Disclaimer: I don't even own a copy of the soundtrack.

Hello all. First of all, WHERE ARE THE REVIEWERS! I got one review for the last chapter, and it was from a friend I know personally. I CANNOT BEGIN TO TELL YOU HOW DISCOURAGING THAT IS! It's a writer's worst nightmare. I want to know what you guys think about my work, and I can't improve if no one tells me something is wrong. So REVIEW! Or I will have to punish you. Ha ha ha joke. But seriously, it would work wonders on my self-esteem.

Second of all, I'm sorry if I can't update as quickly as I would like for the next little while, as the choir I'm in is staging an opera that will premiere in June (me and my friend have so many POTO-related inside jokes about it, it's not funny. Well, it is funny, since it's a joke, but I mean like we have so many its insane. Like the Phantom. Hahaha . . . oh, forget it), and we are practicing like a chorus possessed. Also, I know I have problems getting inside Erik's head and making it sound real, but I've never been a genius, I would know what it's like. So don't murder me.

Oh, I should clear something up. As you all know, this is Kay/2004 movie based. When I say that, I mean that I follow Kay's story up to the point where he is with the gypsies. Then I switch over to the movie. Erik's face is only half disfigured. I'm sorry if this is disappointing for anyone for any reason, but the movie is what first introduced me to the story of the Phantom, and it is the version I am most comfortable with. I'll be keeping some elements of Kay though, for example Erik is still a walking talking apothecary.

I'm also sorry this note is so long.

Chapter 3: The Boufard family

On his third day in the Boufard household, Erik was strong enough to leave his bed and walk around the house. For the first time of his life, he awoke at eleven o'clock. I don't think I have ever slept that long. He thought. He searched his room trying to locate a shirt. After fifteen minutes of looking, it became quite clear he was going to have to venture out of the paneled sanctuary to find clothes.

He slipped out the door and into a short hall. There were two other closed doors to his right. He walked soundlessly as always and silently opened one. Even as he walked, pain seared in his chest from the three broken ribs and the long cut from the broken wood, but it was nothing he hadn't felt before.

The room was obviously belonging to Henri. It was a humble little place, with a double bed, a chest of drawers and a bookshelf. Erik noticed a picture frame on the chest of drawers and went for a closer look. It held a little pencil sketch of a woman he assumed was Mme. Boufard. She was sitting in a wooden chair, looking lovingly but almost sadly at an infant in her arms. It was so well drawn, so simple yet full of emotion, it reminded Erik of some of his own art. But they must all have been destroyed by now.

A pang of sorrow struck him, and he looked away from the drawing and quickly snatched a shirt and a clean pair of pants from a drawer. A he passed by the bookshelf, a copy of The complete works of Edgar Allan Poe seemed to vanish on its own accord. It would be something to amuse himself with anyway. Who knew how long he would be here? And it would be difficult to creep around the house unnoticed, even for him, because there was child living there. He remembered for his own childhood, when he had still lived with his mother in her house. He had learned all the hiding places in that old place, so he could simply disappear when anything was wrong. It was quite possible the little girl had done the same.

After changing his clothes in the guest room he had been staying in for the past few nights, Erik wandered out again, wishing to explore the house. He walked back into Henri's room. He avoided looking at the pencil sketch for fear it would allow too many memories to surface on the pond of his mind. He made his way over to the window and observed the street below through a gap between the curtains.

He was on the second storey of a small building, looking out at a middle-class area. Children played in the road. Women with bags of shopping hurried on their way. Horse-drawn wagons trotted along as the driver called out at two boys to get out of the way. Everything looks so peaceful. Erik thought to himself as he stared stolidly at a happy couple who were taking a walk across the road. As if nothing ever happened . . .

Cursing at himself for being jealous, he turned away and began to search for Henri. Only as he watched a man come out of the bakery down the street with a fresh loaf of bread did he realize he had barely eaten in five days.

Erik was struck by curiosity again once he saw the half-open door to his right. he peered in, telling himself he was only looking to see if Henri was inside.

It was a messy place, in contrast to the well-kept room next-door. The two single beds were unmade, and paper and books were thrown all over the bare wooden floor. It was strangely dark in the room, as the only small window was covered with a dark curtain. He took a step toward the middle of the room and picked up one of the papers on the ground. Turning it over, Erik could tell it was a drawing by the same artist who drew the picture in Henri's bedroom. This sketch depicted a girl who was quite obviously Genevieve. He round little face and almond-shaped eyes showed that the girl seemed to be angry and sad; almost to the point she looked older. It bore a startling likeness to the real girl and Erik found he could not tear his own eyes away from her dark gaze. It was like the artist had captured a bit of the subject's essence and had magiced it into the pencil.

He moved his head, but no matter what he did, the pencil-Genevieve's eyes followed him, never breaking contact. It disturbed him. It was as if the sketch was really an evil spirit of some sort, trying to get into his mind and drive him past the point of sanity. A few minutes of looking at it was torture, but he could not move away . . . those eyes paralyzed him . . .

Finally, he tore the paper in half and fled the bedroom like a prey from a predator. Erik stood outside the door, catching his breath. He wondered who drew with such penetrating emotion. That room was clearly Genevieve's and that other girl, Madeline's. It was disturbing, the thought of a child creating something so terribly moving.

But what about the thing I made when I was young?

He tried to shake the idea from his head. He had to find Henri. Yes. That's what he had to do. Find Henri.

He walked down the hall and into a little kitchen. It was empty. He saw a stair case in the corner of the room. It lead to another door.

Past that door, the sat a quaint little shop that took up the whole of the ground floor. It was a shoemaker's shop. The walls were lined with shelves of footwear of all kinds. In the center of the room, Henri was hunched over his work, back on to Erik. Erik coughed. The other man jumped and turned around in his chair. He put his hand on his heart and took a few deep breaths.

"Sweet mercy, Erik, you're quiet. I never even heard the door close. Is there something you need?"

Erik stood there silently. His mind raced. It had been so long since he had asked anyone for anything, he found he did not know how. There was an awkward moment and then Erik finally spoke. Unfortunately, his speech was disjointed, and he cursed himself in his mind for sounding so stupid.

"I . . . it has been a while since I last . . . well, five days . . . I hate to interrupt your work but . . . I just felt a bit . . . well . . . "peckish""

"Oh!" Henri slammed his palm against his forehead "I'm sorry! What a terrible host I am, letting my guests grow hungry. You must be absolutely famished. Here, follow me, I'll fix some lunch for us both."

Henri put a "closed" sign on the door of the shop and lead Erik up to the apartment again.

"Do you like beef stew?" Henri searched through the cupboards frantically. "It's a bit cold, but it's the only thing I have. It's left over from dinner last night. I could warm it up in the oven for a minute or two." After the meal was heated up, he set two bowls on the table and poured them both some of the steaming stew. The men settled down to eat.

A few minutes of silence was shared, until Erik had the courage to ask a question.

"Where is Genevieve?"

"At school. She would be home for some time yet because after school she's going a friend's house to play."

"How is your other daughter?"

"Still in the hospital, I'm afraid." The man sighed. "She is not faring well. Her foot was very badly injured in the accident at the opera, and it is not healing properly." Erik stiffened at the mention of his old home. Henri looked up. "Erik? May I ask you about your face? I covered it once I brought you home. I wasn't sure what the story was behind it. I knew I wasn't a burn from a fire."

Erik grunted.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to offend." Henri said quickly. "Well, I should be getting back to work. If you need anything, just come and ask me. Feel free to read any of the books in my bedroom. I'll be back up in a few hours." The man hurried down the stairs.

As soon as he heard the door slam, Erik left his bowl half-full and marched to his bedroom. How dare he! He thought angrily. That is information he does not need to know. He threw himself onto the bed in the guest room.

Why did I get up today?