum of my home anyway.
With a quick well-placed step, I made sure the fallen flame was extinguished, and then kicked the wreckage to a corner. I could bother with janitorial duties later. Right now, my failure to produce a satisfactory feeling within my chords was gnawing at my patience. I was in need of a brief respite from Don Juan.
Tormenting the imaginations of the ballet girls, or making some type of mischief could do the trick, perhaps.
Leaving my mausoleum, and crossing the lake, which hides it away, I began to ascend to the land of the truly living. Yes, I traveled upwards towards the Opera House, which I myself helped to construct.
My diversions kept me amused for only so long in my bad humor, and I grew sorry once again that I had inherited my scathing temper from my mother. Hearing the girls of corps de ballet twitter on endlessly about the Opera Ghost was amusing, until I grew tired of the ceaseless subject. I had begun to entertain the thought that Madame Giry kept them as a nun keeps girls in a convent, sheltered and confined, just to explain why their conversation was so unvarying.
My tricks had done just as ill for me, but my easy slip of laudanum into drink had given me some pleasure. The scene-shifter Joseph Buquet had been the recipient. For now that's all I would do; the man was a ferocious gossip and most of his gossip was of the account of his sighting of the Opera Ghost. I would not normally give this thought, but sadly, the man had obviously actually seen something of me. A capricious tongue is a dangerous possession.
I walked along a particular path that is outside of the dressing rooms of the performers; some have mechanisms that allow one to look into these rooms. At times these mechanisms could be amusing, and at others, especially when La Carlotta is in one of these rooms, they could be quite a disturbance. That day, I had been bored with this path…until I heard that sound which altered my existence forever.
Sobbing, she was sobbing, sweetly and softly like one would expect an angel to. I couldn't help myself from investigating the creator of such sound. I followed the noise to a one way window, which showed as a dressing room mirror to the other side. My first glimpse of her….
She wore the costume of a ballerina, obviously one of Madame Giry's girls, and her form beneath that mode of dress shook with her crying. Her graceful hands and long, curled hair hid her face from sight, both holding the office of catching her tears.
I never understood why, but I was intrigued. So I stayed, I watched. She lifted her face-the face that only a goddess should ever be allowed to bear!-which was streaked with the path of her tears. My eyes closed temporarily, and the missing part of Don Juan rose to my mind as if it had been there all along. But for my interest, and my wonder at her effect on me submerged it into observation.
She began to speak, cursing a certain fat diva for her cruelty regarding her voice, angry with little Giry for making her sing in front of the cow in the first place. Her anger quickly turned into a heart-wrenching, grievous sound. My heart twanged with empathy for her. I realized she was still very child-like behind that gorgeous countenance, which became increasingly pleasing for me to look at.
"Papa…Why did you leave me all alone knowing I wouldn't have anyone else to take care of me? I'm lonely…Nothing makes it better, Papa. I don't even have any talent. I know that you wanted me to train my voice and sing...maybe even become a prima donna. But Papa, I'm not good enough for anything, not without you or anyone else…especially not for the opera!"
My heart pounded softly. Her speaking voice was lovely. I began to wonder at her claim to not being good, especially when a diva like La Carlotta, who gets jealous more skillfully than she sings, insults her personally. But I could not approach this little angel, not even to help her. I would only make things worse on the poor girl! My face was nothing for someone like her to see….
Besides…the feeling in my chest…I was in danger of… I couldn't risk that again. I couldn't handle it!
"You never sent me the Angel of Music either Papa….You swore to me…Maybe the Angel isn't real….or perhaps I'm too worthless for God to waste his Angel on…."
A creature of such sublime beauty too worthless for an angel! Her words struck me, and made me slightly angry. Wild thought hit me, and before I thought enough, I had decided to be her Angel. She need never see me! I could teach her, I could guide her through the mirror. I could risk nothing in this way, could I? She would truly think me an angel then. She would be contented…and I….
I sang to her then, for the first time behind the mirror, and her tears ended, becoming exquisite joy. I don't remember the music I employed my voice to that night. All I can recall is the glitter of pleasure in those clear eyes of hers that I have almost never bestowed in anyone. And with my song, I brought the world of the girl I came to know as Christine Daae into the heaven of true music, from her quicksand sorrows.
When I first saw her, I could not help but loving her beauty. Yet when I first heard her sing, I realized that no matter what I had thought before, I had been wrong. Her voice had sealed it. That clear voice ideal in all respects, with utmost potential, coupled with her innocence and faultless splendor of appearance…
Once I had heard her sing in that very first lesson, it was too late. Fear filled me along with the pleasure. And I knew it almost instantly. I couldn't stop them, the lessons, or my feelings. I was in love with her, in love with Christine Daae.
She couldn't ever see my face. I hoped she never wanted to. From that moment of realization, I needed her with me, not only just for my music. Because if she knew I was not an angel, not even a man….