Phantom of the Opera Learn To Be Lonely

*holds up a very big, neon sign saying WARNING*

This is a companion story to A Phantom's Love. It does contain slight spoilers, so if you are reading that story and don't want it to be spoiled for you, please do NOT read this one. This is your warning. If you review saying yelling at me for not warning you, I'm simply going to point to this section, because I DID warn you.

Now that that's done... I have changed my prompt story from A Phantom's Love to this one. I originally was going to have that be my reply to the prompt, but after hearing Learn to be Lonely by Minnie Driver, I couldn't help but write this and I actually like this one better for the prompt, so voila.

Prompt Exchange Challenge: The Voice.

I've had to delete the lyrics from the story. If you'd like to read the whole story _with_ lyrics, please go here:

h space t space t space p space : / / mermydgurl DOT livejournal DOT com / 1057 DOT html (Without spaces and replacing the DOT with . of course)

I do NOT own The Phantom of the Opera or the song! Both belong to their respective owners. No money was made in the making of this story, it was created purely for entertaiment purposes.

Enjoy!

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Learn To Be Lonely

"_The Opera Ghost really existed. He was not, as was long believed, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box keepers, the cloak-room attendants or the concierge. Yes, he existed in flesh and blood, although he assumed the complete appearance of a real phantom, that is to say, of a spectral shade…" Gaston Leroux – The Phantom of the Opera_

London was always busy. There was never a moment in the day where something wasn't happening in the great city of Her Majesty's. Indeed, even in the very late hours of the night when most were asleep, people of all kinds still prowled the streets of London. The street rats, the hookers, the late night businessmen, the housekeepers, the butlers, maids, cab drivers, police, drunks and drug addicts all occupied the streets long after the majority locked their doors and retreated to the safety of their homes and beds. Yes, London was always on the move, regardless of the time of day. It was something Erik Daeris, a young operatic star, both loved and hated about his home town. He loved the excitement the city brought, and the dangers waiting hidden in the darkness, but he hated it at the same time. It wasn't the excitement or the dangers he hated, no those he loved just fine. He himself was a bit of a daredevil, and those things made his adrenaline race in a way it never had before. Even the darkness he didn't hate. That was something he doubted he would ever hate, no matter how many times he was reincarnated. It was the constant busy state the city was in that he despised. He had a tendency to not focus on his work as much as he wanted to when he was in London, which was more frequent than he liked, because of his career. On his days off, he spent almost all of his time in his flat, alone and secluded from the world. It wasn't because he didn't like people or didn't want to interact with his fellow human beings, although that did apply for some of the people he encountered over the years. He just preferred his solitude to most everything else. He felt more comfortable by himself, locked away in the seclusion of his flat, than at one of the various loud and annoying parties that happened every night across the city.

There was a perfectly good explanation for why he acted that way, but he refused to tell anyone. If anyone asked, he simply said he liked being alone. He doubted very much that anyone would believe him if he did try to explain it to them. If it weren't for the memories he had, the scars on his body, and the feelings he felt when around others, _he_ wouldn't believe his own story. Who would? It was a story so tragic and beautiful that it was only told on the stage, both cinematic and theatre. A story he himself acted out several times, despite the pain it brought him. But that, he figured, was probably why he was so good at acting it out. He lived through the story at one point, and it made the anger, the hatred, and the love all real to him. His feelings were genuine when he acted out those scenes, and it made his performance stronger and memorable. Of course, no one else but him knew the reasons for why he was so passionate about that particular role. That, like the explanation for why he liked being alone, he kept to himself. One of the many painful secrets that inhabited his life. Such things had nearly destroyed his life before. They took away from him the very things that were important to him, the things he lived for. If had been more honest in his life before, he might not have lost everything.

The thought made a slight half smile come to his lips as he stood gazing out at the busy streets of London. He wasn't sure he knew _how_ to be truthful. The concept was almost as foreign to him as love was. He spent a lot of his life shrouded in darkness, lies, and music. Candlelight flickered in the background, the only source of light in his apartment at that moment, casting almost an angelic glow about him. The fiery light reflected off of his messy black hair as it flickered back and forth. It made the dark strands appear red or gold for seconds at a time, almost mocking the dual nature within him. He ignored all of that, though, as his emerald green eyes stared out at the city lights idly. He was supposed to be writing, composing his first opera. He _wanted_ to be composing, but his mind wouldn't let him. He was too distracted by thoughts of his past. His torturous, traitorous past. He longed to forget, even for a moment, everything that happened, but knew he couldn't. Fate, it seemed, was bent on being cruel to him, no matter what century he was living in.

With a sigh, he turned away from the window, the dark blue curtain swinging back into place as he padded through the apartment silently. His footsteps made no noise, despite there being no carpet whatsoever. It was a talent that came naturally to him, he believed. A product left over from a time when he actually needed stealth to survive. It was useless to him now, of course, but he enjoyed being quiet nonetheless. It brought him some measure of security knowing no one would ever hear him moving about. The only noise throughout the entire flat was a small radio playing in the corner on a small glass table. It sat next to a small toy music box with a monkey in Persian clothes sitting on top. The tiny cymbals in its paws glimmered in the candlelight as it sat there. It still played music, and was a very difficult reminder for Erik of what happened. The soft tones of an orchestra floated out across the room, filling the flat with sweet tones of happiness and love. As much as it annoyed Erik sometimes, that night he welcomed the sound with a soft smile. It was his hope that the music would inspire him to write something, anything, for his opera. That was the only reason he had the radio on to begin with. It was a vain hope, but he was willing to do anything to get out of the funk he was in at that moment.

Bending at his waist, he peered into the contents of his refrigerator and debated for only a moment before his calloused hand reached out and closed around a bottle of half drunk wine. It was an old, vintage red wine that had a beautiful nutty flavor that he liked quite a lot. He had several more bottles in his actual home in Paris that he kept in a dark wine cellar for when he wanted some. Unfortunately, this was the last of three bottles he brought with him to London a little over six months ago when he discovered some business that he needed to attend to. He would definitely miss the delicate liquid once it was all gone. Pouring some into a glass, he took a sip and hummed in contentment as its warmth seeped throughout his body. Grabbing both the bottle and the glass, he walked silently back out into the living room. He looked like something out of the 18th century in the clothes he was wearing. A white poet's shirt sat snugly over his torso framing his broad shoulders and opened at his neck, the v showing off the toned muscles of his chest. Black silk slacks encased his legs and left more to the imagination than many modern women liked, but was worn for that exact reason. His feet were bare as they crossed the room to once again stand at the window. He kept the glass in one hand as he set the bottle down and moved the curtain aside once more. The bright city lights met his eyes and he flinched in response. He once figured he would never get used to the bright lights. They were just too much for his eyes, which were used to the pale glow of the candles. He didn't turn away, however. It was a test of his tolerance that he subjected himself to each night, and slowly but surely, he was getting used to such brightness. The song on the radio changed and pulled his attention away from the city. A soft guitar began to play, along with a light drum beat. He stood there silently, simply listening, as a voice started to float out across the room.

(Insert Lyric Here)

The words brought images to his mind of darkened caverns and corridors far beneath a complex opera house. Places and things he remembered from a life less kind to him than the current one. He fought against the sudden barrage of images that flooded his mind. He didn't want to remember, didn't want to feel the pain that came with his past. He knew what the song was, of course. He easily recognized it from a movie that both touched him and angered him at the same moment. It was perhaps the most beautiful version of his story that he had ever seen, it was true. Gerard Butler portrayed his pain so vividly that for a moment he thought the man had delved into his mind and took the pain and sorrow directly from it. It was foolish to think so, of course, but that's what he felt when he watched it that first time. He had never been able to watch the movie again after that. The woman's voice continued to float out of the radio, singing the sad lament that perfectly suited his soul.

(Insert Lyric Here)

Without him even realizing it, his hand reached up and touched the mangled flesh of the right side of his face. His trembling fingers lightly traced the bumps and dips on his face where the scars of his destiny lie. The skin itself felt smooth to the touch aside from where the bumps were, and felt like the rest of his body. The only difference between that and the perfect skin on the rest of him was the fact that it was twisted and disfigured into something grotesque and horrid in his mind. It was the physical representation of the pain he felt inside. Despite living in the 21st century, the thought of getting plastic surgery to fix his face never once entered his mind. It was ugly, revolting, and was the cause of more than one horrible name spat towards him when he was a child, but it also served as a reminder. It reminded him that he couldn't rely on his looks like others to get what he wanted. It reminded him to keep working hard for everything he had in his life, and to never give up, no matter how much despair he felt. And despair was the emotion currently coursing through him, thanks to the song that flowed from the radio.

(Inster Lyric Here)

With a start, he realized what he was doing and wrenched his hand from his face. With an angry growl, he turned from the curtain and walked over to the radio. It was his every intention to change the station, to rid himself of the blasted song that brought back so many painful thoughts and emotions in his mind. But even as he reached out to press the button to flip through the channels, his anger was weakening. His hand hovered over the button, indecision coursing through him. A part of him wanted to change the channel, to fling from himself the useless emotions and thoughts he was having because of the song. Another part, though, silently tugged at him to let it play. It wanted to hear the song play through completely at least once. It wanted to hear the rest of the lyrics, to see if there was any hope at the end before he decided to never hear the song again. With a pained sigh, he pulled his hand away from the radio and sat down heavily into a plump chair next to it. His wine glass slipped out of his hand and spilled on the floor, the dark red liquid looking a lot like blood on the hard wood floor. He disregarded it as he dropped his head into his hands and listened to the song, fighting hard to push all past memories and feelings away.

(Insert Lyric Here)

A choked sob came from him as he became overwhelmed. The thoughts and the memories crashed in on him like tidal waves and hot tears spilled down his face. Every tragic event that happened seemingly replayed itself in his mind, bringing with them fresh stabs of pain and heart ache. What made him sob the hardest was remembering the years being alone with no one to love, or laugh with. All of the years he lived, he was alone with no one to keep him company and the memory of that brought wave upon wave of pain. He sat there with his head bowed, pressed firmly into his palms as he sobbed tears of despair and loneliness. He hated his disfigured face for the pain it brought him in his life, and he hated the hopelessness his memories made him feel. Most of all, he hated feeling the same acute loneliness he once felt so long ago. It was in this position, with tears flowing down his face, that destiny and fate found him when the dawn broke through the sky, long after the distressing song had finished playing.

(Insert Lyric Here)

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As with my usual stories, this one is not Beta'd. Any and all mistakes are my own, so if you see one, don't hesitate to let me know. I'll try to fix it as soon as I find out.

Please review and let me know what you think, even if it's to say you hated it. If you read it on Livejournal, you're still welcome to leave me a review here and let me know what you think. Flames, however, will be used to cook smores.

Jaa!


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