Everything felt wrong. His neck burned, and he was mildly surprised to find some cable wrapped around it. Had someone tried to kill him? Who would do such a thing? Well, they had failed, anyway. He should tell the stage manager.
Stage manager? They didn't have a stage manager, just the director.
But that was ridiculous. How could the company perform without a…
What company?
The theatre company…of course…right?
No, that wasn't right.
"What happened?" he muttered and winced as the words irritated his sore throat. Standing, he noticed that things were different somehow. He thought he must have hit his head or something because half of his mind kept trying to convince him that the auditorium was not that big. The stage was not that far away. There weren't that many seats out there. And where was the audience? Where had they gone?
Although he knew it had to be his imagination, the feeling was strong enough to scare him. He clambered out of the flies to the stage, hoping to find someone who might be able to tell him what was going on. The stage, as usual, was a flurry of activity. He might have been a ghost for all the attention the actors paid him as he hunted for Madame Giry or Monsieur Firmin.
At that thought, half of his mind set up a clamor that made him dizzy. Giry and Firmin didn't exist; they were just characters in a theater production.
That was ridiculous. Of course, they existed. And he needed to find them because-
No, that stage hand could not have just walked through him. It wasn't…
…might have been a ghost…
"Am I dead?" he whispered. "Did I die up there?"
His breath caught in his throat as he looked around at all the people. They weren't just ignoring him; they couldn't see him. He was a ghost.
Half of his mind cried out in victory at the obvious observation. It reminded him that he had been a ghost, or at least half ghost, for quite some time, now. It proceeded to explain in excruciating detail why none of this was possible.
Wonderful. Not only was he dead, but he was schizophrenic.
The part of him that seemed to know what had happened pointed out that he had learned that word from his sister, supposedly during a time when women weren't readily accepted as being intelligent enough to know psychology. It then encouraged him to compare his clothing to everyone else's.
At first, he wondered what was so strange about jeans and t-shirt. After a moment, he got it and sat down hard on the stage floor. Something had happened…now, if he could just remember what. He jumped as someone else walked through him and decided to move to less trafficked area.
No one could see him…
No one could hear him…
No one even knew he was there…
He staved off the panic by looking around. It wasn't much of a distraction, but it did tell him that no one in sight was older than eighteen. After a moment, that annoyed little voice in the back of his head reminded him that wasn't normal for anything other than a school musical.
He shivered involuntarily as the thought of voices in his head brought up the image of two ice-blue eyes. He couldn't remember why that should scare him, but it did. Seeking another distraction, he wandered around the opera house.
AUDITORIUM!
He pressed his hands to the sides of his head as a migraine threatened to blind him. It was almost as though his very personality had been fractured by what had happened…
And what had happened, anyway? He couldn't remember anything of his life before waking up on the catwalk. Had he even existed then?
That was just being ridiculous. Of course, he existed. He was…
…was…
…
He couldn't remember. He couldn't even remember his own name. He sat down near the wall in a far corner of the great hall and dropped his head into his hands. He had to remember. He just knew that if he could remember his name, everything else would come back to him. He knew everyone else's name, just not his.
But that wasn't true, either, was it? He knew the names the ghost had given them, not their…real…
Ghost? That's right…there was a ghost. And it wasn't him.
A ghost…
A boy…who fell from the catwalk…
He shivered suddenly and jumped to his feet, although he was uncertain exactly where that reaction came from. For a moment, it felt like some malevolent presence had passed by. Then it was gone again.
What had happened to him? What was he? He couldn't be human, but he wasn't ready to accept that he was a ghost. Being a ghost meant that he was dead, and he just couldn't believe that.
But did it mean that? Did it really? A fragment of thought drifted across his mind's eye of a boy's reflection in a computer monitor. White hair, black costume, glowing green eyes…that couldn't be him, but that nagging, little, thrice-cursed voice tried to convince him that it was.
Maybe he'd just been possessed. Maybe the ghost he remembered had overshadowed his body. Not that that made much sense, but not much else did, either.
And why did he even know what a computer monitor was?
The doors to admit the audience swung open, and he pressed himself against (and almost through) the wall to avoid the people. Instead of a crowd, however, he was met by the comical sight of Andre, Firmin, and a handful of stage hands carrying Carlotta around on a litter. She didn't seem to notice that her "adoring fans" were leering and jeering. He shook his head and laughed along with them; some things never changed.
Well, he certainly needed that bright spot in this dark time. Maybe there was someone here who could see him and knew who he was. Maybe they would even know what happened. He set off to find just such a person.
The voice actually waited a full five minutes before it pointed out that people didn't walk around singing at the top of their lungs socially. He firmly ignored it; while he did find that he agreed, he didn't want anything to ruin his mood. He held the thought that someone might see him in the front of mind, like a shield to ward off bad thoughts. It was a shame it didn't work on imagined voices.
Strangely enough, the silence from that half of his mind seemed hurt, but he didn't want to dwell on it. There were people. "Excuse me!" he said loudly. The two young ballerinas didn't even stop their conversation. They might even if have walked into him if he hadn't gotten nervous and jumped out of the way. The last thing he needed was a reminder about how intangible he was.
Intangible and invisible…
He firmly pushed that thought away and continued until he found Madame Giry and her daughter discussing what might have happened to Christine. Both were oblivious to his calls, naturally. He could see something not quite right about them, but it took some mental prompting before he realized that they were the same age.
No, that couldn't be right. Madame Giry merely looked young for her age.
But still…eighteen? Not even that. She was seventeen.
He shoved that thought away as well as Meg mentioned the Phantom. Something about that name rang a bell in his mind, and he was surprised to find the dissenting half in agreement for once. But that wasn't his name, was it? He wasn't the Opera Ghost.
He could almost feel the other half of his mind mentally smack itself.
Or was he?
No, that didn't sound right. The name was close, but…
Well, it was close, and it was a name. Phantom felt better for having something to call himself. He listened for that little voice, but it seemed content as well. He watched Madame Giry precede her daughter down the hall and shook his head. That wasn't right, he realized. They were nearly the same age.
Actors…
A ghost attack…
The school musical…
And a flood of senseless images that he thought, with great frustration, he should be able to understand. It made sense; it really did. But every time he thought he caught it, it danced away again, leaving him no more enlightened than before. He finally forced the images…memories away and focused on his surroundings. Did they seem a bit more faded than before?
A faint whimper drew his attention to a nearby door. He was a hero, the voice chided. He should go see what was wrong.
Now, that was ridiculous. Phantom had used that word for a lot of things to day, but that one actually applied. He was no hero; he was just some confused kid and probably dead, at that. Besides, no one could see or hear him. If the person was being attacked, all he would be able to do would be to stand by helplessly and watch. He didn't want to have to.
For the first time since he awoke, he realized that the voice in his head was having trouble remembering everything as well. That was not a very comforting thought. It seemed to know a way he could fight back, but it didn't remember how to activate it. Yet. It felt sure that it would remember once they were actually in the situation.
He argued with himself for a few more minutes and finally compromised by just poking his head through the door. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but he did know it had something to do with metal armor and green light. He decided not to dwell on it and stepped the rest of the way into the room.
It was Christine…
But that wasn't her name.
She was crying.
She never cried. She wasn't crying. Christine was crying.
He shook his head as though he could simply dislodge the unwelcome passenger. That last thought had thoroughly confused him, and the hurt silence was starting to make him angry. The voice seemed to expect things of him, and he couldn't remember why.
Forcing his thoughts away, he crept forward. "Miss Daaé?" he couldn't help but ask. She didn't react, naturally.
No, that was wrong. She was a ghost. She should have…
Christine wasn't a ghost.
Not Christine! Phantom winced as his brain registered a feeling much like being slapped on the back of the head. Christine was a character, the voice tried to point out. It was talking about the actor. However, it did concede that he was right. She wasn't a ghost. It couldn't remember what she was exactly, just that she was something close.
The voice in his head fell silent again. Eventually, he left. He hated feeling useless. Maybe the voice was right, and he was supposed to have been a hero at time.
But he wasn't anymore.