A note of reassurance: This will not be a story of faith and salvation, honest. Pere Simon is just a character I thought of to get Erik to begin his writing. Pere Simon may figure into the story later on, because I like him. He will not, however be an instrument of salvation for the Phantom. That would be cheesy.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera in any size shape or form, nor do I own its characters.
PROLOGUE
Pere Simon is an infuriating little man. He seems to know these caverns and tunnels almost as well as I, and
what's worse, he also seems to know how always to find me. Mercifully, he is kept busy tending to his flock of black sheep, and so does not seek me out often. Yet I know with certainty, that eventually he will show up, replete with offerings of ink, nibs and paper, and a mouth full of unsolicited observations and advice. Pah! What does he know? How can a priest, even a defrocked priest like Pere Simon have an inkling of the workings of my mind? I myself do not, and I have had to live with it these thirty-seven years. I do believe that the sly little priest is trying to save my soul, although I'm sure he wouldn't admit to it. How appropriate and how ironic it is! A disgraced priest offering salvation to a fallen angel. Perhaps I shall mention this to Pere Simon, the next time he intrudes. He does have a sense of humor.
Pere Simon has been annoyingly insistent that I begin to put my thoughts, memories and feelings to pen and paper. He claims that it is a most excellent means of purging my self of the demons which torment me. I have tried to tell him that I am quite comfortable with my demons, and do not wish to purge them, but of course he won't listen. How can he, when he's so busy telling me what is good for me?
The hours hang heavily tonight. I have accomplished all that I'd intended to do. I've made my nightly progress through these tunnels and caverns, and worked as much as I need to on my new aria. I've engaged in the little pastimes that usually engross me, but tonight they do not hold my attention. My eyes keep wandering to the desk, which is overflowing with unopened ink bottles, pen nibs and fresh, blank writing paper. Damn him, anyway! Perhaps I shall begin an essay of my bitter and pointless life. Perhaps if I do, I shall allow the little pest read my words. It would serve him right to have such things stuck inside his head, as they are in mine. Perhaps then he will finally leave me be. That in itself would be reason enough to set pen to paper.