Chapter 7: Gypsy caravan, Spain, 1865

"Get up, boy."

A blinding light penetrated his troubled sleep and he groaned in protest. The boy yelped as the man kicked him in his side, forcing him to awaken once more to the hell he was living in. The youngster opened his swollen eyes and they painfully adjusted to the bright sun. He took one steadying breath... he gagged.

The stench of the cage was debilitating. The humid, unforgiving heat caused the filthy straw under him to reek horridly. Tears stung his eyes and his nostrils and lungs burned as they craved fresh air.

The huge gypsy threw him a piece of stale bread that the child knew was supposed to last him the whole day…maybe longer. He gulped it down, wincing as it scraped his raw throat.

Oh… how he yearned for water…just one sip of the liquid…

"C-Could I… h-have some water?" the boy's voice was as soft and gentle as a mouse's squeak.

The simple request immediately earned him a strike on the face. The man grabbed him by his hair, causing him to cry out. The older male tightened his grip, boring his beady black eyes into his victim's agonized, scar-riddled face.

"Water?" The gypsy snarled as if the child had asked for gold coins instead of a drink. "You're not satisfied with what I gave you boy?"

The boy was hit again. "You want something more?"

"I-I'm s-sorry-"

"Shut up you dog!"

The child's stuttering was abruptly silenced as he was cuffed on the mouth… his master flung him into the corner of the cage. The man kicked his ribs and dug his heel into his gut. The gypsy once again grabbed the boy's dark hair and jerked his head up to stare him full in the face.

"I will teach you to be ungrateful." He sneered.

The man pulled out a wickedly curved dagger from his boot and placed the serrated edge onto the right side of the boy's face, digging it into the broken skin.

The trembling child gasped. "N-no! Please! I p-promise… I won't ask f-for anything more!"

His cries fell on deaf ears. The brawny man stood over the child, his wide, ugly mouth breaking into a terrible grin. The gypsy dragged the knife down the child's gaunt, deformed cheek…the corner of his pale lips…carving into his disfigured face…blood…

"NO!"

Erik gasped for air as he shot out up from his bed.

"Stop! Get away from me!"

Erik franticly searched around his cold bedroom waiting for the attacker to continue his torture…only to realize he was in his cavern…alone. Erik clenched his eyes shut, trying to steady his erratic pulse and breathing. His entire body shook and ice-cold sweat trickled down his body in rivulets. He gripped his sheets fiercely, as if they were his lifeline to sanity.

'Breathe man…just a memory…a horrible memory...'

Erik swung his long legs over the side of his mattress, knowing full well he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. His exposed face stung from tears shed in his subconscious state of suffering.

"Another nightmare…" Erik whispered, afraid to admit it even to himself.

'As if you wouldn't be used to them by now…' A tormenting voice hissed unfeelingly.

Angrily, Erik thrust the heels of his hands into his eyes, forcing the tears to cease. He licked his lips, attempting to stop the already flowing tears from entering and polluting his mouth.

He tasted blood.

The metallic taste teased him and he placed a finger on his lip. He winced as he felt the sticky liquid. No doubt he had bitten it in his sleep and now the soft tissue was bleeding unrestrainedly.

Wearily, Erik stood up from the edge of his bed, making his way to his vanity. It only held the simple necessities; a small wooden cabinet, a porcelain wash basin, and a few cotton cloths. He soaked a worn cloth in the basin, wiping away the sweat from his face and neck. He shivered in the chill.

"Shut up you dog!"

"N-no! Please! I p-promise… I won't ask f-for anything more!"

Erik sighed heavily. The screams in his nightmare continued to haunt him even after he came back to the present.

'Just make it stop…'

He opened the cabinet and pulled out a tiny glass partially filled with a white powder.

'Morphine…' The faded label read.

He twirled the bottle in his fingers, contemplating. Erik hadn't ingested a substantial dose in several weeks, and though the withdrawal had been… uncomfortable, he had been able to keep from taking the powdered stuff to help him sleep.

'Don't fool yourself Erik…you know why you can't sleep,' A sensible voice spoke. '…Fear…guilt...'

'A few spoonfuls won't hurt…' Another voice, far more sinister murmured, 'No one cares…'

'Antoinette…'

'She will never know the difference…'

'You promised her you would give it up…you have restrained yourself this long…'

Erik slammed the cabinet shut, silencing the confliction within. He faced the glimmering mirror that was on the cabinet door, frustration building up in his reservoir of deep, passionate emotions.

The scarred portion of Erik's otherwise flawless features stood out starkly in the candle-lit cave that served as his personal bedroom. He glanced at the thin, pale scar that lined his jaw line and curved up to the corner of his lips. His lifelong deformity had earned him countless scars that comprised his entire physical being…but they had scarred him more than physically.

Oh, how he hated his image. It had taunted him every moment of every day he had lived.

Erik's emerald-colored irises became a pale red tint and his ink-black pupils narrowed to sharp dagger points.

'This face, the infection which poisons my life…will never cease to be my curse…my punishment for the sins I have committed…'

Erik turned away from his reflection, bile rising in his throat at the sight of his horrid face. Forgetting the morphine, he quickly moved back towards the inner chamber of his room. He didn't need another shattered mirror.

Forcibly, Erik averted his attention to the performance and following gala that evening. He glanced at the small, old clock ticking ominously atop his night table. It was several minutes past seven. Hannibal was to be performed in less than an hour.

Erik sighed heavily, an agonized moan passing through his lips.

"What's the point?" He grumbled to himself, "It's only Carlotta's disgrace blown up to glamorous proportions. She can't sing a decent note, much less an entire opera."

Nevertheless, something pulled him to don his dark attire and attend the festivities. Whether it was his love for music or his stubbornness as Le Fantôme de L'Opéra he didn't know.

He decided it was probably both.

Besides, who knew what those idiots above ground were doing. He needed to make sure they didn't make this performance a complete disaster.

Erik heaved open his massive mahogany armoire, swiftly snatching several dark-colored garments. He hurriedly dressed, an unusual excitement surging through him, pushing him to hasten to the surface. Perhaps tonight would be different. Maybe something pleasant would happen for a change.

Something told him it didn't hurt to hope for such a thing.

"Mademoiselle?"

Christine groaned, her deep sleep interrupted by a muffled voice.

"Mademoiselle Daaè? I'm sorry to wake you, but Madame Giry sent me."

'Madame Giry...' Groggy, the young woman hardly comprehended what was happening. 'What is she doing in Marseille...?'

Another knock resounded throughout the room.

"Please let me in, miss. The opera will begin soon."

'Opera?...Paris!'

Christine jumped out of bed, all the previous events of the day rushing upon her like a flood.

"Just a moment!" she called, searching for something to cover herself with. Grabbing a shawl hanging on the bedpost, she padded barefoot to the door. The doorknob refused to budge in her hand.

"Oh, where is that key?"

Her senses still half-asleep, Christine hunted for the skeleton key in a frenzy.

"Where did I put it?"

"Mademoiselle?" The individual on the other side of the door inquired softly.

'The nightstand…'

Franticly, she rushed over to where Meg had placed the key next to her reticule.

"Just a moment, I found it! I'll be right- Ow!"

"Mademoiselle, are you alright?"

The harried young woman limped and muttered angrily as she unlocked Antoinette's troublesome door.

Christine was met by a tall girl of about fifteen or so standing next to a very young boy. Both looked at her with confusion and slight apprehension on their faces.

"Err…I ran into a…chair."

"Oh. I'm sorry, miss." The girl stated reservedly, still unsure if this clumsy woman could be in any way connected with the prestigious Madame Giry.

Silence ensued.

Christine was rubbing her shin and her hair was anything but presentable. She knew she must have looked like a madwoman. She cleared her throat, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"I am Christine Daaé. Antoinette sent for me?"

"Antoinette?" The older girl asked, blankly.

"Oh, that's right you wouldn't know her real name," Christine giggled, attempting to convince the two adolescents she was in her right mind. "Madame Giry."

"Oh yes! She wanted us to wake you and give you your things." The girl piped up, the previous awkwardness forgotten.

"My things?" It was Christine's turn to be confused.

"Yes, your luggage, miss. Dietrich has it here."

Christine turned to look at the small boy holding her threadbare carpetbag. She stared at the two incredulously.

"B-but that was at a boarding house miles from here! How did you get it?"

The girl shrugged.

"She sent a stable hand a few hours ago to pick it up. The Madame has her ways I suppose."

"Antoinette knew where I would be staying," Christine murmured. She shook her head, amazed. "That woman never ceases to astonish me."

"The Madame certainly is unique, mademoiselle. Speaking of Madame Giry, Dietrich and I had better go back on stage for final rehearsals. Will you be alright, miss?"

"I think I can manage." Christine said smiling, taking her baggage from the younger child. "Thank you so much, Dietrich."

Christine stressed the name, trying the strange sound on her tongue. The child's face spilt in a broad grin, his eyes twinkling to life.

"Handsome name for a handsome little boy. Quite unique." Christine addressed the boy directly.

"It's German." The older girl responded, "Dietrich doesn't speak much."

"I see. A man of few words. I've known a couple of those in my life. And you are…?"

"Elizabeth Lancaster. My mother and I are English. She is a seamstress." the girl rambled proudly.

"A pleasure to meet you both, but I'd suppose Antoinette will have all of our necks if I keep you any longer. I will see you tonight."

"Until tonight then, Mademoiselle Daaé." Elizabeth curtsied politely and took Dietrich by the hand.

Christine called to the girl once more. "My name is Christine. Just Christine. I've think you've called me 'mademoiselle' enough to last a lifetime."

Elizabeth laughed. "Very well then… Christine."

"Christine…" Dietrich echoed softly, glancing shyly at her.

Christine smiled, watching them scurry down the hall toward the other side of the opera house. She walked back into Antoinette's room, shutting the door behind her.