Phantom of the Opera 1. Default Chapter

Chapter One  
  
  
  
Marie LeFougueux stalked across the spacious room, never letting her eyes waver  
from her reflection in the mirror. As angry as she was, she admired herself. How perfectly  
dazzling she looked in her silken gown of white that floated around her. Her hair was  
luxuriously thick and shiny in its highly fashionable bun; the dangerously low neckline of  
her derss, simply flattering to her figure.  
  
"Marie, you are more beautiful than your uncaring mother," she boasted in a  
haughty voice. "It's a shame she won't ever see you again."  
  
She watched as her lips formed an angry pout and her glittering green eyes flashed  
fire. With a sudden, almost inhuman movement, she picked up her ivory handled  
hairbrush and hurled it at the mirror, dangerously accurate. Marie watched in satisfaction  
as the mirror shattered into a thousand pieces and her reflection was instantly gone with a  
thunderous crash.  
  
"Good bye Mother, Father," Marie said coldly as she took her small bag in hand  
and flung herself off the chateau's balconey. Then her world went black.  
  
Whether she had lain there for days or minutes, Marie couldn't say. When she had  
grabbed her bag of belongings, she was only trying to run away, but the tempation of  
suicide was too great. Much to her dismay, she had only landed awkwardly on her wrist  
and had broken it. The pain was so great she hissed a few curses and stood up. The moon  
was shining brightly in the sky, making her get-away easier. She hung her wrist limply at  
her side, trying to ignore the pain and checked her little bag. Her purse was full of money  
and her precious lyre was in perfect condition. She quickly shoved these items back in the  
bag and made for the surrounding woods.  
  
* * * *  
  
The LeFougueux's were always a very rich and snobbish family in France, and  
Marie was no different. She inherited her coldness from her mother and her temper from  
her father. Though, to say her father had always been angry, would be a lie. Marie was an  
only child, and when her father learned his wife could have no more children, he raged  
and cursed his misfortune of having a daughter. Women could do nothing right in his  
eyes, and were just useless objects of pleasure.  
  
As far as Marie could remember, her mother had always been cold to her. Her  
parents made it seem like it was her fault for having been born a female; and therefore,  
left her by herself. She was an independent child, with only her nursemaid to care for her.  
  
The nursemaid, Mme. DaFau, was more of a mother to Marie than anyone. She  
taught Marie to play a lyre at a young age, and Marie delighted family friends by making  
up simple melodies that haunted the shadows of the family's chateau.  
  
Marie had gone to a private finishing school for a couple years and returned home  
a polished lady. That is, except, for her temper. She threw fits at anything that went  
against her pleasing. When her nursemaid was sent away, Marie tried starving herself but  
her mother had forced her to eat. The anger just kept building up inside her until the one  
day her father announced that a highly distinguished gentleman was coming to call. Marie  
was, in fact, very much looking forward to this up to the moment he arrived. During  
dinner, she could not take it anymore.  
  
"I'll not marry an old man!" she screeched and attempted to flee the room.  
  
"Marie! Msr. DuVieux is forty-three; he is hardly old!" exclaimed her mother  
roughly.  
  
"And I shall be but only eighteen next month! He's too old for me!"  
  
Marie stormed upstairs, satisfied that the old Msr. DuVieux wasn't coming back  
and that her parents would have trouble finding another suitor. She was going to leave the  
family's chateau forever.  
  
* * * * 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two  
  
  
Marie wandered farther and farther into the dark woods. She thought she was  
going to be lost forever when she saw a fire and tents camped about it. She had nearly  
stumbled upon it when someone grabbed her from behind and held a knife to her neck.  
She gasped and opened her mouth to scream but the attacker spoke.  
  
"Scream and you'll regret it. Move!" The man gave her a push from behind and  
she tumbled into the ring of firelight. She cried out in pain as she landed hard on her  
wrist.  
  
"Ah, what have we here?" spoke a different voice. This one was rougher, crueler  
somehow.  
  
Marie stood to face these voices and found that one belonged to a short, thin man  
with a knife (her attacker), and a very large man who wasn't as dark.  
  
"I'm Marie LeFougueux and I demand to know what is going on."  
  
"LeFougueux!" exclaimed her attacker. "That is a rich a powerful family, Javert!"  
  
Javert's ugly countenance slowly spread into a sly grin.  
  
"LeFougueux . . . then you have money," he said slowly while motioning to the  
other man.  
  
Marie clutched her bag instinctively, but the man was stronger. He tore it from her  
grasp and dumped out its contents. Marie dove for them, only successfully retrieving the  
lyre. Javert grabbed the money and pocketed it.  
  
"What are you going to do with me?" Marie demanded, frightened.  
  
Javert's grin never left his face. "It's not what we're going to do with you. It's  
what you're going to do with us."  
  
He and the other man chuckled and Marie screamed.  
  
"I'm not a whore, so don't you think you can have me, you filthy dogs!"  
  
"And just what are you going to do about it?" asked Javert, reaching for the hem  
of her dress.  
  
Marie shuddered violently as she felt his dirty fingernails rake against her skin.  
She quickly yanked the knife from her attacker and held it tightly against Javert's neck.  
  
"I'll kill you," she said simply, praying she wouldn't have to.  
  
"I don't think so," he murmured, reaching for his own knife.  
  
"You must not think much then," she growled as she pressed the knife deeper into  
his neck. It was starting to chafe the skin and she could see tiny red droplets forming  
around his collar. Javert tried unsuccessfully to push her away but she kept threatening  
with her knife. She had, by now of course, figured out they were gypsies, though Javert  
didn't look like one.  
  
"Give me back my money, you gypsies!" she threatened.  
  
Javert was silent and then suddenly agreed. Marie loosened her hold of the knife  
and before she knew it, the other man had grabbed it and was holding it to her neck again.  
  
"Ah, the tables have turned!" breathed Javert, rubbing his neck. "Vicious little  
thing, aren't you?"  
  
He quickly bound her, the rope cutting into her wrist painfully and she couldn't  
help but cry out.  
  
"My wrist! Please, it's broken . . ." but Javert and the man ignored her. Javert ran  
his hand across her cheeck, repulsing her.  
  
"Tomorrow . . ."  
  
As soon as the two men had left with her money, she burst into tears. How did she  
let herself get into a situation like this? She let her tears run down her dirty face and onto  
her no-longer white dress. Her hair was askew and fell wildly into her eyes. She looked  
nothing better than a little slattern. But there was nothing she could do about it.  
  
Even though her wrists were bound painfully in front of her, she could still move  
her fingers. She stroked the lyre's strings, playing the saddest melody she knew. And  
when she knew no more, she continued with her own compositions.  
  
In the corner of her eye, she noticed movement in the bushes off to her side.  
  
"Who's there?" she demanded. "Show yourself at once, and if you have any  
intention of robbing me, your efforts will have been in vain. Javert's already done that."  
  
No one answered, but Marie was persistent.  
  
"It's no use trying to hide. I know you're there," she sighed wearily. "And if you  
can help me, I'd be delighted," she continued, more to herself than to anyone in  
particular. "I broke my wrist earlier this evening and now they're bound painfully  
together . . ."  
  
She looked up to find a small boy just beyond the clearing. She couldn't see him  
well, except for his eyes which were golden and glowed in the darkness. He made no  
movement, but watched her thoughtfully.  
  
With a fleeting hope, she called out, "Little boy! Please, can you help me?"  
  
The boy didn't move and was silent for a while more before he finally spoke.  
  
"I cannot help anybody."  
  
Marie opened her mouth to protest, but his voice struck her as the most beautiful  
thing she had ever heard. She had been to many operas, when she travelled with her  
parents, and had had the oppurtunity of listening to the greatest voices in the world; and  
yet, this little boy's voice surpassed them all! What's more, she thought, it sounds as  
though it's right next to me even though he's in the woods over there! Marie forgot her  
pain momentarily.  
"How did you do that?" she demanded.  
  
The golden eyes kept staring at her.  
  
"Do what?" he asked.  
  
"Make your voice come over here when you are over there? You cannot possibly  
be a ventriloquist; you're only a little boy!"  
  
The boy stiffened and seemed to move away.  
  
"It's none of your concern," he said coldly, and yet in a masterful tone. He turned  
to leave her, but Marie stopped him.  
  
"Wait! If you didn't show yourself to help me, why did you show yourself at all?"  
  
He stopped, but didn't face her.  
  
"The music . . ."  
  
"The music I played on my lyre?" Marie asked incredulously. "This music?" She  
demonstrated her former composition; a sad one.  
  
The boy turned to face her and came a bit closer.  
  
"It's beautiful," he murmured, almost in a trance like state. "But you're playing it  
too roughly."  
  
Marie stared at him. A boy barely of twelve years was informing her of how she  
should play her lyre!  
  
"How would you know?" she retorted scornfully.  
  
He shrank back so far into the woods Marie could barely see his eyes.  
  
"Come back!" she pouted. "Don't leave me alone!"  
  
But the golden eyes were gone. 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three  
  
  
Marie woke to a rough jar and pain in her wrist. She moaned, remembering where  
she was: in a gypsy camp. She sat up, trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes when a voice  
spoke.  
  
"Hey! She's up! Look at her!" jeered a sniggering voice. Marie was grateful she  
had hidden her lyre in her bodice, as best as she could.  
  
She felt something poke her in her side and another voice cried, "Let's see what  
she looks like under the dress!"  
  
Marie started to scream when she heard Javert's voice. "She's not for you! Only  
for the paying customers!"  
  
She cringed and started to cry. Was this the way she was going to live her life? As  
a trashy whore? I wish Mother and Father could see me now, she thought bitterly. Javert  
yanked her to her feet.  
  
"Stop blubbering! I want you cleaned and ready by tonight."  
  
Marie protested. "Please my wrist, it's broken! Isn't there a doctor around?"  
  
Javert didn't even look at her wrist.  
  
"It's not broken. Besides, I don't know if you'll bring in enough money for me to  
get you a doctor."  
  
"Well you won't because I'm not, and won't be a prostitute!" Marie spat  
contemptuously.  
  
Javert grabbed her and held her close. Marie shuddered at the stench of his  
unbathed body, his filthy hands groping her dress, and of his hot breath on her neck.  
  
"I know you will, and what's more, I'll make you myself!"  
  
"Get off me!" she shrieked, while ramming her knee hard between his legs.  
  
"You little bitch!" he sneered and slapped her hard across her face. She felt blood  
dripping out of her nose, and saw it run onto her dress.  
  
"I'll never be a prostitue, do you hear me? And you touch me again, I'll kill you!"  
she suddered again, unable to forget the feeling of his groping fingers. Javert shook her  
hard and laughed.  
"You will. And you will learn to like it. They all do, in the end, you know." He  
finished his laugh and shoved her aside. "You'll bring in lots, you little whore. You'll  
make me a very rich man, you know that?"  
  
He walked off, and returned later with a small piece of bread and water. Marie  
lunged at him, trying to attack him. Javert just dodged her and chuckled.  
  
"Fine, you won't have anything to eat at all."  
  
Even in her weakened state and injured condition, she still had her temper.  
  
"I'll not touch any of your food! I'd rather starve to death. And I'll not be a  
whore! You hear me?"  
  
Javert ignored her and continued.  
  
"You'll need to clean up. I'm going to let you wash. Can't let the customers see a  
dirty whore; they'll never come back for more!"  
  
Her led her to a tent and shoved her inside.  
  
"Wash," he commanded.  
  
"Not in front of you, I won't! And I want these ropes untied! And a doctor to look  
at my wrist! And I have no clean clothing!" Marie protested fiercely.  
  
Javert looked unfazed.  
  
"Anything else?" he asked sarcastically.  
  
"Yes! Did I mention I'm not a whore and you can't make me!"  
  
Javert sneered and replied, "And I said was going to make you one." He made a  
grab at her, but Marie jumped back. He laughed.  
  
"I'm just going to untie the ropes. I'm not going to touch you . . . yet."  
  
Marie scowled, bit her lip until she tasted blood, and reluctantly held out her  
wrists. Once they were free, she quickly untied her ankles. Now completely free, she felt  
she had retained a bit of her dignity.  
  
"Leave," she commanded coldly. "And get me some new clothes."  
  
Javert looked suspicious, but finally consented. "You try to escape and I'll make  
sure you'll never try it again," he threatened. He returned shortly with a bundle of fabric.  
Marie closed the tent flap and screamed when she looked at the dress she was  
supposed to wear. It was of the thinnest and cheapest material she had ever seen, with the  
lowest, most vulgar neckline possible. Not to mention it was just plain ugly. A whore's  
dress. Knowing Javert was outside, Marie ripped the fabric of the dress to shreds and  
stomped to the tent flap. She threw the shreds at him and screeched, "I'll not wear that!  
I'd rather wear this dirty dress of mine than that rag!"  
  
Javert fumed. "Fine. Have it your way! All the better so the costumers will know  
they're really getting a piece of the upper class. But I'll make sure it hurts on your part.  
I'll enjoy this," he gloated to himself.  
  
Marie made a grab for his neck, but he pulled his knife on her in a second.  
  
"Get back in there. And do it fast."  
  
Marie quickly stepped back in the dark tent. She realised with horror that it was  
probably hers. A bed, or rather a cot of some sort with a mattress was the only thing in the  
tent, save for a bucket full of water, a dirty bit of soap, and a rag that served as a foul  
excuse for a towel. She dipped her finger into icy water, and told herself she wouldn't  
wash with that, but she couldn't wait to wash her skin free of Javert's touch. She decided  
she might as well wash her dress, or attempt to. She'd never had to wash a thing in her  
life! Thankfully, it dried quickly and she slipped it back on.  
  
It was refreshing to be clean again, even if it was cold water. She couldn't do a  
thing about her hair, but let it cascade down her shoulders, nearly touching the ground.  
She'd never be able to use her ivory combs to fix it by herself, and hid them in her pocket.   
It was unbrushed, and far from lavish. Anything to make her unbeautiful now.   
  
Marie began crying again, as she caught sight of the bed. She tried in vain to wipe  
her tears and peeked out of the tent. Javert was nowhere to be seen, but the scraps of  
fabric were. She picked up a strip and tightly wrapped her wrist. Then she snuck out of  
the tent.  
  
Finding a large rock, she sat down, not far from the tent, but still surrounded by  
foliage. Marie played her lyre, soothing herself. She could almost forget she was a  
prisoner in a gypsy camp and that she was just enjoying the scenery of the woods. The  
trees seemed to whisper all the while around her. She soon felt a presence, and thinking it  
to be Javert, she hid herself behind the rock and waited. But nothing happened. Relieved,  
she stood up, and found, to her horror it was Javert.  
  
"I won't be a whore!" Marie insisted furiously. "Never!"  
  
Javert didn't move but grinned his awful sly grin.  
  
"No, I've decided you'd bring in more money if you play that harp of yours.  
Dressed like that, you can be the angel, and be shown with the demon. Yes, that will do.  
An angel from heaven and a demon from hell."  
  
Marie stepped back, relieved somewhat of her fate. "It's a lyre, and what do you  
mean, demon?"  
  
"Corpse boy. He'll play his violin, and be the demon from hell. You'll play your  
lyre and be the angel from heaven. And afterwards, paying customers can have a look at  
you," he continued, sneering.  
  
"No, they won't," replied Marie crossly. "I'll agree to play my lyre with this  
corpse boy of yours, but I'll not prostitute myself for slobbering pigs like yourself."  
  
Javert turned to leave.   
  
"Very well. But you're still mine." 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four  
  
  
Marie didn't move from her spot the rest of the day. She sat there and pouted, and  
was glad no one bothered her. Come late afternoon, Javert crashed through the  
underbrush and grabbed her free arm. Marie began to fight, but Javert's grip was too  
tight.  
  
"Showtime," he informed her.  
  
Before she knew what was happening, she was thrown roughly into a cage and  
then a cover was tossed over it. She thought herself alone until she saw two golden orbs  
in the dark.  
  
"It's you!" Marie gasped. "But you're not corpse boy!"  
  
The golden orbs became watery but he didn't speak.  
  
Marie opened her mouth to talk more when Javert gave the cage a kick.  
  
"When the cover lifts - play!"  
  
Another kick was directed at the boy in the corner.  
  
"And you - you know what to do, ugly."  
Marie started to panic like a trapped animal and tried to get out.  
  
"Don't," whispered the boy. "It will only make it worse."  
  
The cover lifted to show a crowed of leering people. Marie wanted to cry out for  
help, but Javert was standing off to one side looking like Lucifer himself. He made an  
angry gesture for her to start and she had but no choice.  
  
So Marie sat in the cage and played out her heart. She play the numerous hymns  
she knew, and then her own meloncholy lullabies. She felt the tears running down her  
cheeks, and absently noticed that others in the crowd were wiping at their eyes.   
  
Marie stopped and looked at the boy. He had on a porcelin mask covering his  
face, which she had been unable to see before. His eyes weren't visible and she couldn't  
see their golden colour that she had become so used to. He picked up the violin and began  
to play. Marie had never heard it executed with such precision before. She gasped. He  
was playing the anguished melody she had played only the night before when she had  
improvised. He played it exactly, without a single flaw, never missing a single note.  
  
He set down the violin carefully as the crowd clapped with delight. Javert's face  
was fuming for some reason and he made a sign to the boy. The boy just sat there, not  
doing a thing. Javert stormed over to the cage and held a knife against the boy's back,  
where the audience couldn't see.  
  
"Take it off," he growled.  
  
The boy didn't seem to hear him, and sat there, staring blankly ahead. The knife  
was jabbed closer, and the boy's back began to bleed. He didn't cry out in pain, but  
slowly reached for his mask.  
  
Marie felt as though the air had been torn from her lungs. The boy's face was  
horribly deformed. He did actually look like a living corpse. Marie wanted to scream in  
terror, but she couldn't make herself do it. His eyes were infinintely said, but distant and  
unfocused.  
  
Marie felt her stomach turn and covered her mouth, but unable to tear her eyes  
away from the boy. The cover was tossed back on the cage as Javert dealt with the crowd.  
The golden eyes reappeared instantly, seeming to run together, they were so watery. Even  
though he had replaced the mask, Marie was still scared. The thing in the cage with her  
was a monster.  
  
"What are you?" breathed Marie unsteadily.  
  
"Go away!" whispered the boy. Javert evidently was listening and interposed.  
  
"She can't. You're both locked in there. I suggest you two get acquainted. You're  
both going to be spending some time in there together! She might even show you a good  
time, corpse boy!" He laughed wickedly at his own joke and sauntered away.  
  
It was now the boy's turn to stare at her.  
  
Marie scowled. "It's not what you think. It's what that dog wishes. I tried to kill  
him, but he's stronger than me," she lamented.  
  
The golden eyes were wide.  
  
"You did?" he asked incredulously.  
  
"I just said I did, didn't I? But it'll just give me time to think of my escape."  
  
"He'll just find you and bring you back. He always does," he answered, barely  
above a whisper.  
  
Marie gasped. "How many times have you run away?"  
  
The boy stayed silent and Marie realised she wouldn't be able to make him answer  
for anything.  
  
"What's your name?" she tried.  
  
He didn't answer.  
  
"You have a name, everyone does."  
  
"Corpse boy," he whispered hatefully.  
  
Marie shook her head.  
  
"No, it's not. That's Javert's name for you."  
  
He paused and whispered, "Erik."  
  
"Erik," Marie echoed. "I'm Marie LeFougueux."  
  
Erik thought for a moment and then murmured, "Like fire?"  
  
Marie laughed out loud. "Yes." She gave the cage a kick. "And if you're out  
there, Javert, unlock the cage! You hear me?" And then to herself when she received no  
answer, "Damn him! Damn him to hell!"  
  
She felt Erik look at her as though she was a crazy woman, but almost seeming to  
grin at her temper. She felt quite satisfied with herself. 


End file.

Phantom of the Opera, Angst, Drama