Disclaimer: I do not own "The Phantom of the Opera" nor its characters, though some of them are of my own creation, as well as this story plot. Enjoy!

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Cruelties of Man

They call me a monster, a hideous beast, a thing. At times I'm known as the living corpse, other times a freak that belongs in a traveling show. The world of man has not come far in its ever growing population, science, and acceptance towards those who are different. Whether it is of race, nationality, hell, mankind will shun you just from where one may live.

I once saw a man beaten to death in broad daylight just having a darker shade of skin. Mankind cares only for themselves, of their own petty greediness. They don't accept anyone unless you pay for it, usually with your life.

This was just so in my case.

At the age of nine I escaped to the United States of America. My mother had shunned me from birth due to a disfigurement of my face, which held a terrifying alikeness to that of a corpse. The first time I ever saw myself was when I was five years old, on my birthday. My mother thought it would be amusing to give me a mirror as a gift, although she wasn't so amused when I smashed that damned device to the floor where she was walking, causing her to step on the jagged shards of glass. I was locked in a three by four foot closet for two days after that. I learnt to hate mirrors and never cause physical pain to my mother again.

I loathed my mother, probably more so than she did me. She was a drunk and wicked woman. Many nights I would hear her come home with a new lover. Oh, how I hated her.

As for my father, I never met the man; he died in a car accident on his way to the hospital where my mother was in labor with me. I know she blames me for his death. I always wondered if he would have loved me or instead treated me with the same spiteful manner as my mother.

He was a wealthy Frenchman, a descendant of some noble family, and with his death, his fortune went to my mother. Though, he had written in his will that a rather large portion of his wealth was put in a separate bank account titled in my name. I took to heart that he loved me before he ever got the chance to see what I looked like. And I would never forget that.

I never went to school, my mother forbid it. I rarely ever went outside; even when I did it was to be at night when no one could see me. I spent my days in the attic of our home; I made that attic into such a world like no other. My mind was built into the very walls. Every nook and cranny had fallen prey to my vivid imagination and my rapidly increasing genius. I would spend days up there, not eating, not sleeping, and I knew that my mother did not care if I stayed up there for the rest of my life. From birth she wished me dead. Ever since she first laid those hazel, fear struck eyes on me she has wished that I was just some bad dream.

I've imagined what it must have been like once I exited my mother's womb. I have pictured her expression, couldn't have been much different from the looks she gave me as a toddler. I envisioned that the nurse ran screaming for her life, my mother looks down past her legs and sees the thing, the damned abomination that was to be known as her child.

Did she even hold me? For as long as I could remember she never once touched me with loving hands, never once told me she loved me, never once kissed me. Sometimes I wonder how I even survived those first few hours, let alone nine years. But I did.

I know that I was baptized, so someone must have held me. The old priest, David Karman, the only person who would willingly look upon me, would come and see me during his spare time when I was younger. He must not have had much spare time though, for I would only see him maybe a few hours of two days in a week.

David taught me what no other would. He was my mentor and father figure. And perhaps the only one closest to that I could call a friend. But his generosity did not last long. By the age of seven I found out that my mother was not only having a secret love affair with him, but she was paying him to teach me. And all that time he made it seem that he was helping me out of the goodness of his heart.

I cursed them both and never spoke to Monsieur Karman again.

Almost two years after my shocking discovery, Father David Karman left the life of priesthood to marry my mother in happy marital bliss. But that was damn near impossible since I was still in the picture.

Their greedy hearts plotted against me. Sought to kill me and steal my inheritance, so they could begin their new lives together. But I was not going to be bested that easily.

Three days before my ninth birthday I escaped from that wretched house, took what few belongings I cared for along with some clothing. Being the smart child that I was, I went to the local library and used their computers, the ones with internet access. I hacked my way into the bank security systems and found the code for my accounts. I had already stolen the bank card from a small safe hidden within the closet of my mother's bedroom.

During the night I went to a cashpoint machine and used the card, taking as much of the money that I could. Oh, the amount of money that I held in my small hands. With that much money, I was sure to be able to survive on my own. And with the card I could continue to withdraw from my account for years.

I bought a plane ticket set for America, forged a letter of my mother's signature so no other adult would question my being alone, and I was off.

I spent the next eighteen years traveling. I visited every state and once I did that, I moved on to explore the world. I found that I was greatly talented in music. In its beautiful sounds I found a semblance of peace.

Now, at the age of twenty-seven I was heading home, back to Paris, France.

I wonder if my mother is still alive. And if she is, how would she react to seeing me again?

At the moment, I am looking out on the vast waters of the Atlantic Ocean. It is midnight and there are a scarce amount of people on the deck of this cruise ship. It is cold; cold enough that I can see the white puff as I exhale. My mask feels even colder as I near my homeland.

"It is going to be greatly amusing to see the look of shock on her face when I arrive on her doorstep and claim what is rightfully mine. At least I will give her mercy by her not gazing in horror upon my face. This mask will be my gift to her." I say with indignation.

The stars are bright in the night sky. I see a shooting star, but do not make a wish. I have long ago learned not to expect my dreams or wishes to come true. To me, there is no God that is caring of His creations, or their hopes of beauty or a life of happiness.

"I am alone, and will always remain so."

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A/N: I really hope that nothing I have written has offended anybody in any way. I wrote what I felt that Erik would view of the world. What I thought that he might think or say. So please, no one take to heart my words if they seem wrong. It is just a story afterall. Thank you. Please R & R!