Phantom of the Opera 1. The Window

None of this even remotely belongs to me excpet the positioning of the words.

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The rain hammered relentlessly on the shingled roofs, a steady noise dull and distant as the gray world. Through the streaks on the glass, the blur of evening, and two sets of curtains in two seperate windows, he watched the shape in the other room.

The silhouette was not large, was, in fact, slight and of the suggestion of a woman. He assumed it _was_ a woman; the rosy curtains in her window opposite his were indicative of this. He had never seen her, whether entering or exiting her building.

A car rumbled along the street, its headlights sweeping gold and shadow across the naked walls of his room. In the silence of the sudden light, deep gouges across the bolted door became stark in contrast to the scuffed wood. Wounds to the walls turned to bruises; the newest one by his shoulder gaping black.

He peeled back the lower right corner of his curtains, catching another furtive glimpse as her silhouette stooped to retrieve something from her floor. Ideas as to what it could be sprang instantly to his mind, chasing each other in circles as the woman wandered out of view.

He imagined that she was dark. She would have rich, bronzed skin, so different from his own, like that of the family who had lived in her house two owners ago. Her hair would be long, and black, cascading like waves down her back and across her shoulders.

He brought an ashen finger to his cracked lips, picking at the dead skin as he waited for her to return. Below him, in some other part of the house, voices and the sound of doors opening and closing filtered up to of his room. He considered climbing down from the tiny bedframe and streaching out flat against the stained floor, pressing a mangled ear to it in hopes of sating curiosity. Whatever went on in the rest of the house and with the family who lived below never concerned him. He saw them in the yard from time to time, from his little window: Working with the soil, planting flowers, wandering in and out of his line of sight across the grass.

Erik took great care never to meet them. It was only in the dead hours of the night that he ever left his attic, only when nescessity forced him out through the pinched window and down the side of the house to steal supplies from their refrigerator and cupboards. Water and plumbing were of no concern; his mother had made sure to install a toilet and sink so that greater messes were not produced.

Problems would only occur in one of two events, the first an almost inevitable eventuality. Either someday someone would happen upon him in the act of theft, or else someone might decide to break down the wall sealing off the back room of the attic.

The last time his mother had spoken to him she had been dying of cancer. This, like everything else, was certainly his fault. Erik had sat just on the other side of the bolted door, listening as she explained that she was shutting him away for good behind a wall, and then was going to put up some lovely wallpaper so that no one would ever think to tare it down, to break through to the other side and find his body. He had sucked his thumb and watched the light slowly fade from the crack at the base of the door, and from the gouges his feet had kicked in the wood.

There were more voices from below. Erik reflected wryly that in the interveining years, perhaps she had inadvertantly done him a favor. He was safe. No one could find him; no one knew he even existed.

He turned back to the window, hoping for another glance of the silhouette. In his mind a bizzare kind of camraderie existed between them, almost as if the woman he had never seen was his special secret, his . . . his. . . .

He did not have a word for it. He had seen men and women below, on the strip of grass in the sideyard of his mother's house, and in the backyard of the house opposite. An occasional glimpse from the far end of the tiny window revealed the sidewalk, and the few pairs of women and men who found close company with the other as they walked. Once, years before the silhouette had moved into the opposite house, he had seen its former owners together in the seclusion of a room, enacting the most complex and disturbing form of. . . .

Somehow _fighting_ was not the correct way of describing it, exactly, although despite searching his memory there seemed no better word for it. They did not seem angry.

A flash of movement caught his attention, and Erik felt his heart pound wildly. He turned back to the other window, then felt the distorted fleash across his face streach taunt in rage. The silhouette behind the rosy curtains was not _her_ silhouette.

His sunken eyes narrowed as he surveyed the newcommer, a shadow both taller and sturdier than the slender original. When realization dawned that the form was male, Erik flung the edge of his curtain shut in fury.

_How dare she? How_ dare _she?_ She was his, his own, his shadow, and no one else's. Erik paced back and forth, skeletal feet tracing well-worn paths on the floor. He whirled, then snatched up the edge of his curtain enough to see the slender shadow step back into the glow. He watched her put a hand on the back of the man's shoulder, guiding him out of view and away from the window.

In fury he dug his fingers into his scarred face, leaving burning streaks. _Who was that? Why was there a man in her room?_ The questions twisted around each other, coiled serpants in the growing dark. Streetlights had come on, hateful light where night should have rested, omnipotent. Erik paced, teeth bared as he struggled to suppress himself, to remain silent least he risk alerting the family beneith to his presence.

_Who was that man?_ The scene returned to him again, unbidden, the image of one man, one woman moulding into each other. He flew to the window, heedless of whether his bare feet created noise, and flung back the curtain for another look.

Her window was empty. The vacant, rosy glow seemed to mock him, and he waited restlessly for her silhouette to reappear. To reappear alone. Just for him.

As the minutes streached long, he dragged his nails down the wood beside the window. The rain began to lessen, and it occured to him that, standing as he was, his hideous face was entirely visable to anyone below.

In desperation he continued to wait, letting the curtain fall back slowly, very slowly. One more minute turned to five, and when it became obvious that the woman would not reappear he carefully relaxed his fingers. The black curtains rustled to a close, obscuring the outside world.

Erik stood deathly still, listening to the rain and, to a lesser degree, the pounding of his own heart. For a long while the world narrowed, tunneled deeper until all that remained of eternity was the hollow sound of his shallow breathing. He crawled to the end of the tiny bed and knelt at its foot, gnawing at his arm to stop the wail rising in the back of his throat. She was gone, gone away from him, and he had not felt so abandoned since his mother's death.

Cursing himself and his world in the sealed room of the attic, Erik twisted onto his back. His eyes traced the rivulets on the window, and the idea to destroy the man his Silhouette had found began to fester. Somehow, somehow, if only there were no one else, perhaps the woman in the window . . . she might. . . .

He pushed a thumb into his mouth, uncertain as to what it was he wanted. A shadow thrown against a window, forevermore a candle in the night, a beacon of a sort. He sucked his thumb idly, a lifeline to the world as hatred died and was replaced by a well of misery. 


	2. The Garden, and the Apple

None of this even remotely belongs to me, especially not _Capri Sun_ or _Snakes on a Plane_.

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It was later in the week when food ran low, and Erik began to calculate the next raid. Leaving the attic room was always risky, and he held no misconceptions that each venture outside increased the likelihood of his eventual discovery. As dusk swept long brushstrokes across the town, Erik paced, fingers curling and uncurling.

He did not once glance at the black curtains. The tiny spray of light across the end of the worn floorboards was testament enough to the hour, inching upward like so many maggots. When the color had burned away, white to orange to dust, he pressed the side of his head to the floor.

Summer sunset was hardly the shepherd to the family's bedtime, but on occasion they would leave the house for a few hours at this event. Generally, every fourteen days; always with loud voices upon returning.

Luck was in agreement with tonight-- Erik held his breath as he listened to the noises below move the length of the house, move through the front door, and start the family car. He stood and paced, flexing his fingers and fidgeting in abject boredom as he counted to two-thousand. When the family had still not returned, he risked a peek through the window.

Darkness hovered above the street, held at bay by the lurid lights. Erik studied the scene, watching for potentially prying eyes and feeling a surge of relief when he discovered none. An onlooker would certainly have many questions for a pale, thin man climbing out of one window and into another, especially when he was not a member of the resident family.

A few more minutes passed, and Erik finally hooked the ends of his fingernails beneath the his window. Shoving upwards, he managed to raise the pane high enough to wedge his hands beneath it. A rest to catch his breath and then another heave; warm wind sighed around him, blowing the curtains against his upper torso and face.

Erik felt to assure himself that his cloth mask was in place, that the knot was secure, and then shoved the curtains to the side. Extending a leg through the small window, he carefully balanced himself, then let the second join the first. The sill dug painfully into his stomach; Erik eased himself over the side until he hung, suspended, beside the trellis. He was careful not to prick himself on the way down, clutching awkwardly at the wood wherever space allowed between the thorny vines.

He dropped the last meter to the grass, and allowed himself a moment in pause. He flexed his toes, marveling at the cool, damp, and vaguely prickly sensation throughout his feet and ankles. Steeling himself, Erik climbed the fence into the back.

The first time he had emerged from the attic room to find the backyard changed, it had been a frightening shock. Gone were his mother's careful gardens of roses, tulips, and hydrangea-- the ground which had held them had been infested by weeds, choked and gnarled until it was barely recognizable. He had abandoned his quest for food to pull frantically at them, ripping the invaders from the earth and leaving them to rot on the flagstone path. In the end it was hopeless; his faded strength could not accomplish what it was he had wanted, and so the garden died. By the time his mother's house had been purged of her remnants and resold, the backyard was a festering wasteland.

Purged, once more, a row of little purple flowers guarded the concrete walkway to the kitchen door, and its nearby window. Erik jiggled the pane, then smirked as it popped open. He climbed inside, careful of the dishes stacked precariously in the sink.

The refrigerator held few items of interest; the present family, unlike the last, were not so much connoisseurs of cooking as they were of quick meals and lunch meats. Erik pushed aside a carton of milk, monochrome leftovers wrapped in plastic, various deli goods, and a cheese ball. Occasionally the daughter would halfheartedly buy something more nutritious-- and there! Placed innocuously behind a case of Capri Sun fruit juice was a nearly untouched salad, its greens stiff and fresh, intermingled with slices of fruit. He navigated it from its place of rest, then sat it down on the counter to continue his pursuit.

He had nearly finished with the pantry when something rectangular and multicolored caught his eye. Abandoning the food, Erik made his way to the large, wooden table upon which sat something he had not seen in a long while.

A computer.

Erik hunched over it, staring at the slideshow of close-up flowers. Hesitantly, he tapped

the touch pad, and a large image of an airplane entwined with snakes appeared, against a black background. Erik stared at it, then tried to make sense of the accompanying text.

The list of numbers and small pictogram film reel provided the key; he realized that he was looking at the advertisement for a movie. After glancing around in growing apprehension, Erik shut the computer and added it and the charger to the contents of his supply bag. He unlocked the front door and pushed it slightly open before heading out through the kitchen window.


	3. The Window, II

As usual, not mine.

A/N: Thank you so much, lenore en noir, for taking the time to review me-- and especially so thoroughly! I was worried that this story wouldn't work, because it was so different than anything I've seen out there. Here is the next chapter:

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A constant thumping shook the walls of the attic room, the trace of some endeavor of the family below. Erik sat with his back against the small bed, computer propped on his knees as he struggled to ignore the sound. Whatever they were doing, it had been going on at intervals for the last several days.

Pacing did nothing to banish the compressed feeling, and as thumping wore on Erik had systematically attempted different means of extracting himself from the torment. Shredded, now, the thin bedding lay in dry pieces of fluff across the floor, which itself had been scraped mercilessly until traces of blood lay between the grooves. At one point the noise had been enough to press the old carving knife between his hands, and Erik had resumed pacing with the feeble threads of a plan.

His eyes rolled shut as a new flurry of pounding began. Kindly as it might seem, halting the sound was not in his abilities. Arousing suspicion was the last thing he wanted. Doing anything at all would result in discovery and the horrific unknown, with its promises of death or persecution. His mother had hinted often enough at what would happen to him, should he ever let himself be seen.

". . . _like the corpse you are_." The echoed words were dry, raspy. Erik flipped open the dormant computer, clumsily navigating its functions as he tried not to imagine suffocating in darkness below the surface of the earth. Trying, also, to ignore the coil of dangerous power the relentless pounding stirred.

_When they sleep_. . . .

He was not entirely sure why computers held as much esteem as they did. All in all, they did nothing much more than make words appear and disappear, and little boxes skirt back and forth.

_They don't know you're here_. . . .

The last one he had seen made a tiny silver circle careen from side to side of yet another, more colorful box. His mother had used one to converse with other people, somehow; people who lived in their own, smaller boxes. Somehow, somewhere, he had heard music from the machine.

It was this last he tried to find again. Beautiful noise, unlike anything he had heard before or since, although frail echoes remained: The wordless sounds he had made before strangers had moved into his mother's house, and he'd made himself be quiet. The sounds occasionally blasting through the neighborhood, nowhere near as lovely but melodic nonetheless.

Erik leaned his head back, listening as sounds effortlessly fell into patterns for his ears alone. He had no way to record them; he knew them from memory and forced repetition. It had been his diversion, when others could not suffice, and now that he had a computer he could find the music he had once heard.

He tapped a finger impatiently, accidentally activating a blue letter. He watched it bounce, and glanced at the torn scraps of sheet piled to muffle the speakers. _Maybe this time?_

Erik jumped when laughter broke through the thumping, a sound closer at hand and surprisingly pleasing. He turned, slowly, then felt his face tighten when he realized that it came from the Silhouette's house. He turned his back resolutely, chin raised as an acidic pain filled his insides.

The thumping paused. Erik sighed, shoulders slumping, his ears automatically sharpening for the first strains of the new round. He glanced at the computer, then scowled as an irritating medley of beeps and screeches emanated from it. Erik pressed his hands over the muffled speakers as the Silhouette giggled again.

Breathing through his teeth, he moved the computer aside and stood, creeping up to the edge of his window. Slipping thin fingers beneath the corner or the curtains, Erik lifted them just enough to glance down at her window.

A numbing wave passed through him when he realized that the rosy curtains were gone. The window itself was in full view, raised, the room revealed for the first time. A figure stood with his back turned, his hands outstretched out of view as if holding something. Blond, he wore a dark shirt and stood some several inches shorter than Erik himself.

"That's really good!" the woman said, somewhere out of sight. There was the sound of pages turning. "Oh, wow. Brian, that's really great!"

"Thanks. Here's the one from the camping trip. . . ."

"Wow!"

His grip on the heavy curtains tightened, and Erik narrowed his eyes. If he had been able to drive the knife into the man's back he would have; to hell with discovery. But the distance was more than ten feet.

"Draw something now," the Silhouette eagerly suggested.

"Okay. . . . Hmm." There was a pause, and the maelstrom brewing in Erik's chest flared. He pushed the curtain farther out of his way, staring fully into the man's upper spine. "Okay, come stand over here."

The man pulled his arms into view, bringing with them a pad of paper. He reached out, positioning the Silhouette somewhere beyond the window. Turned to face the neighboring house, Brian retrieved a pencil and took a seat at the end of the bed.

"Don't make me ugly," the Silhouette teased.

"Impossible." He grinned, propping the pad against his raised knees.

Erik curled his fingers.

Brian began sketching. Time trickled by, each moment one more spark, and more plans began unfurling within the confines of Erik's thoughts. He studied the room, the brown paisley bed, the fish tank in the corner where the water glowed blue. Brian glanced up frequently, taking in the room from the other side of the bedroom wall.

Erik ached for his Silhouette to move, to step closer, so that he could catch even the slightest glimpse. He could tell where she was, the way the other man kept flicking his gaze toward one wall, and he imagined her face bathed in silvery light. Brian's eyes moved again, finding elements of her surroundings. The window, the two trees outside.

His pencil moved rapidly, eyes resting on her once more.

Then, blue eyes locked directly with yellow.

Erik saw the other man's eyes go wide, his arm stop in mid stroke. Too late, Erik flung the curtain shut and dove behind the far side of his small bed. Arms wrapped protectively around his head, he tried not to breathe.

In the distance, the pounding resumed.

Erik waited for a shriek, or perhaps a shout for the authorities, for any noise at all that would indicate he was about to be buried alive. His mouth fell open in noiseless terror. Now it would come. He had been seen. _She had said_. There was nothing at all from the other house, not yet, but any time . . . any time now. . . .

After a moment, the Silhouette's window scraped shut.


	4. Escape

A/N: Apparently this site automatically excludes unsigned reviews. I think I fixed it. . . .  
Thanks to everyone who was able to leave me a review. I'm glad you all seem to like this Erik; it's always nice to know your balancing act works!

I'm looking for a beta, if anyone's interested, whether for this story alone or simply in general.

As a warning, this chapter contains two words of profane language, one of which starts with 'f'.  
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A red sun set in a reflection on a neighbor's car, the last of its rays arcing through the chill air amidst the scent of a final barbecue. Autumn leaves quivered, one by one surrendering life to the circle of seasons. Through the width of his mother's house Erik heard the family, its children squealing from the backyard as someone else repeatedly opened and closed the kitchen door. He inhaled the scent of cooking meat and tried not to fixate heavily upon it.

Idly tapping the keys, Erik watched the computer bring up his favorite box. It was something he had discovered during the long quest for music; a wonderful diversion consisting of various colored rectangles, a bouncing circle, and one more rectangle at the base which he could move back and forth. The object was to get the circle to pop every colored rectangle without rebounding and slipping passed the moveable one.

Erik was quite good at it.

He traced a finger across the touch pad, catching the circle and sending it back upward, pausing only to stuff a handful of crackers into his mouth to sate the rolling hunger. Perhaps that evening he could take whatever leftovers the family saved.

The thought made him smile, and he missed the next catch. Scowling, Erik got rid of the game.

He stared in blank aggravation at the computer, then selected another mysterious symbol from the gray rectangle at the bottom of the screen. Music was yet elusive; he could not begin to imagine where it might be hidden or which words or pictures might summon it. It was all he could do to simply continue the hunt, testing everything as it came.

The current symbol brought forth yet another box; Erik gave its list of words little thought before tapping the arrow over the first entry. More words appeared, filling the entirety of a new, larger box. Bored, Erik made it leave and continued the process.

The hours wore on in this manner, and when the last sound from below had long since died away, his eyes flicked upward. Setting the computer on the bed, he stood, stretching, and glanced through a slit in his curtains. The neighborhood was dark save for a few scattered windows, and the ever-present streetlights. His eyes narrowed in anticipation.

The other man had come to the Silhouette's house earlier in the day.

He had not left.

Erik picked up his faded mask from its place at the end of the bed, leaving behind scrapes in the covering of dust. The mask was old, smelled foul, and pressed close against his mouth and what nose he had; it was also his oldest remaining possession. His mother had given it to him, when he had outgrown the last one. He tied the knot with a grimace.

Stooping to retrieve the knife, Erik studied it before slipping it cautiously into his belt. He took a few steps, testing the positioning, then moved it to rest against his left hip. A glance through window assured him of relative safety.

Erik pushed the curtains aside and eased his way out, giving the neighborhood one more look. His face twisted into a smile, reveling in newfound power and the sudden thrill of a different kind of hunt-- then he hissed and flung the knife away toward the ground.

He probed a finger against the injury, wiped it on his shirt, and glared through the darkness at the opposite house.

He had not risked looking at it for a long time after the man had seen him, hoping that perhaps the other would forget, or would figure Erik as nothing more than a figment of his imagination, a misshapen reflection on the glass. Afterwards, he had studied her house only when wearing his mask, no matter how closely sealed his curtains.

Erik landed on his hands and feet, and began the search for his weapon. The damp grass was surprisingly pleasing beneath his touch, moreso than when simply trodden underfoot.

The knife lay gleaming to his right. He pulled blades of dead or severed grass from its side, and crept to the Silhouette's backyard fence, keeping the handle tight in his right fist. Climbing was no difficulty, and soon he found himself standing on a concrete walkway around the edge of a large body of water. Like a bathtub, almost, in grander scale. He tread carefully around it.

Erik stalked through the grassy backyard with his eyes fixed on the house, searching for a way in which he might gain access to its interior. When he reached the back door, he made sure to secure himself from the view of anyone above, and tugged the handle in hopeless effort. He bared his teeth behind the mask, continued onward around the side of the house, and pulled on the kitchen door. He tried the window.

Aggravated, he went back to the fence, measuring distance and calculating whether with enough momentum he could grab the base of the little balcony. A moment passed, and then he made up his mind and pulled himself up to crouch awkwardly on the top.

The fence that ran between the houses was not made for decoration; it was stone and it was sturdy, and the top formed just enough width for a cat to lounge. Erik pushed himself to his feet, throwing an arm out wildly as equilibrium veered sharply to the right and then back, overcompensating, and just managed to steady himself by bending double.

He stood, very slowly.

The balcony erupted from the second story several feet ahead of him, a precarious distance which hung somewhere between _too far_ and _maybe_. It could very well be possible, provided he didn't sabotage his attempt with the fear of hurting himself.

Erik eyed the railing which ran about the perimeter, and the small spaces in between the scalloped bars. Giving a last look at the vacant street, he tossed the knife onto the balcony, crouched, then sprang forward, arms flying out to catch anything with the ability to support his weight.

He managed to snake a hand around one of the bars. The other joined; Erik hissed between his teeth as he struggled to pull himself upward. Finally, he swung himself onto the other side and stood panting.

From this vantage point the world seemed very far away. The two trees, the fence, the street and his mother's house-- all became surrealistic when seen from such a strange angle. He looked at the open curtains to his attic room, and the darkness behind. Steeling himself, Erik picked up his knife and turned.

Directly before him was a sliding glass door, the threshold to the Silhouette's home. Beyond its open curtains lay more darkness, and somewhere, inside, was the other man.

He wrapped his fingers around the handle, and pulled. The door jerked, then froze as the lock caught. Furious, Erik jiggled it, hoping to dislodge the mechanism the way he could with his mother's kitchen window. When nothing happened he pushed the door hard into its frame, then pulled backwards, repeating until it became obvious that entry was simply not possible.

A light from within flared. Erik threw a hand up to shield his eyes, horrified, and managed to grab the railing before he fell. He was caught in space and radiance, and utterly blind.

Something heavy slammed into the glass door from the other side. Terrified, Erik stumbled and landed hard at the base of the railing, arms flying up to protect his head. The knife skittered away, over the edge of the balcony.

"Get the fuck out of here, you bastard!" There was another impact. Pinned by fear, he tried to curl into the bars-- and a third slam followed by a sickening crunch broke the moment.

Erik stood, seized the railing and used it to swing himself over and away; he collapsed when he hit the ground, then shoved himself to his feet and sprinted away from the house. He raced passed his mother's, veering right and onto the sidewalk, bare feet pounding against the pavement. Each step sent jolts of crippling pain through his ankles and lower legs, a discomfort ignored in favor of flight.

In his mind, there was the sound of scraping shovels. 


End file.

Phantom of the Opera, Drama, Horror