Phantom of the Opera 1. Chapter 1

**Close Your Eyes**

_**Close your eyes, for your eyes will only tell the truth.- From "The Music of the Night" by Andrew Lloyd Webber**_

Chapter 1: All That I Asked For

Erik thumbed one of the many broken keys of his wrecked organ. No sound made it's way out of the bent pipes. The key stuck and would not rise back up to it's normal position. The once infamous Opera Ghost, frowned at this. His green eyes flittered across the devastation that surrounded him. The opera he had spent so many lonely nights writing lay strewn everywhere, ripped, soaked, and trampled. The mirrors that lined the walls, he had all shattered. The rich fabric that had once draped over his bed, and all his candles, and things had been stolen by his pursuers. His eyes finally fell on the replica of Christine he had made, her wax head, now bashed into an unrecognizable state. Still, one half of her lovely face and her mane of dark curls still remained. Her lifeless brown eyes gazed up at him. Erik absently touched the disfigured half of his face as he stared into those dead eyes. With a curse, he jumped from his seat and kicked the dummy's head into the water. He couldn't stand to see her face anymore than he could bare to live with his.

"Why didn't I just hang myself, like I had planned? It seems I can kill anyone I please, without remorse, yet not myself." He laughed bitterly. "What a coward I am."

"Erik?" Came an older woman's voice.

He looked up into the familiar face of his caretaker, Madame Giry. The old woman smiled kindly at him, but he simply frowned at her.

"Haven't you cleaned this place up yet?" She asked, looking around at the mess. "It's been six months now."

"Why bother?" He shrugged, his voice full of hopelessness.

Madame Giry sat a basket, full of bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine, on the organ. "You shouldn't be living this way. It's not healthy."

"Your point being?" He grumbled. He popped the cork of the wine bottle and promptly downed a whole mouth full, straight from the bottle.

"You simply must get over this." The old woman sighed. "You've done nothing but sulk since she left."

"Don't you dare even mention her name, Giry!" Erik spat, throwing a hunk of cheese at her. "That….that…viper, betrayed me! I gave her everything! I taught her everything I knew! She'd still be a chorus girl, if it were not for me! And how did she repay me? She turned her back on me, on her music, on everything! And for what? An ignorant, fool!"

Madame Giry watched on sadly as Erik groped at Christine's engagement ring, which he wore on a string about his neck. "If she hurt you so badly, if you hate her so, then why do you still wear that ring?"

Erik's eyes widened and he stared down, in a surprised way, at the hand that gripped the diamond ring; as if he hadn't realized what he was doing. "I…I." He stuttered, stumbling backwards and falling heavily onto the bench in front of the organ. He still held on to the ring as his eyes fogged over in thought, staring blankly at a pile of ruined sheet music. "All that I asked of her was that she love me. That is all that I ever asked for. Love. Was the price too great? In all my life, no one has ever been willing to pay it, not even my own mother." His foggy green eyes lifted to meet Giry's icy blues. "It seems so easy in the books I've read, in the operas I have watched, yet I've found it to be quite the opposite. It's difficult…the most difficult thing in the world." He said, in a dull whisper, his face crumpling like that of a child who'd just been struck.

"My poor boy." Giry sighed. She went over and pat his shoulder, kindly. She'd taken care of him since he was a young boy and she thought of him as a son. It had been she who had helped him escape from the mob the night he brought the chandelier crashing down. "You forget." Cupping his chin, she angled his face up to look at her. "All those books and operas are make believe. In real life, love is rarely easy. We all find it more difficult than we imagined as children."

Eric buried the disfigured side of his face in his hand. "Most of you do not look like me." He grumbled.

Giry gently pulled away his hand, and looked, unflinchingly, at his disfigurement. "Why are you so unkind to yourself?" She asked.

Erik thought quietly for a moment. "Do I not deserve it? Look at me."

"I am." Giry whispered, touching his face. "And no. You do not deserve it. Your face is much like your soul, Erik." She said, placing a hand on either side of his face. "There is a dark and terrible side of you, but there is also a good and beautiful one as well. It is that side that people can come to love, if you let them."

Erik stared blankly at her, not believing a word that spewed from her mouth. _She's just trying to be nice. It's her pity talking. Nothing more. _He thought to himself. _Nothing more._

Later that afternoon, Erik had wandered up to his favorite box seat, number five. The huge room was empty. Practice had just ended and there was not a show scheduled for that day. He dare not appear when there were people present. The events of that terrible night six months ago had not yet faded from people's minds. They were all still very much on edge. So he waited until the opera house was empty before he went about his business outside of his underground labyrinth. He bent over in his seat and rested his head on the railing. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling drained. He hadn't been sleeping well at all.

As his mind drifted between the worlds of waking and dream, a light voice began to drift up from the seats below. This voice was pure, innocent, delicate, and innately beautiful. The soprano's song began softly, then grew in strength and power, to the point that Erik's heart stilled to listen more closely. Erik's eyes popped open in wonder. "Who's voice is this?" He asked quietly. Timidly, he peered over the railing.

He had expected to find one of the opera stars or perhaps even a chorus girl, come back to retrieve something they'd left at practice, but instead he found a girl in rags, sweeping the floors. Wild waves of blond hair peeped out from beneath her dingy white cap. Her cheeks were smudged and her hands were all wrinkly from washing clothes, or floors perhaps. She was petite, not very tall, and pigeon boned. This was not the robust opera singer he had envisioned at the sound of her voice. It seemed impossible for such a tiny girl to produce such an incredible sound. Her voice shook the very floor beneath him. Or maybe that was just his legs shaking.

The girl was singing "Habanera" from the opera, _Carmen, _as she worked_._ It was amazing. Erik had never heard it sung so well. He watched on in contented silence, listening to her sing and watching her work. She moved elegantly through the rows of seats, seeming to dance with the broom stick, twirling and making exaggerated gestures, as if she were on the stage, rather than sweeping in between the seats. When the song came to the grand finale, a powerful eruption of song, he nearly fell out of his seat. Once she was finished, the girl curtsied. It looked absolutely absurd, with her in that god awful sack of a dress. She then bowed and threw kisses at an invisible audience. "Thank you. Thank you. You are too kind." She said, smiling ear to ear. Erik felt his lips curve into a smile, a rarity these days. This girl had true talent. It had been quite a while since he had seen it. Without thinking, he started to clap for her.

The girl jumped at the sound and whipped her head around towards box five. Her dark blue eyes were wide with fright. Her cheeks had gone red in embarrassment. "I-I'm sorry, sir. I-I didn't know you were in here." She stuttered, backing away towards the door.

Realizing what he'd done, Erik quickly sprang from his seat and darted away to find one of his secret doors. _Idiot! _He scolded himself. _She'll tell everyone she knows about seeing a masked man in box five, then they'll come after you again and they won't stop this time! You'll be lynched for sure!_

Eve hurried out of the opera's auditorium. Her cheeks burned like fire from shier shame. A man had been there. He'd seen her make a fool of herself, heard her sing. She clasped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. Oh how he must be laughing at her now! _He's probably making fun of me right now. _She thought miserably. _No doubt he'll tell his friends about the stupid little maid, who thinks she can sing opera._ She groaned as her stomach twisted into an even tighter knot. _I'm going to be the laughing stock of the opera house._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Trap Door

As soon as he got back to his lair, Erik began throwing things onto an old piece of cloth that he had laid out over his bed. He was now preparing for his escape. He must leave this place! Leave at once! He wasn't sure where he would go. The opera house was the only true home he'd ever known. He stopped as he picked up the first page of _Don Juan Triumphant_. _That's right. _He thought. _This is my home, the place I feel the happiest. How can I leave it? I remember the life I had outside these walls._ He crushed the page in his fist. _I want no part of it. _With a sweep of his hand, he knocked everything he had gathered back onto the floor. _Let them come!_

Eve's thoughts were elsewhere as she hurried back and forth behind the stage, gathering costumes for the singers. Aside from her cleaning duties, she also helped out as a seamstress. Today, was another fitting day for the singers. With a show coming up, they had to get the costumes perfect.

"Hurry up!" Carlotta snapped at her. The managers were surprised when she agreed to come back to the opera house, after her husband's murder by the opera ghost; but then again, this place was really the only one in Europe who would hire her. Her popularity was at an all time low.

"Sorry!" Eve apologized, picking up her pace. The ridiculously flamboyant dress she was carrying was extremely heavy. It overwhelmed her small body. She felt like she was being swallowed up by fabric. Eve tripped over a piece of the skirt and went sprawling across the floor.

"You stupid girl!" Carlotta, raged, slapping at her with her fan. "You will ruin my costume!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Eve squeaked, shielding her face with her arms.

Thankfully, some of the male singers came over and pulled Carlotta away. Another maid took over Eve's job, while she went off to gather her composure.

"Are you okay, Eve?" Asked her friend, Amelia, another maid at the opera house.

"I'm fine." Eve assured her with a nod.

"Are you sure? You seem a bit distracted today. Did something happen?" Amelia prodded. Her lips pulled away into a grin at the blush that spread across Eve's face. "What's his name?" She giggled.

"What? No! There's no boy!" Eve flustered, horrified that her friend would jump to that conclusion.

"Then why is your face turning the shade of a tomato?" Amelia laughed, tossing her red curls.

Eve brought her voice down to a light whisper. "You know when I was sweeping the floors in the auditorium?" Amelia nodded. "Well, I was singing to myself and I didn't realize until after I finished that there was a man up in one of the box seats. He saw… and heard the whole thing! I was completely mortified!"

"Well, did he like it?" Amelia asked. "I think you have a great voice. A hell of a lot better than that toad, Carlotta's." She snickered.

"H-he clapped…but I'm sure that he was just mocking me. I mean, look at me." She gestured at her torn and dirty skirt. "Do I look like an opera singer?"

"Stop that." Amelia scolded her friend. "It doesn't matter what you look like, or the clothes you wear. You have talent! I'm sure that man was clapping because he enjoyed it, because it was good." Eve stared down at her shoes, not really believing what her friend said. "Which box was this man in anyway? The doors to the box seats should be locked."

"Box five." Eve replied. She felt Amelia's body still and turned to look at her. Her hazel eyes were wide and her face had gone deathly pale. "What?" Eve asked, a bit startled by her reaction.

"You saw a man in box five?" Amelia asked in a shaky voice. "What did he look like?"

Eve shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not sure. He was too far away for me to see any features."

Amelia grabbed her arms. Her eyes buried themselves into her face, as her fingernails dug into her flesh. "Was he wearing a mask, Eve? Was he wearing a mask?" She demanded.

"I-I'm not sure. I only saw a brief glimpse of him, before he ran away. Can you release me now? You're frightening me."

"I'm sorry." Amelia squeaked, finally letting go of her. The terrified look on her face still remained.

"What's wrong? Why did you react like that?" Eve asked, rubbing at her arms. She was sure that there would be some bruising by the next morning.

"Haven't you heard the story of the Opera Ghost?" Asked Amelia.

"I read about it in the papers." Eve replied.

"Box five was his favorite place to sit. He had the owners reserve it for his use. No body even uses it now, and nobody's seen him since he made the chandelier come down at the premier of _Don Juan Triumphant_. No body should have been up there, Eve."

"The papers say that he's dead, Amelia. You can't possibly believe that the Phantom could be alive."

"I'm just saying that maybe the Phantom finally became a real ghost…or maybe the papers are lying and he's still alive, hiding somewhere, lying low until everyone's guard comes down. He may even still be down there, down deep in the catacombs beneath our feet."

Eve shivered at the thought. Could it be true? Could the Phantom be alive? Could he still be here, around them, watching them. Was he the man who had clapped for her? It all sounded so surreal, so impossible.

Erik swallowed another mouthful of wine, as he watched the meal that Giry had brought him earlier that day be devoured by the rats. He hadn't eaten more than a bite of the bread, just to put Giry's mind at ease. The rest he had left to his pets to enjoy. He tossed his head back to pour some more wine into his mouth, but nothing came out. He'd reached the bottom of yet another bottle. "They don't put enough in these damn things." He grumbled.

"Erik, I've brought you some things." Chimed Madame Giry, as she paddled her small boat up to the dry part of Erik's domain.

"Please, tell me you have wine." Erik pleaded, his voice muffled by his pillow.

"No wine." Madame Giry sighed. She got out of her boat and brought a basket full of blankets and clothes up to where Erik was sprawled across his bed. She looked sadly at the rats who were gorging themselves on the food she had brought for Erik. "Have you eaten anything today?" She asked.

"Yes." He mumbled.

"Besides one bite of bread and a bottle of wine?"

Erik went silent.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself, Erik. Starving or drinking yourself to death is not going to bring her back. She made her choice. Now you have to live with it." Said Giry, in a motherly tone.

"What did I say, about talking about her?" Erik yelled at her.

Madame Giry sighed. "I don't understand it. You haven't been yourself these past six months. Your home is a wreck, you're a wreck, you don't sing, you don't play any music, you don't eat, you don't sleep. All you do is lay there and drink yourself into unconsciousness."

"Shut up, Giry." Erik growled.

"This isn't the Erik I know. You've lost all passion for life. You don't care about music anymore. Do you realize that you haven't gone to a single show or even to a practice since it happened?" Giry prodded.

"That's not true. I listened to someone sing today." Erik spat.

"Oh really? You went to practice?" Asked Giry.

"…No…I went and sat in my box afterwards, though." Erik huffed weakly.

"Afterwards? Then who did you hear singing?"

"A maid." He said. "She was singing "Habanera" while she swept the floor."

"I bet that was an enjoyable experience." Giry scoffed.

"Actually, she was pretty good." Erik said, finally scraping himself off of his bed. "I haven't heard a voice like hers for a long time now. It was strong and powerful, without loosing the delicateness that a soprano's voice should have. She's very talented."

Madame Giry smiled as she listened to him ramble about the girl's singing. It had been such a long time since she'd seen joy on his face. As he spoke, she could see his passion, beginning to burn again in his eyes. It was discreet, but it was there, like a ember slowly smoldering. "Do you have any idea who this maid is? Is she one that you are familiar with?" She asked.

"No." He said, shaking his head. "I have never seen her before today. I think that she may be new. She's petite and thin with wavy blond hair and dark blue eyes. Does that sound like anyone you know?"

Madame Giry thought for a moment. "You know, I think I do know her. I believe her name's Eve or something like that. I don't recall the last name. She just started about a month and a half ago. She does some seamstress work for us as well as cleaning."

"Keep an eye on her for me, would you?" Erik asked, setting his mask back into place.

"May I ask why?" Asked Giry.

"She saw me. If the owners find out that I may be alive, then they'll send another mob after me." Erik explained.

"I will do my best, Erik." As he turned away, a sly smile spread across Madame Giry's face. A plan was brewing in her head. Erik was not the only genius in the opera house.

The following day, Giry set her plan in motion. First, she had to find Eve. Asking around, she found the girl sewing the hem of a ballerina's skirt in the storage room. "Eve, I have another job for you, once you're finished with that." She said, in her authoritative voice.

"Madame?" She inquired, looking up from her work.

Giry handed her a broom. "I need you to sweep the floor of the dancer's dressing room. It's filthy."

Eve took the broom from her with a smile. "Yes, Madame. I'll be finished with this seam in just a moment."

"Very well. Thank you, my dear." Said Madame Giry, nodding with a cunning smile. She left the girl and hurried to set her trap. She went into the ballerina's dressing room and found one of Erik's trap doors, hidden beneath a decorative rug. She unlocked it and loosened the spring, so that anyone who stepped on it, would fall through immediately. She was tired of Erik's depression, she needed to find a way to raise his spirits. The happiest she had ever seen him was when he was teaching Christine. What he needed was a new student.

As soon as she finished hemming the skirt, Eve picked up the broom and hastily made her way to the ballerina's dressing room. "I never get a moment's rest in this place." She grumbled beneath her breath. "It's always, sew this, Eve, sweep this, Eve, scrub this, Eve, fetch this, Eve. It never ends." She went into the room and started sweeping right away, still muttering to herself.

As her foot came down on a intricately woven rug, the floor suddenly came out from under her, sending her plunging, down, down, down, into the black abyss. She fell into what seemed to be a river. Putrid water, went down her throat and up her nose, choking her. She clawed for the surface as her chest began to ache for sweet oxygen. She broke through the surface of the water, sputtering and chocking, spitting out the water she had inhaled.

"W-where am I?" She stuttered, breathing heavily. She looked around at her bleak surroundings. Walls of cold, grey stone, surrounded her. "The catacombs?" She wondered aloud, a twinge of fright, sending shock waves through her body. It was very dark. She could barely see her hand in front of her face. Clinging to the walls, her feet groped for footing, as she waded through the water. It came up to her waist and every now and then, she would fall into a hole where the water was well above her head. She cursed herself for being so short. It wasn't easy being only 5'3. She kept her eyes forward. Off in the distance, she could see a faint light. Perhaps there was an exit to this horrible place at the end of this passage.

Erik rested his head in his hand as he scribbled out a letter to Christine. He got as far as, "My Dearest Angel," before ripping up the page into tiny pieces and scattering them across the floor. "Shit." He cursed. "I can't think of single thing to say to her." This statement was not entirely true. He did have one thing to say to her. _Come back! Come back, Christine! Please, my love, come back! _Feeling utterly miserable, he slumped over his table and laid his head down. He closed his eyes for a moment. They ached from squinting in the dim light for so long. Behind his closed eyes, visions of her danced across his vision. Her voice echoed from the vaults of his memory. _Christine. Oh, Christine. Why have you forsaken me? _He thought bitterly as he remembered their last moments together. She had kissed him. His lips still burned from it. It was the first kiss he'd ever experienced and it would have been grand, if not for the bitter sweetness of it. For even as she kissed him, he knew that it was a farewell gesture. He'd never feel her lips again, never feel her touch, smell her scent, or hear her voice. She was leaving and he'd never see his precious Angel of Music again. That was the most difficult part of her abandonment, not being able to see her. Yes, he had begged her to leave him. He let her go, because he loved her. He wanted her to be happy and if the rich and handsome Roul could do that, then so be it. Still, it did not make the hole in chest ache any less. She had left him so easily, it seemed. It made him wonder if she ever really cared for him at all or if it was all just pity.

The chime of a bell startled him from a brief sleep. His eyes shot over to a small bell that sat beside his head, lines of thread were connected to it's handle. "Someone's tripped the tripwire." He noted. He had set up lines of twine throughout the catacombs that were closest to his lair. The tripwires were supposed to warn him of trespassers. He was pleased to see that it worked, but terror reverberated through his very bones. It couldn't be Madame Giry. She knew where all the tripwires were. She never set them off. It had to be someone else, someone who undoubtedly meant him great harm. He glared towards the opening of his lair, as his hand reached to pick up a long piece of rope. He wound the ends around each fist and prepared to face his attackers. If they were going to lynch him, he was not going to make it easy for them.

He could hear them approaching. They sloshed, frantically, through the water. His heart began to race faster and faster as they drew nearer. Despite his depression, he wasn't ready to die. He was afraid.

Eve's teeth chattered in her skull as her body shook, quivering in the cold. It was frigid down here, in the dark underground. She was colder still, wading through the water. She tried to warm her hands with her breath, but it was to no avail. They just turned to ice again as soon as she brought them away from her mouth. A gleeful smile spread across her face when she saw that she was very close to the light now. _Soon I'll be warm again! _She thought happily. This smile faded, as she rounded the bend. Instead of finding a door, she had found a strange place, steps led up to some kind of platform. There was a broken organ off to the side. Paper littered the ground. Broken mirrors lined the walls. And there was a man in a mask, glaring at her, with a rope ligature gripped in his hands.

Erik gawked at the girl shivering in the middle of the water. Her dripping golden hair hung around her heart shaped face. Her dark blue eyes shimmered in the darkness. Her trembling mouth hung agape, as she stared at him, her eyes wide with shock. It was the maid from yesterday. _What did Giry say her name was again? Eve?_

"What are you doing here, girl?" He demanded, lowering his ligature away from his chest. He still wasn't going to put it away. Not yet, anyway.

The girl shook her head wildly, in an effort to break free of her stupor. "I-I fell through the floor somehow." She stuttered, her voice quivering from the cold. "I was looking for a way back into the opera house. I-I'm sorry for trespassing, sir."

Erik eyed her carefully. "What room were you in when you fell?" He asked. He needed to know which trap door he needed to fix. It was obviously faulty, since he hadn't been the one to set it off.

"The…uh…ballerina's dressing room." She answered. A violent trimmer racked her small frame. He could see from where he stood that she was freezing. Her skin was turning blue.

"I see." He muttered. He could see how that one may not be working correctly. He hadn't used it in a while. He looked back at the opening she had appeared from. "Is there anyone else with you?" He asked.

She shook her head, as another tremor ran through her.

Satisfied that he was safe for now, he tossed the ligature back onto his table. "Come here, I'll give you a change of dry clothes. I don't want you to freeze to death."

Eve didn't need any more encouragement than that. She rushed to the man's strange home. She'd never been more happy to be on dry land. She stood behind him, dripping and cold, as he rummaged through an old trunk.

"Here you are." He said, taking a short dress out of the trunk. It looked like something a gypsy girl would wear. It was more of a costume than a dress, really. "It may be a bit large on you. The girl it belonged to was much taller than you."

She thought that it was strange for him to have women's clothes, but she took the dress all the same. She was far too eager to get out of her sopping wet dress, to care where it came from. "Um…where can I change at?" She asked, looking around at her sparse surroundings.

Color flushed Erik's pale cheeks. "I-I'll turn away. I promise I won't look." He turned away and went back to his table, to begin another attempt at a letter.

Hesitantly, Eve, turned her back to the man and stripped out of her dripping dress. She scrambled into the costume, eager to cover her nakedness. Even though he had turned away from her, she couldn't help but feel that he was looking at her.

Erik could not resist. He'd been alone for far too long and his curiosity got the better of him. He took a brief peek at the girl as she shimmied out of the clinging, wet peasant's dress. He admired the creamy color of her skin and the graceful slope of her bare back. Her long, tresses, cascaded in dripping, tangled waves around her head and over each shoulder, leaving her whole back exposed. He tore his eyes away when she began to put on Christine's costume from _Don Juan Triumphant_. He'd be horrified if she caught him looking.

Eve rubbed at her arms in disappointment. Was there not more clothing than this? Most of her arms were left bare and the skirt only came down to mid shin. She was still freezing.

Erik looked over his shoulder at the pathetic looking maid in the ill fitting costume. She kept having to pull the dress up, since it was sagging on her thin frame and the bodice didn't fit right at all. She was surprisingly fuller breasted than Christine. The girl shivered still. The dress didn't provide much warmth. "You may rest here if you like. My bed is over there and I have some clean blankets at it it's foot. Once you are warm again, I'll take you back up to the Opera Populaire."

"Thank you, Monsieur." She whispered. She went over to the bed. It was beautifully crafted. The bed itself looked like a swan and the cushion within it was covered in a red satin fabric. She laid down and buried herself in a mound of blankets. She dare not sleep. She'd found her way into the catacombs and found a man in a mask there. He'd had a rope wrapped around his fists when she'd first seen him. There was no denying it. The Opera Ghost was indeed alive and now she was lying in his bed with him only feet away, scribbling notes like a mad man.

Slowly, as the warmth of the bed grew, the shivers racking her muscles eased away and she felt her eyelids drooping. They fluttered open a few times as she fought sleep, until finally she lost her battle and fell headlong into horrifying dreams. She dreamed of having the life chocked out of her by a masked man. He had a rope twisted around her throat and in her ear he chuckled darkly, "Keep your hands at the level of your eyes."

Erik laid down his quill for a moment to glance at the sleeping girl. She tossed and turned in the bed, her hands clawing at her throat, as if she were trying to free herself from a noose. In fact, she reminded him of many of his victims. He got up and walked quietly over to the bed. He loomed over her, simply staring. Her face was twisted with fear as she fought with some unseen entity within her mind. He reached out and gently stroked her forehead as he began to sing softly. Memories of doing much the same with Christine flooded his mind and tears soon began to fall down his cheeks. His song chased away the bad dreams and the girl's face relaxed, becoming angelic in peaceful sleep.


End file.

Phantom of the Opera, Drama, Romance