Author's Note: This isn't my first time writing a fanfic. Simply the first time I've... submitted one to the public. Please be kind, but not too much. I must be critiqued! I'm not entirely sure of where I will be going with this... any suggestions are greatly appreciated. I'm trying to stray from the clique "Christine-comes-back-to-Erik-happily-ever-after" thing... because thats just not interesting.
And, of course, I do not own Phantom of the Opera.
(¯°•. X .•°¯)
Christine had lived happily ever after with her precious Vicomte, Raoul de Chagny. She was now known to Paris as Vicomtess, no longer the famed Christine Daae. She was forced to become accustomed to a new wave of rules and regulations -- who she was supposed to speak with, who she was supposed to be seen with, what she was allowed and not allowed to say.
The life of the rich and famous was not for her, she tried to tell Raoul one night, but the thick scent of whiskey on his breath forced her to bite her tongue. The innocent boy she grew to know and love had changed drastically, probably feeling that same unbearable uncertainty that she felt, thinking that intoxicating himself was the only way to rid himself of his pain. Late at night, he was violent, angry, the stench of passion and alcohol mixing together in a sickening way. Say my name, Raoul had commanded a threatening glint in his eye that sent chills up Christine's spine. When she refused, she felt the painful blow to the sides of her face as Raoul met his hand to her delicate skin, leaving bruises both inside and out.
Since then, Christine had cried herself to sleep each night, holding herself in a manner as to hide her bruises, her scars, and her pain. She was a once cherished porcelain doll now broken into pieces on the floor. She wanted so much to escape, to be free from such torture, but she assumed the worst and feared he would track her down. And if that happened...
Christine trembled at the thought, crossing her arms over her chest. It was now four years later, things just the same as they always have been. After making love to Raoul only moments ago, he was slumbering in a deep, drunken sleep, a smug smile to his face knowing that he had gotten his way. It was always his way.
And yet, for the sixth night in a row, another man's face came to mind, that haunted face. She wasn't sure why, all of a sudden, she was reminded of him. As Christine stood on her balcony, she felt an odd longing for him, wishing he was beside her now to hold her. Gentle tears rolled down her cheeks as memories flooded her mind, the thought of her angel, dead, twisting her heart.
She knew his body had not been found, but not a single trace of him had come across in the newspapers. A part of her wanted to believe he was dead so she could be rid of these thoughts, but another part of her wanted him to be alive. He was her last thread of hope, her light in this darkness. Something inside her screamed, begged to be heard, for her guardian was not dead.
(¯°•. X .•°¯)
Erik had lost all interest in the world. After the catastrophe in Paris, he was forced to flee his forsaken house upon the lake, taking residence in an inn near the ruins of the Opera Populaire. But soon after, the inn had been raided by police forces, fortunately while Erik was out on "errands", as he preferred to call them. These errands mainly consisted of stalking, murdering, and gambling. The normal events a malevolent man such as he would do. The infamous Opera Ghost used to be considered a gentleman, until that fateful night. Now he was exactly what the public would murmur under their breath; killer, madman, monster.
Erik figured that it was not safe, nor was it necessary, for him to live in such close proximity to the opera house. To the officer's dismay, the body of the Phantom of the Opera had failed to be found, therefore the streets were covered with forces, assuring the people that they were there for their own protection. Erik smirked at this, for he had come across many of these so-called "protectors" raping young girls in the dark alleyways, intimidating the poor and defenseless with their assumed power. They were just as monstrous as he, if not more.
Erik had taken the liberty of purchasing a house for himself, located just outside of Paris. With his funds, he was able to obtain a large amount of land, a vast meadow surrounded by a secluded forest area, a garden filled with blooming flowers, and many other pleasurable sights in which he had no use for. The house, he admits, was far too large for merely one person alone, and found that he became evermore lonely with each passing night.
This introduces Monique LaTreque. A young girl in her early twenties, Erik had come across her late one night on his evening strolls, lying bleeding and sobbing in the backstreets near his home. Clearly the victim of abuse, he took her under his wing, soon finding that the very person who had done this to her was her husband. He couldn't help but feel some sort of pity towards her and it wasn't long until she became his female companion. She was quite beautiful. Her crème colored skin was speckled with small red freckles and gentle waves of strawberry blonde hair grazed her shoulders. Her bright green eyes had flicks of gold and if it weren't for the fact that the girl was completely moronic, Erik may have found himself infatuated with her. No, she didn't serve very useful in intellectual conversation, but Monique doused the burning desire he felt each night, allowing him to feel like a real man, allowing him to become a real man.
But a voice four years later held back his lust, the sudden thoughts and memories of her, his Christine, perplexing him greatly. Why now, he questioned as he paced quickly, like a caged animal, in his library. Monique was waiting for him in his chambers, as her call echoed down the hallway in that sweet little voice that both irritated and aroused him strangely. Except for tonight. Tonight, he will lie awake and let agonizing memories of his angel, of his beloved, take hold. He will allow his tears to drip onto his lips and tongue so he can taste the salty sweetness of his own loneliness. Tonight, he will feel the warm embrace of a woman and feel, for the first time, alone beneath the bright green and gold gaze.