He was different than the image my imagination had scalded into my mind. I had always thought of Him as a monster, in every sense of the word. Expecting Him to be grotesque, greatly deformed, utterly appalling, what other perception could I have of Him after the horrifying stories I had heard from everyone here at L'Opera Populaire? I was, however, pleasantly surprised.
The man in front of me did not make my skin crawl, did not make me scream out in terror. He was a man, just like any other you would pass on the streets of Paris. The only thing making Him stand out was the harsh white mask covering the right side of his face. His face! How remarkably handsome, how beautiful, it was! Strong, angular features, complimenting a devilishly cleft chin. His cheek bones, high and dominant. His eyes, his eyes! Such a green I had never seen before! I pulled from my mind the memory of the hue of the hills that encompassed the villa I once called home, even they paled in comparison to the sheer audacity of those exquisite eyes. They seemed so passionate, so wildly untamed, yet harbored a sense of mourning, a deeper sorrow then I felt I could, or would ever understand. They burned right through me, filling my soul with so many nameless emotions. I shied away from His stare, fearing what would happen if I continued to gawk at His face. I turned my attention to the rest of Him, absorbing His every feature. He was tall and stood with such a refined, dignified posture. His lean frame commending His apparent musculature. Dressed in shades of crimson and black, He appeared ever the dark, brooding gentleman He was.
"Mademoiselle, did he harm you?"
Realizing that I had been standing there dumbfounded for countless minutes, I made a weak attempt to answer Him.
"No…no, I don't think so," I managed to whisper. He strode closer, and for a moment a sense of panic rushed over me. Remembering all at once the horror stories I had been told of Him, I cowered shrinking back against the wall. I was greatly relieved when He gently took my hand and led me away from the lifeless body that lie before us. We walked in silence. I continued to stare at this phantom, completely entranced by the elegant movement of his legs, the gentle billowing of his cape as we navigated our way though the halls. Abruptly He stopped, and I nearly ran into Him. He released my hand and proceeded to help me adjust my dress, making it as presentable as possible. He smoothed out my skirts with a leather-clad hand and reached up to tame my waves, completely askew from the incident. He paused, His hand hovering mere inches from my face. I closed my eyes in anticipation of His touch. What would it feel like? I found myself wondering. I heard a rough sigh, and my eyes fluttered back open. He was now turned away from me, head bowed, slinking down His shoulders.
"Thank you," I could barely hear the words as they escaped my throat. "Thank you, Monsieur. You saved my life."
He turned His head to meet my gaze. "Perhaps you should be more cautious next time and not wander the corridors of my Opera House unattended," He snarled. "I cannot be bothered every time you are in need of a savior, Mademoiselle deCapriana."
Before I could offer my apologies, voices bounced around the walls. Obviously startled, His head snapped back up, looking over my shoulder. Keeping His ever calm and cool façade, He raised a finger to His lips, silencing my attempts to form coherent sentences. I glanced behind me, indeed someone was coming.
"Mons.." I began, but He had already vanished.
"Alessandra! Where have you been? La Carlotta is screaming for you! Do hurry, we have only a few moments before the curtain rises," Charlotte's familiar face appeared at the end of the hall, hurriedly motioning me to follow her. I obeyed and burst into a sprint, following her back to the dressing rooms.
After the sheer chaos that erupted backstage and my frenzied hands rushing to apply everyone's makeup, my cozy room was a comforting sight. I closed the door and leaned my back against it. Pushing a damp lock of chestnut from my face, I exhaled heavily. Mere hours before, I was in this very same room, nearly bored to tears. Nothing more exciting happening then deciding between what skirt I was to wear tonight. That was before Him.
My attention turned to the mirror. Transfixed, yet admittedly frightened with my own curiosity, I approached it once more. My encounter tonight had definitely left me with some questions. I cringed, thinking of what would come of the discovery of the stage hand's corpse. Was I to be blamed? Yet, shockingly, that detail seemed rather miniscule in comparison to my other encounter. Tonight, I had actually come upon the Phantom of the Opera. He rescued me, saving me from a horrific experience.
Nothing was what I expected. I never expected to be drawn to a phantom, to a murderer. How could I believe Him evil? Evil did not have such enchanting eyes, evil did not speak with such a melodic tone. Evil did not possess a face that flawless. Well, half a face.
My figure was so close to the mirrored surface, nearly touching it. The very tip of my nose grazing the cool glass. I strained my eyes, trying, with no avail, to look through the mirror. Hoping, praying for a glimpse, just a glimpse! of Him. I longed to know more of this phantom. To feel that sensation of falling, falling endlessly when He peered at me through those spectacular eyes. I shuddered. My mind was instructing me, screaming at me to stay away from Him. What do you want from a monster? It taunted. What could a monster want from you? I moved away from the mirror, sinking down onto my bed. My heart, with every beat, seemed to echo His voice through my body. I closed my eyes, trying to get it to stop. But I saw Him through the darkness of my eyelids. I saw His figure. I saw His hands. I saw His mask. What hideous deformities lie under the smooth porcelain surface? What hideous deformity lie within that broken, frigid heart?