Chapter 4: Shadows of the Past and the Present

Standing in the semi-darkness of the hidden corridor, Erik glanced at a small pocket watch yet again, feeling something in his chest tighten with every move of its tiny hands.

Twelve o'clock at night was already approaching and Christine still hadn't come.

His jaw tightened, and the Phantom started to pace back and forth, no longer being able to stifle the growing tension in his muscles.

It had already been two weeks since she had left him that awful letter, apologising but resigning from their lessons. Despite his desperate attempts to contact her, Christine hadn't sent him even one more word of explanation nor tried to retrieve his later messages from the hiding place. Two days ago he had once again left her a red rose tied with a black ribbon – the appointed sign that he wanted to talk – yet despite that she still hadn't appeared in the old storage room near the chapel where they usually met.

The man's gloved hands clenched at his sides.

She had already resigned from the role he had intended for her without a fight. Was she now going to ruin the instrument of her voice, the one they had worked so hard to create, just because of his one cursed mistake? And how the hell could she even dare to ignore him like that after everything he had done for her?

The anger flared up inside him with full force, but the same moment the image of Christine's frightened expression and cowering silhouette flashed in front of his eyes. The fire in his ribcage died down, replaced by a pitch-black void.

A muffled groan ripped out of his throat, and the Opera Ghost hid his face in his hands, leaning against the wall.

How could he have lost control over himself so much, shouting at her like that? He couldn't stand the way she had looked at him nor the fact she had betrayed him, ruining everything, but could that really be an excuse? And had she even truly wanted to remove his mask? He had just seen her hand getting close to his abhorrent excuse for human features and then…

An echo of the panic flooded him again, followed by the choking guilt. Would she have understood if he had tried to explain himself somehow that disastrous night?

He had buried his old life deep down long ago and did not yearn to glance at it again. And yet now, all those forcefully ignored sounds, visions, and feelings were starting to once again crawl out through the tiny cracks he could never fully close, filling his head with insufferable, dissonant buzzing.

Christine had taken a glimpse at what he really was. Could he really blame her for not wanting to see him ever again?

After all, she wouldn't be the first person who couldn't bear to look at him.

Something inside him constricted painfully as a shadow of another face flitted across his mind. And then, before he could stop it, the wave of long pushed-away memories engulfed him completely…

The voices outside rose, and the ten-year-old boy curled up even more in a corner of a humble room, pressing his hands to his ears and his back to the wall covered with peeling paint. Yet, no matter how much he tried, he couldn't banish from his mind the words he had already heard.

A degenerated brat.

A monster.

A freak of nature.

A devil's spawn.

The tears came to his eyes.

Why would nobody believe him? Couldn't they even try to listen to his version of the story? He had been just quietly reading the book priest Bonté had lent him when they had come, teasing him as always. And as always he had simply let them do this, gritting his teeth and trying not to react to their taunts, just like his mum had asked him to. Only this time they hadn't stopped at just that...

A shiver ran down his spine.

The oldest of the boys – the twelve-year-old mayor's son – had told him that he had to finally pay for acting smarter than everybody else. He – as the lad had said – was just a poor, ugly, and unwanted bastard and had to once and for all remember that he would never be anything more. And they had kindly agreed to help him finally learn his place...

The boy shuddered, recalling what had happened next.

He had tried to run away, but before he could have done more than a few steps, they had pinned him to the ground so hard that the gravel had painfully dug into his skin. Squirming in their grasp, he had been pleading them to let him go, but in response they had only laughed.

"You need a reminder of what you truly are," they had said. "And it's high time to show everyone what you are hiding apart from these disgusting marks on your arm."

The memory of the boys ripping off his mask pierced him again, reawakening the panic in his chest. The child closed his eyes, wishing he could somehow erase from his mind the images of these faces filled with a mixture of loathing and fear. Yet deep inside some part of him already knew it would never be possible. Just as he knew that he would never be able to forget that hateful smirk that curved the mayor's son's mouth to cover his momentary loss of bravado.

Nor the words that had followed after...

The cruel sneer resounded in his ears again, and the boy's fingers almost painfully dug into his temples in a futile attempt to stop it.

"You are not as perfect as you pretend to be, are you?" The lad had come up closer, spitting down at the deformed cheek he had been unsuccessfully trying to hide, and his wicked smile had widened even more. His ice-cold gaze filled with hatred. "I have to tell you that I've never seen anything so disgusting. The eyes hurt even from one glance at you!" His exclamation elicited a thunderous cheer of approval, and the adolescent's lips curled with malicious satisfaction.

"Your poor mother must regret giving birth to such an ugly little monster every single day of her life," he hissed. "I bet she curses the fact that she didn't manage to get rid of you. Though perhaps such a pitiful woman of ruined reputation deserves only a freak of nature for a child."

And that had been when something had finally snapped inside him.

With a roar ripping out of his throat, he had thrown himself at a larger boy, knocking him down into a bush clump with the force he hadn't known he possessed. Screaming and slamming his palms against the lad's chest, he had ordered him to take back what he had said about his mother. To stop treating them like that. To leave them alone. To finally end it, end it, end it! Losing his control completely, he had just shouted and shouted until at last the others had finally pulled him off. The rest was just a sequence of the blurred images and sounds.

The terrified face of the mayor's son and his own icy shock as he had noticed the blood trickling down the lad's arm.

The screams.

The adults coming and shouting.

And the eyes of his own mum filled with fear and pain as she had dragged him away from that terrifying, hostile crowd...

The boy wrapped his arms around himself, trying to contain the tears.

Why had nobody believed that it had been just an accident? He had not started it, and it was obvious the mayor's son was lying.How could he have even known that the sticks in the bush would be so sharp?

A few tears slipped out from under his eyelids, making the cuts on his face burn. Trying to force his lungs to breathe, the boy wiped the streaks away with his torn sleeve. He only hoped his mum would be able to explain everything. They should listen to her, after all, shouldn't they? And then everything would be back to normal. Yet, despite that attempt at reassurance, the anxiety clenching his gut did not want to leave.

It would be much easier if priest Bonté hadn't left for a few days this week. The elderly churchman had always been nice to him. He had not only invited him to the parish school and helped his mum to find a job as a seamstress here, but also showed him the notes and allowed him to practise on the old clavichord in the parish building – sometimes even on the ramshackle piano that the choir used to rehearse. If he had been here, he would surely believe him and help them solve everything.

Another muffled sob ripped out of his chest, and the boy clenched his eyelids hard, praying with all his heart that everything would end well.

Please, please, please...

The stairs leading to their small, shabby lodging creaked under someone's footsteps, startling him out of his reverie. The child fixed his frightened gaze on the door. His insides constricted as a handle turned slowly, but a moment later in a doorway appeared a familiar figure, and he almost cried with relief.

"Maman!"

Jumping to his feet, he ran towards the woman, ignoring the pain from his numerous cuts and bruises. "Is everything all right? Have you explained to them that–" His legs stopped half-way, freezing to the floor, as his eyes finally took his mother's facial expression. Her countenance was almost as white as a sheet of paper.

A lump formed into his throat. "Maman?"

His mother closed the door behind herself and then leaned her back against it, avoiding his gaze.

"We must leave the town before dusk. If we delay, the mayor will report you to the police." Her quiet voice, almost completely deprived of emotions, sent shivers down his spine.

Ice-cold fear slipped into his stomach, slowly crawling up his chest.

"But... but it was just an accident. They started it and then I just pushed him and..." A wave of panic flooded over him. "I didn't want to do that, Maman, I swear! And I promise I'll do everything to fix it. Maybe if we explain everything again they would listen. I'll apologise once more. I'll promise to do everything they want and–"

"Stop it!" The harshness in his mother's tone threw him off the track. "Don't you understand, child?" The woman finally looked at him, and the amount of anger and despair engraved in her usually kind features surprised him. "No matter what we do, it won't change anything. This is just how this world works!" The hysterical notes rang in her voice, and her hand waved in the air.

"They have the money and the power, so it's only their word that matters and they can do whatever they want. They can push all the blame on others. They can send a mother with a son away from the city just to protect their spoiled brat's reputation. Or they can tell a young woman all those pretty lies and then discard her like a broken toy when–" she broke off, pressing her palm to her mouth, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. Turning away from him, the woman slumped to the floor, pulling her knees up to her chin and hiding her face in her arms. A moment later the muffled sobs started shaking her whole body.

A cold void opened in his stomach.

"Maman? Maman, please don't cry..." The tears welled up in his eyes, and he dropped onto the uneven floor boards next to his mother, trying hard not to burst into tears. "It will be all right, mum. We will manage somehow. I promise." His strangely pitched tone sounded weak and unconvincingly even to himself. His hand reached out to touch the woman's shoulder, but she just moved away from his reach. A new surge of panic filled him.

"Maman?"

"Why did you have to do this?" His mother's hoarse whisper filled the air, and he suddenly felt as if the ground had slipped away from under his feet. "Haven't I already suffered enough to pay for my sins? Isn't it enough that I'm reminded of my biggest mistakes every time I look at you?" Her agonised voice was barely louder than a breath, but in his ears it rang as loud as a thunder.

Was that what his mum really thought about him?

Inside his ribcage something broke into thousands of pieces. Tears trickled down his face, but now he paid no attention to the sting.

The whole world seemed to stop, locking them in that awful moment for what felt like eternity. He had no idea how long they sat there, but then his mother stirred slightly, slowly raising her head.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. A loose strand of her brown wavy hair slipped out of her bun, shadowing her countenance, and she embraced her knees even tighter, fixing her eyes to some point near her feet. "I shouldn't have said that. I don't blame you for anything and I'm not mad at you. It's just..." A shaky breath escaped her lips. "I'm a little overwhelmed and I say stupid things, so please just forget all of that, all right?" The woman made a failed attempt to smile, but a second after her gaze met his, her line of sight moved so as not to rest on the disfigured part of his face. An invisible blade pierced his heart again.

"I know that our situation is far from ideal, but just as you have said, we'll manage somehow. The mayor had at least enough decency to allow me to collect my pay, so it won't be so bad." His mother tried to pour some confidence into her voice, but it was as if she was reciting a practised speech about things she could no longer feel. "I promise you that I'll take care of everything, so you don't have to worry about anything. Just... just give me a few more minutes, all right? Could you do that for me?" He nodded, and she reached out her hand to him. Her features softened.

"Thank you. You really are my little angel..." Her palm furtively squeezed his, and she once again tried to smile at him, but as before the expression did not reach her tormented grey-blue eyes. "If you can, then, please, start packing your things. I'll join you in a moment."

The boy nodded again and then silently rose to go to his tasks, starting with finding his second mask and putting it back on its place. He could see that his mother was trying her best to make him feel better, but somehow that made that gaping hole in his chest even more painful.

The nickname she liked so much to use had never seemed more wrong to him. Now, he had finally realised the truth.

He was the reason his mother was suffering. The mistake she could hardly bear to look at.

And now he had caused her even more problems.

It was because of him they had to leave the city. And he was the reason she was crying now.

Maybe the others were right after all. Maybe he really was a monster...

Erik pushed himself away from the wall against which he had been leaning, chasing away the images of the past. He knew very well what he was and he did not need more reminders.

Despite his will, some of the most gruesome newspaper headlines about his escape from the circus two years later flashed through his mind, and something in his stomach constricted even more. In those two short years, he had gone from being a burden through a life of a show freak to being a runaway convict, deemed irredeemable by the society. And the passing time hadn't made him any better. Of course Christine would want to avoid him now that she knew he was not the safe, angelic person she had imagined. He couldn't blame her.

A tiny voice at the back of his head whispered to him that if he had even a hint of honour in him, he should just let Christine go. It would probably be the best solution for her, and he certainly was not worth any hint of kindness she might offer him. Still, he couldn't convince himself to do so.

He just couldn't lose everything again. Christine was the only faint light in his pitiful existence brightening the shadows surrounding him. And he felt he wouldn't stand the return to the solitary, suffocating darkness…

The Opera Ghost picked up a small lantern from the ground and, clenching his hands, slowly started down the tunnel. He had to find a way to make her talk with him again. The rest didn't matter.

Despite her mum's reassurances for the next few weeks Meg still felt a bit as if they were walking through some dim shadows. In spite of her uneasy feelings, though, October had passed without any further incidents. Christine had anxiously confessed to her that she had resigned from her lessons. The Phantom sent her friend one more short note in response, asking her to reconsider, and – as far as the dancer knew – also a few more (ignored) letters with technical details addressed to the managers, but apart from that he had soon fallen silent.

A part of her wished to investigate the unsettling secret corridor behind Christine's dressing room wall, but at the same time she did not want to go against her mother's orders. Not counting that slightly disturbing first warning, her maman was ensuring that there was no reason to worry, so maybe she should just trust her on this matter?

No more strange events had taken place, so Meg forced herself to obey and not to think about her concerns too much. Some air of tension still hung around Christine like a vague cloud, but gradually her friend started to look a little less worried too. Misters Andre and Firmin had some smaller and bigger struggles, adjusting to their new role, but despite that the theatre life returned back to its more peaceful course. Their newly-acquired patron had been seen in the opera more often now, quite quickly winning the sympathy of the majority of cast by his open friendliness. On these occasions, he almost always found some extra time to exchange at least a few words with Christine, bringing a warm smile on the soprano's face, and Meg could only grin too, observing their rekindling friendship. The young viscount had even paid a visit to her and her mother, wishing to – as he had said – express his infinite gratitude for taking care of his childhood friend. All in all, he had been entertaining the whole company with his wit during the dinner, and she couldn't help but start to like him even more.

Soon equally peaceful November started, and with it the preparations for the new opera, demanding everybody's full concentration. And so, both she and Christine slowly allowed the return to everyday rhythm of exercises and rehearsals to push the unsettling thoughts about the Opera Ghost into the background.

Unfortunately, problems do not simply vanish when they are not thought about. And December, bringing with it the premiere of Il Muto, would be a painful reminder of that…

Author's notes:

1) In case it was confusing – in my story Erik's deformation is slightly different than the canon: he has distorted skin on the right side of his face and on the right arm (from hand to shoulder).
And if anyone is curious, I think that when I was imagining the background story for his mother (in my thoughts I named her Madeleine) I was slightly inspired by Belladova's tragic fate from Yeston's Phantom.