"What sentimental trash!" Erik cried out in disgust, throwing my draft onto the floor, papers flying askew.

This was the first day of our new partnership; and it was already off to a hideous start.

I woke up with a ghastly headache, presumably from tension and lack of sleep. Erik's pounding incessantly away at the organ first thing in the morning did not help matters. Assuming that this was his obnoxious way of trying to get me out of bed, I put on a light blue morning dress, pulled my hair back into a severe bun and faced the day. If it even was day. I had yet to see a timepiece anywhere around.

Erik seemed a little less proper today, dressed simply in a white cuffed shirt and dark pants. He gestured towards a tray covered with tea and scones. Come to think of it, I was quite famished.

While I proceeded to have breakfast, Erik perused the entirety of what I had written so far. After I had finished eating, he continued to study the material for some time. I became anxious and paced the floor, waiting and waiting...just to be insulted.

"What's wrong with it?" I cried out.

"What's right with it? That's what you should be asking," he stormed. "All of the sloppy sentiment and melodrama of this story is sickening. You will never get the Opera managers to agree to put this on! It is not what people want to see. Why don't you write a comedy of errors? Or some tragedy where everyone ends up bloody and dead? Those always sell."

"I don't give a damn what people think they want to see!" I yelled, startling him. The expression of surprise on his face would have made me laugh if I wasn't so outraged. "You know as well as I do that what is considered popular is perfectly horrid. What's wrong with sentiment? What's wrong with romance?"

"It's not realistic," Erik fumed.

"Oh, and who wants realism? You!" I cried out. "Monsieur Opera Ghost!"

The room was dead with silence.

"Don't push me too far, my dear. Need I remind you that this entire scenario was your idea?"

"I'm sorry if I offended you, Erik," I continued, taking a deep breath, trying to steady myself. "But surely you can see my point? It's a harsh world, full of heartache and death. I don't think there's anything wrong with writing a love story. Personally, I don't think there's enough of them. I don't give a damn what is fashionable. I have to write about what is in my heart, what I find exciting and inspiring. Otherwise, what is the point in creating anything at all? Don't you see?"

After a moment or two, Erik nodded slowly.

"Can I at least put a little humor and angst into the piece?"

"Certainly, Erik," I agreed. "I think that will do nicely."


As time went on, Erik and I began to grow accustomed to each other. Our days settled into a regular routine of work and more work, broken up by meals and sleep.

Once we got started, the creativity began to flourish between the two of us. Erik worked on composing the score. I would listen and continue working on the libretto.

I was amazed at how knowledgeable Erik was about music, especially opera. And I became his avid disciple, attempting to soak up all of the knowledge from him that I could. I daresay he seemed pleased with the arrangement. He attempted to explain the sounds of each orchestral instrument, how important musical pacing was, whether a song was meant to be sung by a soprano or an alto…My head spun at the barrage of information. But he was a patient teacher, always answering my questions, no matter how inane. Always repeating anything that I didn't understand. It was humbling to see Erik solve problems with the piece that I had been wrestling with for months. He was as manic as I to get all of his ideas down on paper as quickly as possible. And my heart leapt when he would cry out joyously as inspiration struck. Perhaps he was even becoming a bit fond of the 'sentimental trash'.

I was glad to think of him as Erik and not as the Phantom. A name made him seem less frightening to me. Erik was my partner and advisor, teacher and -- dare I say it? -- friend. I respected him and valued his opinions and advice. I had hoped that he would serve as inspiration. I had no idea that he would open up my mind to a whole new realm of ideas and creativity. How could I be afraid of such a man?

Only occasionally, when he would be in one of his moods, would he seem to change back into that creature called the Phantom of the Opera. He would sit at the organ, not playing a song from our opera but something of his own. His eyes would turn dark and mournful and lost. And all about him, I could sense the heartbreak and desperation and loneliness. Even fear. Perhaps even he was afraid of what he had become. I sensed such need in him. But I did not dare to approach him when he was in such a state for I had no idea what he might do.

As for my living arrangements, Erik went out of his way to be accommodating. Although he never seemed to have much of an appetite, he always made sure that I had a healthy amount of food before me when we would dine. Every night, he would supply me with a vat of steaming water to bathe in. He wouldn't retire for the night before being absolutely sure that I would want for nothing.

It was no fault of Erik's that I would suffer with such insomnia.

Sometimes, I would have a new idea for the opera and could only wait impatiently for the morning so that I could talk with Erik about it. Other times, I would be so frustrated with the opera that I lost sleep racking my brain, trying to come up with answers. But I was the most restless when I thought not about the opera, but about my partner.

I was no longer afraid that Erik might enter my bedroom at night. Indeed, he had proved to be nothing but a complete gentleman. That is, when he wasn't in the midst of a stormy rage and throwing things. Once I realized that I was quite safe, the dreams began.

Dreams of the most erotic sort, like the tapestries in the music room.

I would wake up, drenched with sweat and aching with unfamiliar need.

Dreams of Erik.