The days went by in a haze. I was 17, fresh in the throes of love, and nothing could daunt my enthusiasm. Nothing, except for Erik. He was becoming quite a burden. He had already began quite an extensive embezzlement form the Managers, He controlled the performances; casting whomever he pleased without regard to the directors or instructions. He often edited the musical scores and several Conductors quit before we found Monsieur Remy. The Opera Ghost's word was law, and we all lived in fear of it. As for our relationship it deteriorated rapidly after my marriage to Jason.
I knew Erik was jealous, but I had known Jason far before I ever knew Erik. He had acquired quite a temper and would often yell at me for no particuler reason. I found out he was sneaking out of the Opera late at night, causing several bar fights, yet no one could seem to catch this mysterious individual. I couldn't verify if he actually murdered anyone, but I had my suspicions. The stage hands would talk of a spectral shadow with a white lasso that would catch wandering fools. More than one evening I would cry myself to sleep lamenting the mistake I had made in helping Erik. Yet I did help him, much to my dismay. He reminded me of a lost little bird that had lost it's mother and couldn't fly. He continued to give me his notes and I would deliver them monotonously. If he required items or necessities from me I would bring them to the top of the third cellar.
I had finally stopped visiting his lair once and for all, and I dared never to leave beyond the third cellar. He had cursed at me when he learned I would not be seeing him as often. I tried to remind him that I was a ballet dancer and wife, and I had other duties to attend to. One evening I came to find in my dressing room a red rose tied with a black ribbon and a note, a note that simply stated "I am sorry for my behavior Antoinette". I visited him in his lair that night and he gave me the greatest secret. A skeleton key, that could open more doors than even the one the Managers owned.
That key opened doors I never even knew existed, and the look in his eyes told me everything. If I ever let our secret become known, even to my husband, I would be in faer for my life. His actions that night had both intrigued and frightened me. He'd played a soulful melody, something he had written especially for my ears alone. Then when I told him I had to go home for it was late, he'd thrown a candle at the wall and yelled that I did not want to stay with him. I had clasped his hand in mine and tried to offer him comfort, yet he backed away from me, citing that no one would ever want to stay with him.
The only thing I knew to do was walk away sadly, never knowing that in the morning I would find Tenugh, our resident comedian, dead. The only mark, a red ring around his neck. They replaced him quickly enough with a midget, who took up affinity with our head tenor Piangi. After this incident I had found myself walking towards the police station, but stopped as soon as I thought of his sad, tormented eyes. Those eyes could drown the world in tears, and with a heavy heart I went home.
For seven years I hid Erik from the world, the only keeper of his dark secret. He was like my brother, someone I cared for and loved, and yet I also feared him. I abhorred the man I knew he would become; dangerous, deadly, yet strangly seductive. I continued to live in a haze of innocence, flirting with the love of Jason and the danger of Erik.
However, I soon discovered I was pregnant, and that hazy fog of innocent youth fell just as rain falls deep into a lake.
She stopped visiting me about six years into our friendship. I fear I drove her away with my abhorrent conduct. I had become quite ferocious, making my presence at the Opera House supreme and omnipotent. I spent the days composing, drawing, writing, reading, pretty much anything there was to do I did it. I continued to receive my twenty thousand francs each month, and would often send thank you notes with chocolates to the Managers.
I detested the Operatic Scores and made a few adjustments here and there, until after three employees's quit they found a rather pleasing man named Monsieur Remy. I liked his style and instead of outright changing his music I sent him notes, giving advice and also asking questions. I had begun my own Opera, Don Juan Triumphant, and needed all the information I could receive. In exchange for his advice I gave Monsieur Remy full power to fire anybody he so deemed worthy of replacement. No need to explain to the Managers, I had already sent those sniveling cowards a note.
Ann stopped venturing into my lair and I became quite lonley. It had never occured to me how dependent on her companionship I had become. I began walking outside the Opera Populaire, late at night and under the cover of shadows. At first I simply walked the streets, trying hard to hide my masked face, then I gained enough courage to enter taverns and other establishments. The stares and looks that the people gave me forced my temper to intrude, yet I never actualy killed anyone. The ladies of the bar would tell me as they escorted me outside that I made the men jealous, thats all.
I would glare at them and demand to know what they meant. The ladies would laugh and say goodbye, and my tortured soul would saunter down the streets again. I attended theaters of all varieties, learning as much as I could. I would stay late and force myself to talk with the actors, just to excersize my social skills and learn of the latest Parisian news. The only theater I did not benefit from was burlesque, a vulgar show of young, vulnerable women desperate for money. When I tried to explain to them that life could be better, they laughed in my face and I would be escorted outside. I had often met prostitutes in the streets, and being a healthy boy of fifteen I was interested in the female form, yet I wanted more from a relationship than a one-night-stand.
I was looking for love, a woman who would gaze past my appearance to the lonely man I was. I had once thought Ann was that woman, but pert little Jason stole her affections. The one night she did come to my lair I tried to act on my best behavior. We talked and she was quite friendly, unlike the cold, abrasive figure she had been in the past few months. I had enough courage to play her my song, a song I had written espescialy for her. The breaking point of this wonderful mood had come when I was finished, and she agitatedly told me she had to leave.
I was shocked, it was only eleven in the evening, yet she insisted she had rehersals the next morning. I became quite infuriated and threw a candle, and she grabbed my hand. The woman had the indignity of touching me, and I told her to leave. She did, although I had really meant for her to stay. I was so distraught that I never even realized a man had falled into my room of mirrors, until the screams forced me to silence him for good. That was the first time I'd ever killed without reason, and I barely knew who the man was. I had cried that day, during those days it seemed I cried often, but my music would console me.
Music was my life blood, my love, the only type of love I would ever receive. Even Ann's "love" was nothing compared to my music, and I lost myself in it's warm embrace. So the days passed, one after the other, until the day I realized I had spent nearly seven years under that Opera House.
It was quite a revalation, and I wondered if I would spend my enternal mortality inside that abysmal cavern, and the sad truth is, I would.