Chapter One:
Nicolette was left in the dark, the thundering sound of the slamming door echoing in her ears, and as she listened she felt the cold seep so deep into her bones that she doubted she would ever be warm again. She moved to the door, thinking, praying, willing, it was some sort of terrible mistake. But the door did not open, no matter how hard she banged her fists against the steel door, no matter how loud she screamed. She was surrounded by darkness, drowning in it. Tears dripped from her cheeks and between her lips filling her mouth with the taste of salt.
Hearing nothing from the other side of the door she turned her head, hoping her eyes would adjust to the darkness. But there was no light in the darkness for her eyes to soak in, there was only darkness. She groped along the wall looking, cold, damp and hard. She cried out when she touched a sharp bump on the hard stone, her finger slowly dripping with hot blood. She could feel it on her hand and it stuck to her fingers, black and sticky. She does not want to get it on her white practice outfit. It is the only one she owns.
She slid to the floor holding her arm out in front of her. She cried softly, pressing her body into the hard wall behind her for any sort of security she could manage. She heard a noise to her left and she began to tremble violently, her teeth chattering, goosebumps covering her creamy skin. Cold, sickening dread filled her body and she was rooted to the spot, trapped, a prisoner in the darkness unable to move. It was from the cold yes, but mostly fright. She waited, staring out into the darkness, her breath coming out in loud bursts. She was afraid to call out, but afraid not too, afraid someone will both find her and not find her. What if it is a stage hand, a man that works at the opera that will bring her to safety and she does not call out, letting him pass in the night?
"Hello?" she called, her voice a soft, weak, plea. She blinked rapidly, thinking she might see a shape in the distance, but it is only darkness. Complete, utter, darkness. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears still squeezing out. There was no response and she lowered her face to her knees, curling up, trying to will herself somewhere else, back in her bed, back on stage. She loved being on stage, even the little parts she had. When she danced she felt free, alive, like there was nothing wrong with the world. She wanted to be there now, dancing and happy, with the lights on her. The light, warmth, safety. She hugged her arms around herself, no longer caring if she stains her dress with her blackening blood. It would make no difference now.
She took a long, deep breath, and got to her feet, clinging to the hard stone wall behind her. If she does not push forward not it will be the end. She needs to fight while she has the strength left in her limbs. She continued to grope along the wall, thinking she might find another door, an exit, a way to the top. It is hopeful thinking, but she refuses to think of the worst, the very cold, hard, truth that she might die down here. She had a small part coming up in the next opera. She was out on the stage all by herself at one point, running around and pretending to be afraid. It was her big break, her chance to show Madame Giry that she could be a real dancer, a real ballerina. Now she had to make it back to the surface. She could not die like this, not when she was so close.
She sniffled as she moved, tears pouring down her cheeks in torrents, her arms trembling, her legs shaking. Why did Madame Giry do this to her? She didn't understand. She felt another finger get pricked by the sharp stone edges but she keeps going. If she sat down again she would not get back up and she needs to get back to the surface. She wanted to be back on stage under the warmth of light, bright candles burning everywhere warming her cold skin.
She let out a shriek when she felt a hand close on her wrist and yank her away from the wall and into darkness. She collided with a hard body, cries still leaving her throat as she feels herself being lost in a void, anchored only by this being that as seized her so violently. But a cold hand closed over her mouth, fingers pinching her nose. Her chest exploded as it screamed out for oxygen. She tried to suck in through her nostrils but fingers pinch down tightly. The palm pressed to her mouth smothers any chance she has of getting in a breath and even as she tries to struggle and kick and punch the arm around her waist, effectively pinning her arms down to her waste, proves too strong.
Her head begins to scream, her bleeding fingers sting, her lungs burn, but she cannot get in a breath, and the harder it gets to breath, the harder she fights. Her tears drip down over the large hand suffocating her and she sees white spots dotting the blackness around her. As her vision begins to fail her head feels like it is enlarged, her lungs like they have burst in her chest. Her legs stop kicking, her arms stop struggling. It was as if all her power has left her body. Her brain hurts. Her body hurts. Her lugs hurt. She was still crying but weaker now, softer. The arm around her middle loosened but keeps her limp arms secure.
"Go to sleep now, child," she hears from the end of a long tunnel. "Sleep."
She does.
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He cradled her gently as he walked through his darkness, making sure her head rested against his chest. He was sure if she were awake she would be able to hear the pounding of his withered heart. Her body was so smooth and soft in his arms, he struggled to believe she was really his. He had only been able to see her in the darkness. Madame Giry had taken her torch away too soon, and shut the door before he could get a good glimpse at her face, and while he could see in near complete darkness, he was still a man, and his sight had been limited. But he knew she would be perfect for him. Madame Giry had chosen well, and he would be sure to pen her a letter, informing her of his commitment to their terms.
When he arrived at his home he brought her through the halls, his heart still pounding in his chest. He moved immediately for his bedroom and toward his bed, their bed, their marriage bed. Tonight he would have what he always wanted. The love he had always yearned for would be consummated with this magnificent creature lying vulnerably in his arms. He lay he down on the blankets, resting her angelic head on the pillows. In the light she was even more magnificent. Though her face was stained with tears she was stunning, a soft glow coming from her creamy skin.
He knew this one. He knew she was not all that skillful at dancing and singing, but she had a talent, a potential for both, something most of the girls here at the opera, whether very skilled in either dancing or singing did not possess. She had never caught his attention specifically, he merely knew of her existence, having seen her when he watched the rehearsals. She was so different than Christine and he was pleased for it. This was a new start, new life for him as a real man with a real living bride.
He reached out timidly, as if touching her would make her disappear, but he could feel her warmth at the ends of his fingertips. Still he did not touch. His hand hovered over her, the sickly yellow skin a stark contrast to hers, perfect, white, and pure. When he placed his hand on her it was to her throat. He rested his fingers on her neck, bare and vulnerable. She was so warm, so soft, he felt like weeping. Never in his entire miserable life had he ever felt such happiness, such pure bliss. He suddenly knew what ecstasy was.
When Christine had chosen to stay with him, when she pressed her lips to his mangled mouth, he had not felt joy, but overwhelming despair. She would never love him, not the way he wanted, not the way he needed. This one though, this beautiful creature sent to him by whatever higher being there might be, he would make love him. She would be his wife forever, until death took them both. She would live here with him, and die here with him here when the time came, and in between now and their death he would have happily wedded bliss with his bride.
He moved his hand down from her neck, sliding over her color bone, and resting over her heart. He felt it beating slow and steady in her chest. He wanted to lower his hand and touch her breast, the small breast of a dancer. After a moment of hesitation he lowered his hand downward to her beast, squeezing it gently, a little sigh leaving his mouth. He reached up and removed his mask, revealing his deformed countenance to the cool air. He could not help himself, he needed to feel her skin. He leaned forward, pressing his face to the side of her neck, breathing in softly.
His happiness hurt. It was so sweet that the joy that bubbled up inside of him threatened to undo him completely. He pressed his face closer to her, wanted her to soak him into her body and take the pain away. He inhaled through what should have been his nose and moved his face up toward her cheek. His mangled lips pressed to her cheek and he felt tears at his eyes. His long fingers tightened around the breast before he removed his hand, pressing it down over her ribs and resting on her stomach. He wanted to grab her and pull her to him but he thought that might awaken her.
"Oh, my angel," he breathed in her ear, tears leaving his sunken eyes. He took one of her small hands in both of his, bringing them to his mouth. He kissed it softly and held it to his face, flattening her curled up fist against his hallow cheek.
He reached down to one of the four posters of the bed and grabbed the manacle. He could not risk her running off and finding her way into the tunnels. Even he might not be able to find her before she stepped off an unfinished ledge or cut herself on one of the sharp walls. He designed the opera so he could not be found down in his home, but it also meant no one could get out. He gently snapped the manacle on her ankle, over the stockings she wore. They were slightly stained with blood, but she would not be wearing them for too long. He would present her with her new dress when she awoke, and then he would undress her.
He tore himself away from her before he lost all his self control. He had waited so long, he could wait until she awoke from her slumber. He moved over to his piano, bypassing the organ. His fingers lowered to the keys and he felt them, cold and smooth. He touched the ivory keys. They reminded him so much of her skin. He pressed the keys down, listening to the hammer strike the cord. It was a deep groan that drowned his ears, a moan of misery. He hit the keys again more gently, moving upward.
He felt tears come back to him as he hit the keys again and looked at his mask sitting before him. How long would it be before he could make love to her without his mask. How long until he could press his face to hers and not hear her weep and cry. It did not, matter he thought darkly, his heart hardening. She could cry, scream, bed, whatever it was she wanted, but he would not relent. This was no Christine. He had no reason to let her go. Her happiness was not what truly mattered. What mattered was his happiness now. He deserved it. So long living alone and in pain, hated and sneered at.
She would hate him, but he would make her love him. He needed it. He slammed his fingers down on the piano. He'd force her to look at his face, kiss his mouth, and embrace him warmly. She would sing for him, dance for him, and serve him as he wanted. He deserved it. He deserved it for the pain, for the humiliation, for everything that happened to him. He deserved it because Christine had left, he deserved it because he could never be the grand composure he deserved to be. His genius was unknown because of the ruin of his face.
He thought of Christine again and his heart split. The joy of only moments before vanished and his frozen heart splintered. He felt rage, despair, heartache. Would the torment never cease? Would he live with this aching hole in his chest until he died? Would the soft warm body of a woman be able to comfort him in his solitude.
"Hello?"
He heard a voice in the back of his mind, a soft tender voice. So beautiful and frightened, nearly a choked sob, but still it was beautiful.
"Hello?"
His fingers slowed on the keys. It was louder now, more sure, but still terrified. He had never heard that voice before. Some said you could not imagine a voice or a face you had never seen before in real life, and this voice he had never heard.
"Please! Is someone there? Why am I chained?" it was a terrified plea for help and his fingers froze on the piano keys. His heart began to pound again, his tears dried on his sunken cheeks. "Monsieur?"
She had a pretty little county accent from the south west of France. He reached for his mask, (his wig was still on his head), and he secured it to his face. He stood, his body rigid and still.
"Is anyone there?" her voice was softer now and he began walking toward their bedroom. "Monsieur?"
His body itched in anticipation.
"Please, somebody answer me," she cried and he heard her sniffle.
With one deep breath and stepped forward one last time, and turned the corner.
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A/N:
So I was really unsure which deformity I wanted Erik to have in this story, but I have decided to go more along the lines of the book with some elements of the musical, (he will be described in better detail the first time that Nicolette sees him unmasked)
Also, there will be some dubious consent in this story. So I am warning of you that right now. Erik is a very dark character that is a murderer and was nearly going to force Christine to stay or murder the love of her life. So I am not going to make Erik into a gentle man.
And thank you very much The Prince's Phoenix. I hope you enjoyed the second chapter! More soon hopefully.
Please review if you like it! Let me know what you think!