This is a fic I'm writing with my cousin Chelsea, who is another freaky genius like me. yeah i'm not modest. whoo freaky! And when you put two warped psyches together, you get weird stuff like this. We think it's hilarious, and if you don't, that's cool, but we'll still laugh our asses off writing it. oops i said ass. Anyways, The Phantom of the Opera and its characters obviously don't belong to us, but Tzipporah does. It's still a work in progress, so any CC (that's constructive criticism) will be greatly appreciated. GIMME CC!NOW!AAAH! (passes out)

p.s. If anyone figures out the significance of her stepdad's name, i'll give you a cookie. not that you need the cookie bribe -you just want to show off how smart you are, but i thought i'd throw that in there. you know you wanna be a smarty! SMARTY!

(clears throat)

Meanwhile, Tzipporah is pondering Sarah Brightman.


God, how can a person's voice be THAT good? It's not cool. Not fair. She should die. Ok, maybe I'm a little jealous, but still. Seriously. It's not cool. Tzipporah sat in the now deserted library, listening to the Broadway recording of The Phantom of the Opera. Most normal kids would have chosen to go outside to wait for their rides - you know - sunlight, social interaction, crap like that - but not Tzipporah. She preferred not to go outside, where she knew she would get teased and taunted and tripped by the other kids. Social interaction didn't agree with her. It was tough being one of the only girls in her class who appreciated classical music. Not only that, Tzipporah was only about five feet tall. Let's just say she didn't exactly stand out. Even though she didn't, in fact, stand out, somehow all of the bullies seemed to be able to hone her out of a crowd. They all had like Tzipporah radars or something. Their favorite past time happened to be the thrill of the hunt... of Tzipporah. And when they had her cornered, they were on her like a pack of dogs on a three legged cat. Face it, she didn't have a chance. They were such fans of the Tzipporah-hunt, that the poor girl had already received: a broken walkman, twelve broken copies of The Phantom of the Opera soundtrack, four bloody lips, and a chunk of her hair pulled out by the root, already this year.

It was only the third week.

She had taken refuge in the library and prayed they would not seek her out. The library became like her sanctuary. Home wasn't exactly a safe place either.

Ever since her father left, Tzipporah's mother had gone through about twenty different boyfriends, each decreasing in decency. For whatever reason, she settled down with the one of the worst men on the face of the planet. Waels Leaht. The man was about eight feet tall, was built like a logger, and Tzipporah swore he had sprung from the devil. Sure, he was an angel around Tzipporah's mother, but whenever Tzipporah was alone with him, the demon within emerged.

She was snapped out of her thoughts when she looked out the window and noticed her bus was leaving. Tzipporah spat out an obscenity, and ran after it to the beat of "Track Down This Murderer." The irony in her life was astonishing at times. As she neared the bus, her schoolmates waved, and some threw themselves against the windows. Tzipporah flipped them off and gave up. She walked home.

As she staggered through the door she came to the horrifying realization that her mother's shoes were not on the mat. To most teens this would have been a cause for celebration. (Come on, who doesn't instantly think 'house party!' when mom isn't home?). But for Tzipporah this meant quite the opposite of a party. This was, in a word, bad.

For a split second, she thought, Maybe he didn't hear me come in, maybe I can go back outside...

No such luck. His voice traveled through the kitchen.

"Zipp? Come here, little lady."

His voice was hauntingly courteous. It sent chills of horror up her spine. She bristled with anticipation, as she heard his footsteps come down the hall. Tzipporah tried to run, but found her feet were stunned with fright, as though they had been turned to stone by the sight of Medusa.

"I said, come here." He hissed, grabbing her by the neck and throwing her down the hall. She remained still, knowing that if she ran it would only mean a longer, harsher beating. Tzipporah shut her eyes as she heard him pick his belt up off the dresser.

He left her passed out on the floor.

When she came to, she pulled herself up, and tried to stand. As she did this, every muscle in her back screamed. She ignored it and shuffled down the hallway to her room. This was all part of the routine.

Tzipporah's room was small and crowded by her most valuable possession...her stereo. She had the works - subwoofers and all. The walls were covered in production posters from Broadway shows. Most of them were there to cover cracks. She walked over to the stereo and turned it on. "Music of the Night" floated through her room.

She fell onto her bed and closed her eyes, retreating to her ever-familiar fantasy of singing on stage at the Opera Populaire, with the Phantom watching from box five. Her fingers started to tingle as the music overpowered her. She took a deep breath and whispered, "If just this once it was real..."

She woke to a woman's voice. "Who dressed this wretch?" Now that was not nice of her mother to say.

"Wretch?" She yelled, sitting up. Then her eyes got huge. "Who the fuck are you?"

The woman looked at her in horror, her mouth agape, then scurried off in a huff. Tzipporah made a face at her bustle. Who wore bustles? She looked down at the cobblestone street she was sitting on. A carriage almost ran over her. The driver swore at her in french. She stood up and shouted, "UP YOURS, JACKASS!" She got more horrified looks from the people on the street. They were all wearing bustles and top hats. What was this, a renaissance fair?

She turned around. Tzipporah stood in the shadow of the Opera Populaire. She plopped down on the cobblestone again, gaping.