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Born Ugly: Book One	By : KassandraRamsey Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > AU/AR Views: 1149 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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A/N: Thanks for the reviews, I hope you continue to enjoy it. Once again, thanks to my lovely beta Michelle.

Chapter Two

The surgery didn’t work. They’d given me a fake cheekbone that collapsed after only a day. I ended up looking worse than I had before the surgery.

My grandmother pitied me so much that she said I wouldn’t have to pay her back, but I knew she wouldn’t have been so generous had she not just inherited a lot of money from her aunt.

The doctor was profusely apologetic, and told me that he was going to give me a prosthetic to wear over my face. This would be to protect the thin skin and to hold the sagging skin up. It was a flesh-colored mask, definitely an improvement over the ones I’d had in the past.

I spent the next eleven years being home-schooled. I simply did the work that the school gave my grandmother, then did my own projects.

I drew pictures, made model airplanes, and read almost every book in the local library. I spent most of my days in the library. The librarian, Mrs. Peterson, had been suspicious about me at first, but my grandmother explained my situation to her, and she became fascinated by me. She welcomed me every morning with a smile, and a new book or article for me to read. I learned a lot under her informal tutelage, and had even begun to think of Mrs. Peterson as a friend.

She got teary-eyed when I told her this, and she soon gave me a pass so that I could use the computer to get on the internet. What an amazing invention! Anything one could possibly want to know about could be found in this vast pool of knowledge.

Mrs. Peterson delighted in expanding my knowledge on a number of different subjects. There was one thing, however, that I avoided like a plague. Music. At the very word, a torrent of heartache would nearly bring me to my knees. I couldn’t stand listening to the radio, and there were many times when I’d change the channel or turn off the television completely because of the music. The mute and captions buttons became my best friends.

The one time she brought it up, I became so upset that I nearly passed out. She had to drive me home that night as I was in no condition to walk the three miles home. I went straight to my room, but I could hear her and my grandmother talking down the hall.

My grandmother told her of the incident when I was four days old. I hadn’t tried to sing since then, and rejected all of her attempts to change that.

After Mrs. Peterson left, I laid awake for hours pondering the situation. My aversion to music was too strong for it to be about that one incident. There had to be another reason for it.

That night, I dreamed of music. I was sitting at an elaborate organ, pounding on the keys and filling a cavernous room with swells of sound. I wanted desperately to stop, but I couldn’t. I played on and on, tears streaming down my face, until I heard a voice singing.

Where is my Angel of Music?
Come to me Angel of Music

It was lovely and pure, and I began weeping for an entirely different reason.

I awoke shivering, the sweet voice ringing through my head.

One morning when I was twelve, I walked in the front door of the library and came to a halt. Mrs. Peterson was not behind the counter. Instead, there was a severe looking woman glaring suspiciously at my mask. Her nametag read, ‘Ms. Putman’.

I wanted to scream with rage, and had to take a deep breath to calm myself. This abrupt deviation from the routine that I was quite fond of left me shaken. As politely as I could, I demanded that Ms. Putman tell me where Mrs. Peterson was.

She sniffed and told me very haughtily that the old woman’s house had caught fire the night before, and it would be several days before she would return to work if she returned at all.

“Where is her house?” I asked.

“I’m sorry young man, but I cannot give you that information,” she said, with a smug smile.

I wanted to hurt her. To burn down her house so that she would know the pain that Mrs. Peterson was undoubtedly suffering from. But I didn’t. I just thanked her, and walked quickly to the computers. It was nothing for me to hack into the library’s personnel files, and I grinned in triumph once I had retrieved the address.

I covered my tracks and logged out of the computer. It had only taken about five minutes, and Ms. Putnam stopped me as I was leaving.

“What were you doing?” she demanded.

“Checking my e-mail,” I said, nonchalantly.

“I don’t like this. A kid your age should be in school right now.”

I didn’t respond, just ducked around her, and hurried away.

It was a good ten-mile hike to Mrs. Peterson’s. Her house had been small, but the property it sat on was huge. Fifteen acres, most of it covered in trees. Her house sat in a small clearing in the middle. It was a lovely place for a house, nice and secluded. I fell in love with it instantly.

She was sitting on a lawn chair, staring despondently at the blackened remains of her house. Two men were walking through the wreckage with clipboards, and would stop every now and then to take a picture.

Another man stood off to the side talking heatedly into a cell phone.

I cautiously approached her.

“Mrs. Peterson?”

“Huh? Oh, hello Daniel. I’d invite you in for cookies but…” she trailed off with a humorless smile.

I nodded, and then sat down on the grass at her feet. For some reason I couldn’t quite understand, I felt very protective of her and didn’t want to leave.

“That’s my son on the phone over there. He flew in this morning from New York to help me out, but he’s been on the phone all morning. I guess I should just be grateful he came at all,” she admitted sheepishly.

I felt the desire to hurt her son, who was on the phone yelling at someone named Murray about a contract.

“What can I do to help?” I asked, forcing the violent thoughts from my mind.

She blinked at me, then smiled.

“Oh, sweetheart, thank you for offering, but there’s really nothing anyone can do now,” she pointed out.

I looked at the ruined house then turned back to her.

“Well, you’ll have to rebuild it, won’t you?” I asked.

Mrs. Peterson sighed in regret.

“I really love this land. It holds so many memories of Jack and the kids. But Andrew, my son, tells me I should take the insurance money and buy a new place. He wants me to move to an apartment in the city.”

I made a face and she laughed.

“My thoughts exactly,” she said with a smile.

I looked around again at the peaceful woods then back at my one friend in the world and realized what had to be done.

I took a notebook and pencil out of the backpack I always carried with me.

I told her to describe her dream house for me. I’m sure she thought it nothing more than a game, but she needed a distraction if nothing else.

We spent a good four hours going over every detail of this house she wished for. At first she seemed not to really know what she wanted, but the more she thought about it, the more ideas came to her.

“Mom? It’s time to return to the hotel,” her son said, holding his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone.

She glared at him, then sighed.

“Alright, I’m ready,” she said, defeated.

I helped her up from the lawn chair, then carried it to her son’s car and loaded it into the trunk.

She thanked me, then looked around.

“How did you get all the way out here?” she asked.

“I walked.”

“Well, get in the car. We’ll take you home.”

I obediently climbed into the back seat and buckled up.

Mrs. Peterson walked over to her son and started talking, gesturing to me. Andrew rolled his eyes looking very put out, but at a stern look from his mother, nodded reluctantly.

She looked satisfied as she walked back to the car and sat in the passenger seat.

“He’s going to make sure that the insurance men have our number at the hotel, then we’ll take you home,” she explained.

“Thanks. Mrs. Peterson, what hotel are you staying at?” I asked.

“The Holiday Inn down the street from the library,” she said.

“Can I come visit you tomorrow?”

“Oh, we’ll be meeting with the insurance company in the morning, but you’re welcome to come in the afternoon.”

“Promise me you won’t sell this land,” I said.

“Daniel, I don’t think I have a choice,” she said, though her eyes looked wistful in the rearview mirror.

I sighed.

“Fine, then promise you’ll wait until after you see me tomorrow afternoon,” I insisted.

She held my gaze in the mirror for a long moment, then blinked when her son opened the driver side door. She turned around in her seat to look at me, then nodded.

I smiled at her and leaned back in my seat, in my mind the plan was already formulating.

The library was closed when I returned late that evening, but that didn’t deter me in the least. I picked the lock on the door, and easily shut off the alarm. It was a government facility, and that meant that the security system was at least ten-years-old.

I spent six hours gathering information from the internet and finding books to help me with my project.

My grandmother was upset when I got home at half-past ten, but I told her about my day and she calmed down. She was glad that I had found a new project to occupy myself with. She always worried that I’d get up to mischief if I didn’t have something to keep me busy.

I worked all night on the blueprints and plans for Mrs. Peterson’s new house. My grandmother would bring me coffee and snacks as I worked. She never said anything to me just watched me work with a quiet awe. She finally went to bed a little after two am. I worked faster without her looking over my shoulder, and five hours later, I finished.

I spent several hours on the phone the next morning, pretending to be Andrew, Mr. Peterson's son. After much finagling, I persuaded several contractors to meet me at her property at eleven.

My grandmother drove me out there, and I was pleased to see that the men were already there.

“You go on, I’ll wait in the car,” she told me, lighting up a cigarette.

I took a deep breath, and left the car, carrying the plans I’d spent the night laboring over with me.

At first they seemed a bit bemused by me, but as I rolled out the plans and began discussing the job, they quickly became absorbed in my project.

Within two hours, I had three different estimates from builders, electricians, plumbers, landscapers, and interior decorators. I thanked them all, and promised to be in touch very soon.

Now, all I had to do was convince Mrs. Peterson and her son that rebuilding would be a much better option than moving.

When I arrived at the Holiday Inn, Mrs. Peterson was in the lobby waiting for me. She looked a little harassed, and I hurried over to her.

“Daniel, the insurance company is ready to cut me a check, and my son is trying to get them to forward it to his account. I had to stand up to him to stop him, and now I’m worried.”

She looked at me imploringly.

“Why did I do that?” she asked.

I gave her a reassuring smile, and began spreading out the plans on a low table.

Her eyes widened as she looked over my work, and for the first time, I felt nervous about my idea. She was my teacher for all intents and purposes, and I really didn’t want to disappoint her.

“Oh, Daniel! These are incredible! Did you do this yourself? Last night?” she demanded, her eyes pouring over the pages in excitement.

“Yes. And I met with some contractors this morning,” I replied, grinning as I showed her the estimates.

“Well, this isn’t bad at all! I can afford this,” she exclaimed happily.

Unfortunately, her good mood didn’t last very long, thanks to her son.

Andrew yelled at her for ‘going behind his back’. Then he yelled at me for interfering where I wasn’t wanted. He basically threw a fit, and I made sure to stand between him and Mrs. Peterson the whole time.

“I can’t believe you’re taking the advice of a twelve-year-old over me!” he raged.

“He’s a prodigy, Andrew! If you’d just look at the plans you’d see…”

“I’m your son! I know what’s best for you!” he cut her off angrily.

There was a tense silence, and I felt Mrs. Peterson put a hand on my shoulder. I didn’t dare take my eyes off of Andrew.

“Daniel has been more of a son to me than you could ever hope to be,” she said, quietly.

Andrew’s face fell. He seemed very hurt by her words.

“Fine. You’re on your own then, Mom. I wash my hands of you!”

I grinned when the door slammed shut with an echoing bang.

I turned to Mrs. Peterson, eager to celebrate our victory, but was shocked to see her sink to the floor, sobbing.

“What have I done?” she whispered.

End part 2
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Born Ugly: Book One