Well, this is chapter two.

Disclaimer: I still don't own Phantom.

Slowly I went out to meet him, taking care not to touch anything. The last thing I wanted to do was anger him. He seemed the kind not to mess with.

I entered the drawing room and found him sitting there, doing nothing but sitting.

"Mademoiselle, you may be seated if you wish." I sat down immediately. I was afraid to disobey anything he said. I kept my eyes to the floor, not feeling bold enough to look at him.

As if he read my mind, he said "Look at me." I did. "Now tell me, why exactly can't you go home?"

"Monsieur," I said quietly, "I...well, you see, the problem is that I am incurable. I have some sort of disease. But it is not a disease of physicality, it is of my mind I'm afraid." He just sat and looked at me, obviously listening. I continued. "My mother and father have never tried to help me; all they tried to do is counter it. If I yelled, they would yell back and punish me. Anything I did would always end up with a whipping from father. And no one ever knew. I've been this way ever since I was a babe so they never talked about me or showed me to anyone. They were ashamed. I would learn at home from tutors, but eventually they would refuse to see me because of my behavior.

"My father used to yell at me, asking me the difficulty of being normal, telling me to be normal. Nothing ever worked. And now I can't go home because I jumped off my balcony and escaped from home. They'll throw me in the madhouse for sure. I would rather die then go there. But they would have good reason, I am insane."

I looked back down. He was silent for a moment. Then when I heard his voice, I looked up again.

"You're not insane. The insane don't admit to it." He was silent once more. I could tell he was studying my face. "What led you here?" He asked.

"I think it's because of my parents being patrons of the opera. They come here all the time, they always leave me at home though. I wanted desperately to see it for myself. I've never heard any music except the piano playing of my sister. And that I could barely hear anyway. The only way for me to listen was to put a glass to the door."

"It seems as if Rapunzel had finally escaped her tower." He said and put his hand to his chin. More silence. "How old are you?"

"Almost eighteen." I changed the subject. "What are you going to do with me?" I asked looking up.

"Well, I'm not sure, it is ultimately your choice."

I hesitated. I didn't really know. I couldn't stay here, I would be a burden and I couldn't just expect to stay with someone I had just met. But I didn't want to go home either. The only thing I could expect for sure when I got home was my father's belt.

"I don't want to go home," I began, "but I can't stay here either." I had no where to go. I was alone.

"Do you have any relatives? Perhaps that could take you in?"

"No. I have relatives, but they don't know anything about me nor do I want them to. If they knew how unpredictable my actions and thoughts were, they would never keep me. And if I lived with them, they would be bound to find out."

I started to become confused. I stood up and started backing away. He only watched.

"Why…why am I telling…why…what…where…can…go…I…don't…can't…" I knew what was happening. And it happened whenever I got anxious or panicked.

"Mademoiselle, you are being incoherent." The Opera Ghost slowly inched his way toward me. At the time, I was quite confused and frightened. Not of him, of what would happen to me. But that made me afraid of everything else I normally wouldn't have been scared of.

"I can't…can't…" I was mumbling very quietly to myself. And I was shaking, shaking so terribly that my hands visibly moved. I stared at my hands. They were still covering in red paint. "I'm dead…dead…I don't matter."

"No, you are alive. You are still warm, you are alive."

"Alive…" I repeated. "We're alive?"

He paused. "Yes, we're alive."

I honestly don't remember what happened after that point. I woke up and found myself in the large bed in the room I was given.. The sheets were pulled up to my chin and I was warm.

I pulled my hands out to look at them. The red paint was gone.

I thought about what had happened, about my sudden panic. I felt embarrassed. I hated it when it happened but I could do nothing to stop it. I stepped out of my bed and went to the bathroom. My dark wavy hair was as rumpled as it had ever been. I tried to straighten it with my hands (I couldn't find a brush).

I finished the best job I could manage and then I went to my door, preparing to go out. I opened the door quietly and looked out. I couldn't see anyone. But then I noticed something. I could faintly hear…music. It was a sad sound, but beautiful. So filled with emotion. Much better than the mediocre playing of my sister. It was coming from one of the doors in the hallway. Of course, curiosity got the better of me and the voice that told me to leave the Opera Ghost alone was promptly quieted.

I opened the door but no one was in this one. There was another door in this room and the music was definitely coming from that one.

As silently as I could I opened the door. And I thought I opened it pretty quietly. But as soon as it was opened, although the Opera Ghost had his back to me, he spoke.

"Do you need something, Mademoiselle?"

"Well, no, I just heard the music and I wanted to listen." I said embarrassed and ashamed that I had disrupted him.

"You may listen if you wish then, there are seats over there." I closed the door and quickly took a seat. He started up playing again. He was playing the violin. The bittersweet sounds filled the room with perfect pitch. I watched him as he played, his fingers quickly jumping from one string to the next; the bow moving with grace. I was in awe. The Opera Ghost was playing so beautifully. And I wasn't even afraid of him, the notorious killer that he was.

When he finished I just sat there for a moment, then spoke.

"That was amazing. It was so emotional." I said in almost a whisper.

"Thank you, but you don't have to give me compliments."

"But you deserve them," I said back.

He was silent. Then he loosened his bow and put it back in its case, followed by the violin itself. He moved with such a grace. He spoke with the voice of someone not of this earth; he could play amazingly, creating such feelings within me; and he even moved as if he was divine.

"Everything about you seems to be beautiful." I said then instantly regretted it for he looked at me, and while I couldn't see his face, I could see his eyes and they stung me with a fury even stronger than the emotional value of his music.

"Don't ever say that. Don't you ever! How dare you! To make assumptions about me? After I helped you? I could put you right back up on that stage, I would carry you, kicking and screaming, and I would leave you there, begging for mercy, but you would receive none. Don't you ever say that again or I swear to God I'll leave you up there and let your father find you! Now go!"

Quickly I ran to the door and left him standing there, breathing heavily. I went back to my room and shut the door.

Now I was afraid. Afraid of what he said. Afraid of what I said. I wasn't even sure why he had gotten so angry.

I tried to put myself in the same position. If someone who didn't know me said I was beautiful in every way, I would feel…I would feel angry myself. Because they wouldn't know of my disease. They wouldn't know my faults and my disfigurements. Granted, they were all disfigurements of the soul. And then I understood.

Something about him must really hurt him; something about him causes him grief and misery. Was that the mystery of the mask? I told myself I wouldn't bring it up again, unless he did.

Several hours later, I had a knock at my door.

"Come in…" I said in a small voice, pulling my knees up to hug my arms around them. It was him.

"Mademoiselle…" he began. "I apologize for my earlier outburst, it was quite rude of me." He said, obviously saying this only for my benefit.

"No, Monsieur, it is entirely my fault. It wasn't my place. It was too bold of me." I put my head down so I couldn't see him. "I wouldn't blame you if you threw me out right now." A few tears slipped out as I looked back at him. His eyes softened a bit but then went back to their original state.

"I have no intention of doing any such thing." His voice became less forced. "Now, you haven't eaten for hours, I'm assuming you're hungry?"

I hadn't thought of that. Then come to think of it, I was hungry. "Yes…"

"Come with me." I followed him and after a lunch of bread and butter, I felt a lot better.

"Aren't you going to eat?" I asked.

"I'll eat later." He replied, crossing his legs. He sat across the table from me and it was a bit awkward eating while he watched me.

I was still curious about him.

"Monsieur?"

"Yes?"

"What…what is your name?"

"Erik." He said. I smiled. "What, may I ask, cause that reaction?"

"Oh, nothing." What I didn't tell him was that Erik had always been my favorite name. In fact, ever since I was 12, I had wanted to name a son that.

He said nothing and continued to stare at me.

"Mademoiselle…"

I rudely cut him off. "Can you please call me Roxanne? No one does anymore, not even my own parents. They don't…talk to me."

"Roxanne…" He said, testing the name out. "Roxanne, I was wondering, what do you plan to do with your life?"

No one had ever asked me that question before. I guess it was assumed that I wouldn't do anything with my life. No ever thinks a lunatic is better for anything than to sit in a room all day.

"Let me ask another question, if you could do anything with your life, what would it be?"

I thought about this for a moment.

"I want to be a painter." I stated, looking at him.

"Ah, so we do have an artist here. Actually, it doesn't surprise me, many great artists, musicians, and writers had similar problems as yours. Such as Michelangelo, Tchaikovsky, and Mary Shelly."

I had heard of all these people from my studies. But I didn't know this. Strangely, it made me happy. To know that I wasn't alone in this vast sea of emptiness. A smile crept onto my face.

"Why this time?"

I complied. "It makes me feel better, to know that I'm not the only one."

"My dear, of course you're not. There are plenty more people out there, Beethoven, Handel, Charles Baudelaire, Edgar Allen Poe, for heaven's sake even…" He stopped abruptly. "Well, yes, I think I've listed quite enough for you to understand."

I didn't think anything of him stopping like that then. I just was thinking about the names he did list.

"I'm not alone…maybe if I go to heaven I'll meet them."

"If?" He questioned.

"I'm Agnostic." I said. His eyes looked a bit surprised. "I studied about it in a book." I explained.

"I see, I myself am an Atheist."

"Each to his own.."

"Indeed." We sat there in silence.

"Roxanne, since you have allowed me the privilege of addressing you by your name, I find it only fair I return the same privilege to you. You may call me Erik."

"Erik…" I said, trying out his name like he did mine. "I like that."

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