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Memoirs of a Monster	By : Luv Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 2993 -:- 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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In the days following the occasion of Cesar’s rescue my mind was employed with the grim task of keeping Madame Giry’s nerves under control as the Opera Populaire prepared for what would become an annual ritual. It had been nearly one year to the day since my Don Juan Triumphant had premiered. In truth the opera had never had a proper opening, the events of that fateful night brought about an abrupt end to the piece, with me unmasked and the opera house in flames. People had died, chandeliers being as heavy and unforgiving as they are, and I had at last proven beyond anyone’s doubt that I was not fit to live. Perhaps most lamentable of all, that was the night my darling angel, seeing what I truly was, left me forever. (Forgive if the ink is smudged here, for a year is hardly enough time to eradicate a lifetime of love. I am prone to emotions, primitive as I may be.) She had endured enough terror at my hands to drive her so far from this place as to never return. In response, I had scarcely been above ground during the year past, paying little attention to the activities of the opera house. I corresponded only once when my salary had been neglected. For this I had addressed my disapproval immediately to Madame Giry who relayed the message reliably to the bumbling Monsieur Firmin and his equally dislikable partner, Monsieur Andre. When two days later I still had not been paid, I dropped a pleasant reminder in the shape of a scenery flat which crashed down with quite a satisfactory explosion, crushing several props and at least one stagehand. My presence again established, I was duly paid and equally feared once more. Now more than ever, due in part to my apparent survival of the fire and the manhunt, I was deemed a supernatural foe, one not to be trifled with. This suited me fine.

Being a dead man had its privileges in as much as I was no longer hunted. Superstition kept my salary coming, as no one cared for another “accident”, and I was left in peace to while away my so-called life in the bowels of hell where I fittingly resided. I had so long been without human contact (save my encounter with the young woman in the stable), that when I saw the shape moving along the opposite bank of the lake I scarcely knew what it could be. I looked up nonchalantly and reasoned my tortured mind was finally slipping into dementia, and so returned to my composing. Something made me glance back however, and I squinted through the gloom following the quick moving shape and came to the much relieved realization that it was Madame Giry. Glad that my mind and my privacy were still in tact, I went out to fetch her. She seemed to be unreasonably overwrought and unable to express why. I ushered her as gallantly as I could into the boat and as I guided us across the lake she sat silently twisting the fabric of her skirt in her hand and glancing around nervously.

Upon reaching the bank, she allowed me to help her to solid ground and paced about my domicile without a word. I watched her with what I must confess was a little bit of concern. Rarely had I seen this woman out of sorts, she was a pillar of strength and grace even under the direst of circumstances. Why the very night I spoke of earlier, she had acted with such aplomb amongst the panicked and frenzied mob, taking immediate pains to both conceal me and put an end to my suffering. She was, in fact, one of those solemn individuals who responded to crisis by asserting her calm control and spreading her assurance to those in reach. It was this nature, plus her unwavering capacity for telling the truth, no matter how unwelcome it may be, that kept me in her confidence all these years. She had, after all, saved my life long ago, and I should never forget the deed. Of all the souls on earth, to her I owed everything; and whether she realized it or not, I was at her service no matter what the cost. Even her seemingly traitorous act of leading the young Vicomte to his betrothed, my prisoner, had not swayed my dedication. For once again, despite the torment the act inevitably caused my heart, it had been the correct course of action. Demented as I was, I knew my sweet angel (forgive me reader, I cannot bear to write her name), was meant for no such hell as I offered her. I knew it that night, and I know it now without question. One damned soul is enough, and I gladly gave mine to save hers.

After nearly treading a groove through the solid stone floor of my home, Madame Giry finally stopped close to me and said, “Tomorrow night they open Don Juan.” She said this with such trepidation that I could hear her voice shaking deep within. I could not understand what she meant, I was quite aware of the opera’s pending premiere. I nodded in understanding, but looked at her with a questioning expression, hopeful that she might elaborate.

“A full house is expected Erik,” she continued, and I found particular pleasure in hearing my given name for the first time in well over a year. I had almost forgotten I had a name; monsters usually weren’t afforded such luxuries.

“I expect my managers are pleased then,” I replied, still not seeing the urgency of the situation. I pictured the two fools lighting cheap cigars and toasting to their good fortune. Had I been more naïve, I would have been pleased at the news that my opera was to be so well attended. The truth of the matter was much less flattering though, and I knew, as did the woman before me, that it was the promise of another ghastly encounter with the Opera Ghost himself that would bring the mindless dregs scurrying to the opera house tomorrow evening. They would be sorely disappointed, I thought. I had no intention of attending the performance, much less making an impromptu appearance in the title role as I had done a year ago. The purpose for my masterpiece was no longer significant. She was gone, and I had no care to hear the first note of the dreadful homage I had written to her in my perverse state so long ago. I relayed as much to Madame Giry, who took the news with a sigh of relief.

“I was so concerned,” she said placing a hand to her bosom. “I know how difficult it must be for you.” She gave me a look that made me bristle. Had we been so long without one another’s company that she had forgotten how abhorrent I found pity? I scowled at her disapprovingly and turned my back. She has no inkling, I thought to myself, of how difficult anything is for me. And yet she alone understood me more than any other creature alive, a grim reality when faced with the knowledge that she still fell short of knowing the man that was buried somewhere inside my detestable shell. When I stop to think on my abominable state, I wonder how I was able to survive at all. I was then and remain now truly alone in the world.

“Madame, I assure you I have no intention of being anywhere near this opera house tomorrow night,” said I. The statement was as much a surprise to me as it was to her, for I had not planned to venture out. But it came to me so naturally that before I could stop the words they were spoken. I turned to gauge the reaction from my companion and found her staring at me quite bemused. This seemed to have an effect on my pride, for I became extremely incensed that she thought the very idea of my leaving this tomb and walking free in the world was such an impossible notion. I therefore straightened my back, lifted my chin and stared at her defiantly, not unlike a child who was testing his new found will. I dared her silently to say anything to the contrary.

“Where will you go?” She inquired of me at last, wisely deciding not to confront me on the matter. I sensed a touch of disbelief in her voice and in spite of myself I grew angry.

“Never you mind where I go!” I exclaimed, my outburst clearly unsettling her as she gasped. “You are not my keeper, and I owe you no explanation.” These words were said in a softer tone but I made sure they bit deep, advancing toward her and narrowing my eyes as I spoke. Intimidation had become second nature to me, though I usually harbored such tactics for foes, not my one and only friend. She stood her ground however, confused by my sudden burst of temper but not intimidated in the least. She looked back at me with accusing eyes, as though her hopes that I had somehow redeemed some shred of humanity during the past year had been obliterated. I returned her gaze, equally as stalwart and refused to acknowledge my deep sense of shame for acting in such a manner. My emotions were all seething just below the surface of my being and I recognized the old familiar sensation with dread. I turned my back on the woman before me out of necessity therefore, knowing that I was still capable of monstrous actions, even to my last remaining friend. I felt utterly raw and exposed.

“Take me back,” Madame Giry said straight away. I was glad to oblige, offering my hand to help her into the boat only to be denied. She clambered on board herself and sat quite stiff for the ride across. Returning to the place I had found her, she again refused my help (it is odd how courteous a villain can be when he knows he has been wrong). She turned with a swirl of her black skirt then and faced me with an icy countenance. I felt immediately small, though I had to bow my head to look into her eyes. “Be careful,” was all she said to me as she swiftly reached up and touched the unmasked side of my face. Her eyes flickered and I succumbed to my shame as I realized she was near tears.

“I will,” I managed to choke out. And with that she gathered her skirts and hurried away into the blackness, leaving me to contemplate my actions. I didn’t return home right away and instead lowered myself to the stone bank by the lake and sat with my elbows propped on my knees. I knew that Madame Giry was still as devoted as ever, despite my inexcusable treatment of her. The understanding between us had been put under strain in the past but even when my deplorable behavior should have severed our bond, she had taken it upon herself to look past the instance as only she could.

I sighed at length and looked out across the somber surface of the lake. The candles from my home reflected in the glassy water. It was with a heavy heart that I finally realized once again how shrewd Madame Giry truly was. The prospect of tomorrow’s performance weighed heavily on my mind, and I had been foolish to deny it. My surroundings blurred as the reality of it all came crashing down on me. Tomorrow night all of Paris would come to mock my pain. I stood up, pulling my mask from my face and wiping a sleeve over my eyes. “I will not endure it,” I said to myself, and with a newfound determination I stepped lightly into the boat and grabbed the heavy staff. Tomorrow, for the first time in over a year, I would venture out into the world that had rejected me so long ago.
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Memoirs of a Monster