Hi! Sorry that this is one day late, but life and other stuff got in the way lol :-) I hope you all like this chapter. I enjoyed writing it, a bit from Erik's perspective! So read on!

Chapter Two:

ERIK

Paris, March 13th, 1881

Erik's POV

A flash of light. Bright, burning light that would turn you blind in an instance. The sort of light where, even though it's illuminating, it's so overwhelming that you'd be better off in darkness. But still, against my wishes, the light stays. Remorselessly.

That damnable light reveals no surroundings, just people, and not even four fully formed people, just Juliette Destler, my mother. Her optimistic, vibrant blue eyes. Her flowing blond hair. Her petite frame.

My father is also there: Victor Destler. Intelligent, thoughtful green eyes – the ones I've inherited. His black-framed glasses. His towering height.

They stand huddled together. My mother's hand is clasped tight in my father's, shaking uncontrollably. Her eyes blinking arbitrarily, a cross from disbelief and fear. My father stares down to the ground for a few minutes; he is frightened. This is the first time I have ever seen my father frightened; he told me never to be scared, never to be afraid. He said those emotions were reserved only for the weak.

He told me that I must never be weak. That I always should be strong, even in moments of doubt.

Like this one.

Although he is showing signs of those forbidden feelings. Though I am not simpleton. He has every right.

I watch, my breathing rapid and raspy, as my father's eyes lift slowly of the ground. They close fully until his head is level. He then stares straightforward into the eyes of –

Of –

Him.

The intruder.

The man in black.

The man in black with a gun.

He wears a full-face mask, which makes him look bloodcurdling. Petrifying. I feel as though I might be sick. But I can't be sick; can't make any noise. For he'll see me. And he'll come for me.

He stands tall, approximately four inches higher than my father. He his dress in black, with his aforementioned mask. I can't make out any identifying features. This man could be anyone. He could be a thief, a murderer, or even the Devil Incarnate. Who knows? I certainly don't.

But the man's person does not matter. He is here with a gun. A device which could kill me and my family.

And I can't live without them. . .

We are in a little village near Rouen named Le Petit-Quevilly, where I have spent my entire life. I was born sometime in July – the twelfth, I think; a date near that perhaps? – in the small house on the end of the market street, the year being 1859. I was – am – Juliette and Victor Destler's only child. I have often heard loud convocations between my mother and father about another child; and I grew scared that someone may replace me as a son to my parents. That they would willingly trade me for another person. I had one confronted them about it, when I was around six years old:

"But Juliette! We cannot have another child!"

"Victor, oh of course we can! Erik is lonely; there aren't many children around his age in the village, and I am positive that Erik would revel in the delights of another sibling, as would we, Victor –"

"Juliette! I said no! We shall not –"

"Mama? Papa?" I said, worry present in my voice, tears tickling my eyes. "You want another child? Instead of me? Are you going to send me away to some horrid place?"

"Oh, darling Erik, of course not! No, mon petit ange, no-one in the world could possibly make us exchange you for them!"

"But Mama, what were you and Papa –"

"Hush, ange," my mother had quickly interrupted. She wiped the tears off her face with her hand. "Now, how about a bedtime story?"

I still remember that day. It is a significant day in my sad excuse for a life.

After then, I continued to grow up for another six years, living my blissful and ignorant existence. My father himself taught me how to hunt and weld; he was the village blacksmith. I had my life paved out in front of me. I would grow up, take over my father's business when he retired or passed away, marry, and have beautiful children of my own. A family-orientated life. That's what I wanted. I wanted to live exactly as my parents had: happy and loving. I know now they had their own problems; however, I also know that they didn't want to taint my childish views on this "wonderful world".

I laugh at that now. What a life, the one I fail to remember, must that have been to state such a comment!

If I remember correctly, it wasn't long after my thirteenth birthday that the man in black first came. It was on a dark night, beneath a moonless sky, where no-one could see a thing if they stepped outside. It was pointless even trying.

We were all in Mama and Papa's bedroom; I cannot remember what we were all doing. All my memory provides in that short period of time before I saw him, was the ear-piercingly loud sound of the door flying off its hinges and smashing into the hallway, the heavy, slow yet perfectly equal stomps of someone, my mother and father exchanging apprehensive, worried, shocked looks and them silently ushering me into Mama's wardrobe, before he burst through the door.

I can still see him now. For I am there inside at this precise moment. I can barely fit in, but all my instincts are forcing me to stay put, therefore I do.

I don't know if the man in black sees me; if he does, he does not make it at all apparent. No, my vision is showing me my alarmed, horrified parents and the blank man, who is now pointing a gun at both of them.

I'm trembling. My lip is quivering. My teeth are chattering. And even though the scene before me is truly heart-wrenching and despicable, I am compelled to gaze upon the monster which holds the instrument that determines the fate of my parents' lives. . .

"Please, save us! We shall do anything you ask of us! Only if you let us live. . ." I heard my mother yelp like a lost child. Her tone of voice is one I've never heard her use before; she sounds so afraid.

"Please, you may have my fortune, what money I have, only if you'll leave us," my father is exhibiting the same quality of voice as my mother. Fearful. Restless.

"No," the man replies in a deep monotone, a voice which I swear I shall never forget as long as I live. "No," he repeats. "No, your money is not enough. Not in a million years will your money ever be enough. Therefore you shall pay. Both of you. With your lives. Leave your child without his parents. Like you did to me."

Those are the final words before the gunshots ring out, crystal clear, in the midst of my parents' cries.

One. My mother shrieks.

Two. My father yells.

Three –

"Erik!"

Her voice is loud in the darkness I am in.

"Erik!"

Her voice is one I know so well, yet choose to ignore.

Time after time.

Cry after cry.

"ERIK!"

However, this time, it is this particular cry that wakens me from oblivion.

My eyelids flutter open, and I have to blink a few times to reassure myself that this time, the situation is not the reality I'm currently facing.

"Erik, are you okay?" Mme Giry questions me.

No. Truthfully, I am not okay.

The dreams keep getting worse, night after night. I suffer from dire insomnia; but there is nothing I can do about it. Every drug Madame Giry has sought out for me; every solution has been tried, yet everything fails. Like my life.

I was inconsolable after I stepped out of the wardrobe. I screamed then fainted after discovering my parents' dead bodies. A massive part of me had died too.

Some neighbour had heard the gunshots and had called the authorities, what crappy little gendarmes they are. I had run away before they arrived. They would have wanted to question me and/or possibly detain me for their murders. For no-one would hear me out, believe I was innocent. And I had nothing left there. I was better gone.

I did not attend my parents' funerals, but I did go to their grave the night afterwards. I cried my heart and soul out and fell asleep next to it, wishing they were somehow here again. With me. Like they should've been. A family. Complete.

I was out dead in the cold when she discovered me. I did not know at first, until afterwards, when she had brought me back to the opera house and nursed me back to health. I have stayed there with her ever since, not doing any work, just living. Alone. In darkness. Where no-one knew of my presence.

In the morning, some of Juliette and Victor Destler's mourners went back to their graves, positioned next to each other, praying for their souls to be in heaven for eternity. They were all surprised and confused when they saw the red rose, the blood colour in complete contrast with the bright white of the snow surrounding them. Who put it there, they all wondered? The ghost of the Destlers' lost child, is the answer. But they never reached that conclusion.

"I'm fine, thank you."

"You were screaming, Erik. I am positive that you are not as 'fine' as you say. Are you having the dreams again?"

"I always have the dreams, Madame Giry," I respond flatly, lamenting my losses. Why is it that some people have it all but others, like me, have lost both their parents by the age of twenty-one and is living in an opera house, living a life which is only full of gaping holes and melancholy? "I have since I was thirteen; I do not sleep. I have developed techniques to survive without it."

"No human can live without sleep, Erik," Mme Giry informs me. She then looks around sharply, as if surveying our environment to check that there is no-one watching us. While her head is turned, I hear her mutter, in a regretful voice, "And it seems I am to only add to your troubles, my dear child."

"What?" I interject sharply. "How are you going to add to my troubles?"

"Oh. So you heard me." Mme Giry looks me straight in the eye, emotionless. I can already tell, from that glance along, that the piece of information she will deliver to me is one that we both will detest.

"It seems, Erik," Madame Giry starts, her words carefully chosen, "that someone has complained about the fact that you are allowed to live here for free, without doing any work in return, and that others have caught wind of this complaint, so a protest has been formed. Either let people move their starving families into the building or cast you out if you do not agree to work. I don't have to tell you which notion is more favourable to the managers."

"That bastard!" I exclaim vociferously. "Whoever he is I swear to God –"

"Erik!" interrupts Mme Giry angrily. Then, in a calmer tone: "I am not saying that it was right of that aforementioned person to have done that to you, but nonetheless I'm afraid that, my dear, I cannot help but agree with them."

"Madame Giry –"

"Erik, it has gone on too long now. You are no longer a child. You haven't been a child for almost four years. I will not allow you not do anything anymore and instead will force you to make something of yourself. Do not object to what I will say or I shall cast you out on the streets myself."

I remain silent. I am not happy with her harsh words but at the same time admittedly intrigued by what the woman has to say.

"Good, Erik. Now, one of the chorus members has left, therefore I have set you up an audition for the new place. It is tomorrow evening. I have secured the stage for you to practise now, so you must leave my company presently. The piano player is still there and will give you your sheet music. Your audition aria will be one from Faust, as that is the next opera they are putting on. I know you have heard the music and the words before so yes, you know it better than you might think. You will be successful in this audition, or I'm sorry to say this, but I will have no other choice than to cast you out on the streets. Is that clear?"

"Yes," I whimper.

"Is that clear?!"

"Yes!" I exclaim.

"Good, my boy. I shall leave you now. Good luck. I shall see you in the morning," she says, and then leaves me for good.

I can hear her footsteps in the corridor. They are loud at first, but soften as time goes on. Within thirty seconds, I can hear no more.

I have no choice but to go rehearse and audition. The process is quite sudden; I'm quite certain that, if I was actually given a choice in the matter instead of an ultimatum, I would have chosen not to participate. I shall do this only because I have to. My life would be tougher in the streets, and I'm sure my voice is terrible now; I have not sung since I was thirteen. Before. . .

No, I must not let myself think about it. I would slip back into oblivion if I did.

"No, I shall sing for them now," I tell myself, having not room for doubt or worry. I must just do this. It is my duty. Otherwise, it would be unfair to Mme Giry. I know that she thinks as me as a son, and could not lose me. And I could not lose her equally. We must remain together. . . We must. . .

I step out of bed and realize that I must have fallen asleep in my day clothes. I look down at myself. They are slightly crumpled, but still presentable.

I swiftly make my way out of the room and toward the stage.

There is no going back now.

This is the point of no return.

I included references to three POTO song titles in here, so kudos to you if you saw them! Next chapter should hopefully be up in time – our characters will finally meet! Please review, favourite and follow!