A/N: Sorry you guys, it's been a while so for now, I'll be setting some ground rules. I will update every Thursday, no earlier, no later. Check up once a week then and if there is no new chapter, feel free to flame. Happy holidays and a happy end of the world to you.

Chapter Nine: Where was I? Oh, Escaping!

When I woke up, I was no longer on the chair with my back crooked. Instead, I was lying down on the softest bed imaginable, with really soft, cloud-like pillows underneath my head and a warm blanket to dispel the winter chill tucked up to my chin. I raised my arms to stretch as I usually did, but found them to be tied together at the wrist again. On major bonus of this was that they were tied from the front instead of the back this time, which gave my shoulder blades some relief.

I sat up as best as I could without the use of my hands and found that my legs were untied, with was awesome for I never would've gotten that heavy blanket off of me if they were still joined together. When I had successfully kicked away the blanket and swung my legs over the side, I almost fell over. I almost did this because of the amazing amount of paper that was strewn around all over the place.

It was like someone had grabbed hold of all of the sheet music in the world and evenly dispersed it all over the floor, making it extremely slippery. I caught myself on the table and wondered just why all this paper was everywhere. Sure, there were a few pieces here and there when I was here before, but never this much.

I heard angry organ music from behind he closed door, and my curiosity heightened. I carefully turned the knob of the door and growled under my breath when I found it to be locked. I threw myself against the piece of wood in an attempt to get it too break down in a fit of anger, but it didn't work. I whirled around, looking for something, anything I could throw at it, but found that the Phantom was again one step ahead of me as everything even remotely heavy was removed from the room. The table with the pretty Persian money music box was gone, along with the chair and all of the candleholders were removed, leaving the candles to drip wax onto the floor and walls. All the paintings were gone, as well as the books that had been strewn about, which explained the paper, and he even took the sconce-holders that used to hold torches. This was impressive because they were bolted into the wall.

I growled again and body-slammed the door once more, hearing it creak in protest but stay firmly shut. I screamed in anger and threw myself back on the bed, hearing the rage-filled music stop for a moment before continuing with even more force.

"YOU CAN'T KEEP ME HERE!" I shouted towards the door at the top of my lungs but got no reply as I buried my head in one of the pillows and screamed again.

I'd been taught at a very, very young age by none other than my Mom herself that keeping anger inside of you is not healthy. Her solution; every time I was angry, as long as I didn't hurt myself, our belongings or others, I could do whatever the Hell I wanted. Then, I wanted nothing more than to scream my face off, and so I did.

I lay down on my back and tilted my head to make full use of the acoustics in the room and just let myself go crazy shrieking as loud as I could. I knew Erik downstairs could hear me and I hope that if I kept this up he'd get angry enough to at least unlock the door.

This didn't happen, and I was left alone for most of that day.

I had been banging my head against the wall, repeating the phrase "I am not afraid of you" from Drop Dead Fred –one of the movies shown in the hospital's makeshift movie theater- and hoping it would have some effect on my captor, who had stopped playing the organ some time ago, when an idea struck me. I sat back up and swung my legs over the side again, this time flopping down on the floor and picking up a random, blank sheet of paper.

I spotted a pencil across the floor and scurried over, picking it up and sitting against the wall. I attempted to hold the pencil with my tied-together hands, but found writing with it nearly impossible. It was then when I groaned in frustration and tucked my knees up to my chest that I remembered my shard of mirror. I'd tucked it carefully into one of breeches pockets to avoid detection, and it seemed as though that had done the trick, for the Opera Ghost was none the wiser.

I carefully removed it from the pocket and held it in-between my hands, angling it downward and sawing away at the ties with the sharp edge. It took a long, long time of just sitting there until the fabric finally gave way and separated, freeing my hands. I sighed in relief and picked up the pencil, my right hand moving quickly as I began to write.

In an hour or so, I was done. I folded the piece of paper in half and set it down on the night-stand that was bolted to the ground, and climbed back into the bed, closing my eyes and trying to dream up some clever escape plan. After sometime, no realization hit me and I was bored as can be once more.

I groaned and looked up above my head at the ceiling when finally some inspiration hit me. Inlaid into the cave ceiling was a ventilation system of some sort, with individual metal bars covering it. I stood up on the bed, which gave me enough of a boost to be able to brush my fingertips against the metal, but not enough to grab hold of it.

I took a deep breath and crouched down, getting all of my momentum ready and jumping as high as I could, grabbing hold of the bar and not letting go. I gave it a firm tug while I dangled in mid-air and was very satisfied when I heard the sound of the metal shifting. I dropped back down into the bed and repeated this action exactly seven more times before the bar finally came free.

I resisted the urge to shout with joy as I lifted the metal bar high above my head and went charging for the door. Just as I was about to bring the blunt object down on the door handle, I was suddenly stopped by Sixty's voice in my head.

She didn't appear before me, but she spoke in my head, her voice alarmed and worried.

"He's still out there, girl! Don't do it yet, wait for a bit!" She exclaimed and I instantly drew back my hand, albeit a little bit too fast.

The metal vent bar went flying out if my left hand and clanging to the ground, making a big noise. I didn't give myself time to think, I just reacted as fast as I could. I ran towards the bar and threw it underneath the mattress, hopping on top of it and laying down. I closed my eyes and drew the covers around me, pretending to be asleep.

Fifty seconds later, I heard a key in the lock on the other side of the door and while I wanted to run towards it, I held off knowing that the Phantom would not be as merciful as he was the last time he didn't kill me. The door burst open seconds later, and an angry Opera Ghost burst into the room.

"What are you doing?!" He asked loudly, making me slightly, no… very afraid. I tried to play dumb, making up some excuse.

"I-I'm sorry, I-I just sort of threw a pencil at the wall." I said quietly, hoping he would buy it. He raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to ask questions, but it was then that he noticed my hands were free.

An inhuman rage began to grow in his eyes, making me very afraid, and so I turned and ran across the room, picking up the shard of glass that I used to cut myself free and holding it out to him.

"H-here. The ties were cutting off my circulation." I said in a voice barely above a whisper. I didn't look at him after that, secretly glad that he'd forgotten about the metal bar issue. He said nothing more before turning and walking out the door, shutting it and locking it. I guess he must've felt bad for ridding me of all feeling in my hands, even if it was a lie.

I let out a sigh of relief before going and sitting back down on the bed. The production of Ill Muto was in two days' time when I'd come down here, but who knew how long ago that was, it felt like forever. I knew that Erik couldn't resist the chance to harass Carlotta and from what I'd seen in the theater-shaped doll house, he intended to have Christine play the role of the Countess.

I lay back down on the bed, exhaling and closing my eyes and letting myself relax and fall into an eternity of sleep.

"How is my little Annika?" Mom asked as she opened the door to the principal's office. A big grin broke out over my tear-stained face and I hopped off the seat of the wooden chair, running over to her and throwing my arms around her middle.

I was five years old when the accident happened. I'd been playing quietly with Sixty on the monkey bars when a mean little boy, I think his name was Jeremy Banks, came running over, shouting mean things at me. He talked too fast if I remember, and I didn't like people who did that, and he was also being very rude to my best friend. He said that I was a loony because I talked to myself and it was then that I heard Sycamore's voice in my head for the first time.

"Persis, don't let that nasty little boy say such things to you…" She said with a hiss to the letter s. I nodded to myself and dropped down from the monkey bars, walking closer to Jeremy.

"Stop it Jeremy." I warned in a dangerous voice and the little boy scoffed.

"Make me, nutcase!" That was the last straw.

I flew at him, brandishing my nails and pushing him to the ground. I landed on top of him and began to claw at his face, drawing blood as I ripped the skin away like Sycamore told me to do. I was blind with rage and didn't understand what I was doing until Sixty finally snapped me out of it.

She looked to be around sixteen then, and she snapped her fingers in front of my face and pulled me from my trance, leaving me to stare at the bloody mess that was Jeremy's face. I screamed, the highest and shrillest scream I'd ever screamed, turning and running away from the playground while the other little girls and boys stood dumbstruck.

I'd run into the forest, so far in that I had gotten lost. I sat down on the ground and cried my eyes out until my teacher; Miss Bence came and found me.

Miss Bence was nice, she gave me a hug and took me to the office where she picked up the old phone and called Mom, telling her that it was time for me to get some professional help in the nicest way she could.

Everybody was nice to me on the staff, except for the principal, Mr. Dent. He was mean, he shouted at me, asking me over and over again why I did it, and again and again I'd tell him that Sycamore told me to do it.

I was so relieved when Mom came into the office and took me home, where Dad was unfortunately waiting. I didn't like my Dad, be was mean as Mr. Dent, but he'd never show it around Mom.

He yelled at me when she went to bed, and called me worse names than Jeremy that I didn't understand and didn't want to. The next day, Dad took me to the mental ward in the hospital, and it was there that I met Dr. Clara Hendrix for the very first time.

She was beautiful, and she told me gently after the diagnosis that I was showing signs of childhood schizophrenia. I took this well, as she said I was special, just like Mom did, but Dad was a raging wreck.

He did everything but hit Dr. Hendrix and it made me mad, it also made Sycamore come back.

She told me to shut him up, so I did, I climbed on top of the filing cabinet in the corner of the room, leaping from it and stringing my arms around Dad's neck, trying to choke the life out of him. He pulled me off of him with ease and demanded that I be locked away.

Dad always got what he wanted and so, I was thrown into an early Hell.

I shakily woke from my memory-dream hybrid, bad memories flooding back to me as I sat up, rubbing my eyes. I felt a pain in my hand, making me hiss as a light knock that was so quiet I could barely hear it was heard on the door. I knew it was Erik, but I was scared to say.

I took a gulp of air and sigh, my voice quivering. "Come in."