Session One: Music of the Night :Prologue
Keep your hand at the level of your eyes...
The world of dreams and nightmares is another dimension in which our mind searches our soul's past. The mind acts out against us, as things that we may not even wish to remember, is revived and brought back from the darkest and deepest trains of thought that were long forgotten. The mind is the phoenix. It rises from the ashes and lives on; it carries every single memory that the mind has. And thus betrays us.
The sound of cackling monkeys echoed through this dream world. The monkey's figure seemed to shadow through the misty memories, almost unclear... but certain. Eery music played over it in a haunting aria, almost keeping the viewer from uncovering such horrors they had wished never to remember, and yet the music still played.
Another cackle, yet this of an old, rogue man. His face was clear as it could be from behind his thick, bushy black hair. A wry grin was wide under his beard, holding some horrible secret. He welcomed the dreamer into a large tent, grunting rumours about a "devil's child". Even though he led the dreamer into a curious state, the dreamers feared him. Not just his appearance, but what they didn't know; a human habit - being afraid of what you don't know.
The dreamer continued into the shadows of the tent, the sense of curiosity seemed to be swallowed up by the unknown itself. As they ventured towards a faint light, relief seemed to cling to the dust that settled in the dreamt air. An oil lamp hung above a large iron cage... as if to hold some kind of animal. But as they neared closer, they saw that it was nothing more than a dirty boy. A dirty boy bruised and battered from years of abuse, with a large canvas bag covering his head, without only two small holes to serve as eye sockets and air holes.
This boy was occupied with the small figuring of a monkey, that appeared to be made of the same material of the sack that covered his visage. On the monkey's hand were two small brass cymbals that when touched together, they would release a clear ring in harmony to each other's vibration, almost as if to symbol something. Yet his new discoveries were short lived, as the rogue man beat him down with a stick. Already his grimy flesh was darker where the stick had struck him before; the raptured capillaries noticeable even in the faint oiled light.
If there was ever a moment of pathos for an anonymous being, it would be now. Yet the dreamer was renewing these emotions, the empathy. It was as though they had sheltered themself from the memories, and were now recalling the sympathy they felt towards this masked boy.
The empathy was short-lived, once the bag was yanked off of the boys head, and his true deformity was revealed. It was because of this deformity that the dreamer forced it upon themself to push this memory from their conscience. Without the memory, there was no sympathy, no horror, and no fear.
Without the memory, they forgot it.
A/N: This is my first Phantom of the Opera story. First, I would like to point out that I have never read another fanfic of Phantom of the Opera other than the one by aeipathy, because it seemed as though she had the same idea as me. But as far as I'm concerned we probably both have a different interpretation between the relation of the Phantom and Madame Giry. So, if you feel as though I'm plagiarizing one of your stories, I can assure you that I'm not. If you do feel indignant and would like to discuss it, email me and I'll get back to you asap. And I can always change this plot, because I have many ideas, I have a big head. My disclaimer is in my profile.
08/ 22/ 05