Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. Everyone knows that, except my cat.
It appears that this will be more difficult than I anticipated. I know which words I wish to begin with, but my mind will not allow the pen to write them. It is most frustrating. The walls I have created to protect myself from my dark memories are not breached so easily, I see.
I shall begin then, not with true memory, but with what has been related to me by another. Perhaps the rest will come more easily once it is started.
My father was a pig. There is no better way to describe him. He was a wealthy and influential pig, however, and so my mother married him. She herself was a lovely thing, I am told, with great musical talent. It is unfortunate that young ladies of my mother's station could only use their talents in the drawing room, and then only as another way to advertise their accomplishments to prospective suitors. One such suitor was the Comte LeMauvoisin, a man of much reputation in Rouen and the surrounding countryside. He was known for his ill temper and brutishness, and it was said that if there was a bed with a woman in it, the Comte LeMauvoisin would be in it as well. Highborn or peasant, pretty or ugly, fat, thin, willing, unwilling; it mattered not. The Comte took them all. It concerned no one that such a young and sensitive girl as my mother should be sacrificed to such a beast. It was a good and appropriate match, benefiting both families, and so the deed was done.
I do not know whether my father brought his illness with him to the marriage, or whether he contracted it afterwards, for he did not cease his "outside activities" for the sake of his new wife. All I know is that he passed it on to my mother, and through her to all of their offspring. The doctor, when he discovered that my father carried this disease, cautioned both of my parents that no children should be conceived of their union. There was, he warned, little possibility of any issue of theirs to survive, and no possibility of a surviving child being anything but defective. My mother was grief-stricken, but my father, pig that he was, took no heed, and eventually my older brother, Etienne was born.
Etienne was born perfectly formed. He was a beautiful infant, with my mother's black hair and deep blue eyes. Both of my parents doted on him, and he was the pride of the household. The only shadow that darkened their joy in their firstborn was that he was a sickly child. The doctor spent more time at the LeMauvoisin estate than he did at his own home, in the first few months of my brother's life. Fortune smiled on Etienne, however, and between the constant care by the army of nurses that my parents hired, and the expertise of Dr. Auclaire, my brother survived. And while he never thrived, he did grow into a bright and active child. My father, ever the ingrate, rather than thanking the good Doctor, taunted him about his dire predictions prior to Etienne's birth. The Doctor, now accustomed to my father's character, merely shrugged and shook his head in disgust.
Soon after it was certain that Etienne would live, my mother again was with child. She gave birth to another boy, whom she called Julien, a name decided upon before his birth. Julien, while quite healthy, had a hideous malformation of the right side of his face, a legacy of the foul infection which resided in his mother's body. My mother fell into a faint at the first glimpse of her new son, and when she revived, she grew hysterical until the infant was removed from her presence. She never was heard in future days to utter the child's name, but referred to him as "That Monster".
And, yes. I am that pitiful misbegotten child. My name is Julien LeMauvoisin. I am a great liar, for I have always known my name, but have chosen "not to remember" when asked. I do not speak it easily, for it tastes like bitter bile on my lips. It causes much chagrin to write it, as well, although I must from time to time. I detest the name just as much as my dear mother did. I chose the name Erik from an adventure book I read as a child. I liked the name because it sounded strong and brave, and not at all like some one who could be beaten, despised and neglected. I have been Erik ever since then, and in my mind that is truly who I am. But, I digress.
I am told that I nearly starved to death in the first few weeks of my existence. My parents could not keep a wet nurse in the house. They would take one look my horrible face, and leave. Fortunately they finally found a young girl who'd just lost her infant, and who had no husband and no prospects. They settled an enormous sum of money on her, and she agreed to stay, on the provision that the monster's face be covered in her presence. And so mother's nurse took one of my bonnets, turned it backwards and cut it in half, lengthwise. She then poked an eyehole in it, and voila! I was presented with my first of a life time of masks. I am told that my mother did visit me daily. She would come at the midnight hour when the flickering shadows cast by candle light obscured, at least partially, the hated child. I do not humor myself by thinking that she came out of any love for me. Rather, she came to make sure I was being fed and taken care of. She was mortified to think of what her friends and peer would say about her if a child of the LeMauvoisin family should die of starvation and neglect amidst all of the opulence. As soon as I was weaned, she never came again.
After my birth, there were three more children born to my parents. The next was a little girl, misshapen and grotesquely formed. She lived but three days. Then came a boy, another grotesque, mercifully born dead. It was impossible to tell what sex the last child was, so deformed it was, and this time neither the infant or my mother survived the birthing. I was old enough at this time to know of her passing, but I recall no emotion attached to the loss. I never knew her. I was the Monster she kept hidden away from her, and avoided at all costs. My mother was a ghost to me long before she died.
My father evidenced no grief at the loss of his wife. He merely redoubled his swinish activities, free now to engage in them in his own home. He paid no mind to me except on some occasions when he was entertaining one of his lady friends. Then he would drag me out, have me unmask and then perform like a trained monkey. Sometimes my pathetic antics would be met by raucous and humiliating laughter, but all too often the guest would erupt into shrieks of horror. This displeased my father, and he would beat me into insensibility. The only time I can recall my father touching me was when he beat me.
And so I learned at an early age, how to become invisible. I kept to my small attic room during the day, and would not venture out until all other occupants of the house were asleep. I eventually learned all of the odd little cubbies and hidey holes that old houses harbor, and at the sound of my father's footsteps, I could swiftly disappear. I became stealthy and silent in my movements, and spent my nights exploring the huge old manor house. I especially loved the library. It smelled of dust and well oiled leather, and its walls were lined with wonderful, fascinating books. I spent hours pouring over them, looking at the pictures, and trying to puzzle out what the print might say. Sadly, no one had ever bothered with the Monster's education, or anything at all beyond his basic physical needs….I could not read anything in those marvelous books. Not even a word.
That, then was what my early years were like. I lived like an animal amidst great opulence, with no one to care for me. While my brother Etienne was granted every consideration and entitlement, I was abused, neglected and despised. I could not read nor write, had no inkling of the outside world, and knew nothing better than the wretched life I was subjected to. I cannot imagine what the outcome of that existence would have been, had it not been for Henri.