((FLASHBACK))
"Get in here you worthless little bitch, and YOU HAD BETTER NOT BE CRYING AGAIN!" a rough and calloused voice barked from down the hall.
I winced and tried my best to blend in with the rest of the filthy laundry around me. Even at my tender age of 9, I already knew what kinds of horrors that followed such a beckoning.
The skeleton-like form of my mother seemed to drift past me, as if the spark of life had already been smothered and she was nothing more than a husk of a human being. Her blue eyes used to glimmer with soft kindness that seemed to be set into the very marrow of her bones, but now they only reflected the only emotions she had left to cling to- quiet, contained, but terrible fear and unfathomable despair.
Her name was Jaime, which means 'I Love', which was exactly what she did. She loved. She loved anyone and everyone she ever knew. My mother had the face of an angel, with her strawberry blonde hair, crystal blue eyes, fair skin, and slender, but fairly tall frame, and the patience of a saint. Her heart was as big as an ocean, people would say. She loved and lived with all her vast heart- until she met Mitchel Whitkliff. The man who stole her essence, love of life , and very soon, her life as a whole. But I, being only a naive little girl, didn't know this until it was too late.
My mother, Jaime Reinhardt-Whitkliff, glanced at me as I watched her with tear-filled eyes. My tears seemed to be screaming, along with my whole being: 'Why? WHY DO WE SUFFER LIKE THIS? WHY?' She paused, and as if she already knew this would be our last moment together, she reached over and smoothed my dark brown hair out of my mis-matched eyes with a tiny sad little smile on her pale, bruised, and battered face. Then she continued on her seemingly long walk down the hall, where she was followed by a small child-sized shadow who clung to her skirt as if for dear life.
But before she opened the door that lead to Mitchel's room, my mother gently took my hands off of her skirt and silently pointed to the hall way closet, for me to hide in. "Stay here, Ari. No matter WHAT you see or hear, PROMISE me you will stay in here until I come to fetch you." she hissed so lowly I had trouble hearing her. I nodded dumbly and sat down on the cold floor of the closet.
My mother opened her mouth, as if to say something, but apparently she hadn't been fast enough for Mitchel's liking, as he bellowed "WHORE! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? DON'T MAKE ME DRAG YOUR SORRY CARCASE IN HERE MY SELF!" With such a look of anguish and finality, my mother closed the door and left me alone in the close darkness that seemed to suffocate me.
That last look of pure pain and defeat was the last I ever saw of my mother again. I never heard a sound come from her, only Mitchel's furious grunting, his curses, and the sound of something glass breaking.
Then there was that horrible, never-ending silence. I don't know how long I sat there, hugging my knees in the dark, but I was nothing more than an insanely thin frame of skin and bones when the landlord came to our apartment to collect the past-overdue rent. He found both my mother and Mitchel dead. But before he came, I had found my 'inheritance'. A medium sized object had been next to me. A violin case with the instrument still inside. Engraved in the case were the initials: A. R.. My absent father's initials.
((End flashback))
When Madame Giry had taken me from the orphanage to the opera house, she introduced me to Maestro Meyer, who immediately began to teach me how to play the violin. I had already knew some basic songs by ear, but he taught me how to sight-read the notes. But others in the opera house didn't and still don't really like me, they think me strange and abnormal because of my eyes. My eyes are mismatched. My left is as pure a blue as my mother's once where, the other was a deep dark velvety brown. I was quiet when I first came to the opera Populaire, and I pretty much still am, so my shyness kept me from making friends for a long time. Added to my 'weird' eyes. But I eventually did make friends who I still cherish deeply. My great friends are Meg Giry and Christine Daae. They alone seem to be capable of true kindness.
So I knew the kind of pain and loneliness that the Phantom felt, I had felt it for nearly all my 19 years. If only I could get close to him though.. Little did I know after I'd left Madame Giry's room that night, it would be another 3 months before I saw a glimpse or heard a single whisper about or of my dear Erik. 3 months until the night of the Masquerade Ball.