Author's Note: I do not own the Phantom, he belongs to Gaston Leroux. Also, I realize that the date is the same as the one from the last story but the way I figure is that he does not have track of dates and can only figure out the month and year. Afterall his time system is way different than ours. Enjoy!

June 1889

The birth of a son is meant to be a joyous occasion for everyone involved. My brother was unfortunately born into a very tense household. We all wanted to know what the newborn was going to look like and yet hoped the day would never come. It was certain that the child would look like me and my mother cried nearly everyday. I knew it would kill her to have another child like me since she almost plunged all of us into insanity since my existence.

I stayed locked in the attic during my course of severe depression and as a direct consequence, I never knew that my mother was showing or that she was even near the end of her pregnancy. During this period of my life I tore through books, reading them from sun up to sun down. I read up on everything from simple fiction stories to intense medical information about how diseases overtook and claimed their victims. I even read about readily available herbal remedies that could cure anything. The recipes made sense in regards to the healing power certain grasses had and they work with each other. To this day, I use some of these medicines that I read during those beginning years of my life. Reading had taken my mind away from the unpleasant world that I lived in and made it much easier for me to make it through that time.

I suppose it was surprising that I owned so many books seeing that they were difficult to come by and very expensive. Fortunately, my family had inherited them from a much richer relative. My grandfather who once owned the house that we resided in left his entire fortune to my father and mother. We could have lived very well with little effort for the rest of my parent's lives if my mother had not squandered the money away on my surgeries.

I nearly had finished our library when I was awoken in the middle of the night by a very frightening noise. A woman was screaming at the top of her lungs in my house. Being a foolish child at the time, I feared the worse. I just knew that my mother was getting beaten to death downstairs. Despite how much she had hurt me emotionally and physically, I rushed to her aid, nearly tripping multiple times on my way down the stairs. I cannot believe that in my solitude, I had lost track of time and had not realized that nine months had passed. This was the first time that I had left the attic. My parents had always brought food to me and so I had very little need to leave. Since I did not want to, I never did.

Running towards the sound, all I felt at that time was intense fear. As I neared the shrieking voice, it stopped. My heart leapt into my chest and part of me hoped that my mother had been killed. I was shocked and disappointed that I would let myself think like that and so I shook the thought from my head. Even back then, I held a great anger towards my mother and yet an undying love that a child has for their mother. I hated her but I hated myself more. Those were my first homicidal moments that I could think of me ever having. I was shocked at myself and immediately suppressed the feelings.

I heard the baby's cry and knew that my mother was unfortunately safe and that it had come. Calm yourself, Erik. I awaited the emotion which would tell me how the child had turned out. When I heard my father's tone as he said that it was a boy was all that it took for me to know that he was perfect.

My brother and I had an amazingly normal relationship. I think that since he had known me from the moment he was born, he was not frightened of me. All the other children would run from me but he was the only one who stayed and played with me. Of course I hated him at the same time because he was the one who my parents loved. I still locked myself in the attic nearly all day, but I would come down when I was asked to. Though that never happened very often. My parents would never ask me but my brother would.

The only time that my brother ever had refused to acknowledge me or even speak to me was when I had finally been consumed to every fingertip by insanity. He was married and had a small child.

"Erik, this is hard to say,"

"You don't want me around,"

"Er... it's not that I don't want you around but..."

"You're afraid for your children and you think that I will scar them,"

"No it's not your face...It's"

"Or perhaps that in my madness I will kill them? What a wonderful thought, but far from my own crimes. I do not kill children."

"Erik,"

"No need to sugar coat it, I will go, just know that you hurt me as noone else has been able to tonight." I was not going to hurt those children. It surprised me that my brother would go and suddenly turn against me. Back then and even now, I am certain that his wife's slithering tongue had been whispering mis-truths into his ears. She was afraid of me and she got her way. I know that I am not quite sane, but my brother would have never betrayed my right to visitation like that. His wife is one of many who increase my lust for revenge in this world. When the time comes, death will claim compensation for this injustice.

I can't forgive him either, for giving heed to her words. It hurt me more than I ever thought that my own brother's betrayal ever could. He too will burn in my fiery descent into darkness.