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Portrait of the Soul	By : sirenofsaturn Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 2723 -:- 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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Hello! Thank you to all who have read and reviewed! I am looking forward to more comments, and constructive criticism. Once again I just would like to put out in the open that I own nothing! Phantom of the Opera, Erik, and all the other characters belong to Webber, Susan Kay, and Gaston Leroux. Please review and enjoy!

Weeks passed and preparation for the new opera continued right on schedule. After sitting down and having a talk with his crew Theo assured Mia that she would have little problems getting her designs through to the men, and Mia…well agreed to be more gentle if they promised to work hard.

After the designer’s brush with death the chatter between the chorus girls never seemed to end. Like a flock of chickens in a hen house they continued to cackle during every moment that they were not practicing. Various talks of the opera ghost coming back was burning in Mia’s ear, along with that voice that still haunted her. She tried her best to ignore the gossip, until the gossip began to come right toward her.

“Mademoiselle Sclar? Do you know anything about this?” Mia who had been discussing the final scene’s background with Theo turned to see the managers Richard and Moncharmin coming towards them. “About what Miseries?” Mia asked lowering the sketch she was showing Theo.

“This.” M. Richard said handing her a letter. Mia scanned over the red inked handwriting. The writing seemed so cryptic, and it appeared to look as though it were written in blood.

My Dear Managers,

I am sorry to have left you in suspense sense the last performance of Faust. I hope you did not think me gone; I was simply giving thought about our newest production and the crew. In the past you have funded the ballet and Prima Donna. I believe it is time to give both attention and finance to the backbone of the performance. By this I mean the set. Your new set designer Mademoiselle Sclar knows what she is doing. Allow her the opportunity to do as she sees fit so we may all be dazzled on opening night. If she is in need of proper equipment I strongly believe you will provide her with it.

I remain, once again,

Your obedient servant,

O.G.

“O.G.?” Mia asked raising a brow. “I do not know anyone by those initials sirs.”

“Then you know nothing of this?” M. Richard asked. “Nothing at all? I am talking about the set finances.”

“No Miser. I only spoke to Theo last night, as we were finishing that we were in need of some new paints. These are terribly old and dried up. They would surely look repulsive once dried on a new set.” Mia commented, recapping the conversation she had yesterday.

“I see.” M. Moncharmin commented. “Then I suppose we shall need to buy some more?”

“Yes Miser.” Mia answered. “My crew knows exactly what is required.”

“Alright then, Theo.” M. Richard called turning to the man. “Come to my office after getting an estimate on that paint, let me know what it is, and I’ll send you to fetch it with the correct amount of money.”

“Yes Misers.” Theo nodded, watching the managers walk off just as huskily as they had come in. “Theo?” Mia asked, “Who is O.G. and how did he know we were in need of supplies?”

The redheaded boy sighed looking around to see if anyone was listening. Once seeing that the ballet was in full practice he ducked his head to Mia’s and began to tell her what he knew. “O.G. stands for Opera Ghost, or so I’m told. If you want more ask Meg, Madame Giry’s daughter, she’s the main chicken of that chatting hen house. All I know is he ‘haunts’ this opera house and is always giving comments to the managers. They even pay him a bloody salary!” Theo sighed. “Some say he’s real, and he’s ugly, and missing a nose. I’ve never seen the man. Our old scene shifter use to know a lot about him, but he’s dead now.”

“How?” Mia asked feeling a shiver up her spine. As Theo was telling her this she felt almost as if she was being watched.

“That’s just it. The police wrote it off as a suicide, but…they say the ghost killed him.” Theo sighed straightening back up. “Don’t worry though, at least he’s finally paying attention to us. We are going to get that funding you wanted. If you have any more suggestions you should just start leaving messages in box five.” Theo laughed.

“Box five?” Mia asked.

“Yeah, they say that’s were he watches the performances, but I was just kidding…you would do best to stay away from there, be a good girl, will ya?” Theo asked.

“Miser Theo! I am not some teenager or child you can talk down to! I am your supervisor, now I thank you for indulging me in such a lovely ghost story, but I believe it is time to get back to work, we have a performance tomorrow do we not?” Mia demanded, snapping right back into her perfection mode.

“Aye, aye Captain!” Theo saluted taking the sketch from her to show the crew. “Theo?” Mia asked picking up the rejected sketches. “You said he was ugly? If no one has really seen him, then how do they know?”

“We all assume, those who have seen him claim he wears a mask.” Theo stared watching the papers in Mia’s hands scatter to the floor.

Beneath the opera in the fifth cellar a glassy lake rested calm and gentle. The dark waters lapped gently to the shore were a house stood, and in the house there was, not a ghost, but a man. Erik sat at his desk looking through various charcoal masterpieces in his own sketch collection. Usually at this time in the morning the artist would be composing for hours with in the deep confines of his labyrinth, however one of Erik’s earliest fascinations was once again residing inside of him, and Erik found he could not bear to ignore it.

Erik sighed flipping through the pictures he had made during his various travels: Russia, Persia, India, and the orient. Erik had seen it all, and built his own contribution to it. After his decision to build the opera house Erik discovered that he was full on the desire to build. He wished to settle down beneath the cellars and compose. Finish his opera, lie in his coffin, and never rise again, it was the perfect plan until Christine.

Feeling his chest tighten slightly, Erik winced at the mere thought of her. The sweet angel who was his dream and his undoing or so it seemed a few months ago. After realizing just how much she loved that boy and not him, he let her go. He still buried himself at night with memories of her greatest gift to him, his first kiss. He knew his life was over. He had nothing to fight for. With the morphine he craved he knew his end was near. One did not take on the assistance of a deadly drug without knowing its fatal effect. He knew the same consequences when he had indulged in the opium.

He spent two days lying in his mother’s old bed waiting for death to take him off of this wretched earth. Free him from his suffering and solitude. Surely Hell full of its burning boats was a more welcoming fate than this. Or maybe there was no Hell; maybe death was like a metamorphosis. He would awake and be the butterfly, the snake with its newly shed skin, the spider weaving its web catching the insects who interfered with it and letting the beautiful pass through it like a dream catcher. In India and the orient he had learned of reincarnation, could he not be entitled to that? Could he have his second chance on this Earth, born normal and beautiful like every other human deserved?

Death did not come as Erik had hoped for, instead came the Persian, Nadir.

“How long do you intend to do this Erik?” He had asked pulling up a chair in Christine’s former room to look at his old friend.

“Intend to do what, Daroga?” Erik asked continuing to lie on the bed.

“Lay here like a corpse. Ms. Daae has left, you intend to stay give up living and forget your triumphs over that?” Nadir demanded.

“I was once exhibited as a corpse, so I can not entirely take offense to that. As for Christine, I have lost the war, and accept my defeat.”

“Erik, I know what you are going through. In fact-“

“Actually Daroga, I do not believe you have the slightest incline of what I am going through!” Erik spat sitting up on the bed.

“Erik, I spent two months locked in my bed chamber when my wife died! I did not get up until I felt better, I just got up!” Nadir spoke, fostering his memories without full detail.

“You had reasons to live. You had a son.” Erik reminded.

“Did I have reasons? I could have stayed in there forever until death took me.” Nadir sighed. “My servants could have taken care of him. With my death my pension would have taken care of him for the rest of his life…had he not have fallen ill…” The Persian trailed off.

Erik sighed remembering the slow demise of the boy. Erik had watched the boy’s sight fail, then the slow detritions of his young muscles, following his demise when he had died in Erik’s arms. “Do not dwell in the past, Daroga, all it does is house the bad memories and throw the good ones out on the street. However, my friend, you had a child, as I do not. I still fail to see a reason for my presence on this wretched earth.”

“You yourself told me these reasons ages ago.” Nadir reminded. “Before the girl, remember. You told me you had your music, your magic, your architecture. Allah only knows what talents and crafts rest in that mysterious mind of yours, Erik. Do not waste them on heart sickness.”

“My heart is sick Daroga. Not in the sense you believe, but physically also.” Erik sighed. “My attacks have become more frequently sense Christine then they have before.”

“How frequent are they now that she is gone?”

Erik began to open his mouth to reply, but paused in his action. They had stopped. One strong attack had come the day she left, but afterwards nothing.

“It is not just your heart Erik. You can stop the attacks if you stop your other addiction.” Nadir hinted.

“No.” Morphine was what kept him alive. The addiction itself was not what hurt, what hurt was when it was no in him. The brief sting of injection was easy payment for the euphoria it brought. The things it inspired. It had been his only release sense before and after Christine.

“Erik that is going to kill you. I’ll help you through the pain and the withdraw. I know exactly how to whine you off of it with in a reasonable period of time.”

“Forget it!” Erik snapped.

“I’ll stay here if I need to and hold your hand. I saved you once Erik because I believed you were destined to be something great. There is still so much you can be and accomplish Erik. I am not going to let you quit now.” Nadir assured squeezing the thin man’s bony shoulder.

“…And you call yourself my friend.” Erik sighed. “If you really are going to take a walk down this pleasant little path with me, then I guess I should offer you some tea.”

Months had passed and the whining had been slow, but far from easy. Nadir had given Erik the morphine when he asked for it, but in small doses. Every week the dosage became less and the nightmares increased. His mother’s hatred and Sasha’s death, he had once again relived all the memories he had grown to hate. He watched over and over the girl falling off of that building being crushed to death. He watch his bride to be in Persia die in the torture chamber her screams of agony. He watched Christine leave with Raoul…he watched his life become darker than it already seemed.

After several weeks Nadir still continued to visit Erik frequently keeping the morphine with him. However, in the middle of his waiting period Erik needed to get out of his house. Grabbing his cloak and hat, and almost steeping on Ayesha he passed out the door, rowed over the lake, and ran through the passages of his opera house.

The new preparations were underway and things seemed to be running smoothly. ‘Damn’ he thought he had missed the Prima Donna auditions. He supposed he would for once have to trust his mangers with their own decisions. ‘And if they fail me, they shall know’ He told himself, smiling for the first time in weeks. Taking his seat in box five to watch the ballet rehearsals was the first time he noticed her. A woman in her mid to late twenties pulling out various sketches and showing them to the design crew.

He knew they were in need of a new set designer, had the managers hired this woman? Erik continued to watch her gesture to the stage obviously sharing with the crew full details of her design. She had long chestnut colored hair that was carefully braided in a French style that fell down her back, until it met her the black skirts around her hips. Erik caught a few glimpses of her front as she continued to talk to the head of the scene crew. He could make out slightly tan, but still fair skin, and brown eyes. Even from this far up Erik could see the blackness of her fingertips obviously covered in charcoal from repeated sketching.

“So, you are my new designer.” Erik whispered. “For my managers to hire a woman with their traditional beliefs, you must be something my dear. Let us see your talent. Rise up and dazzle us. Show me you are qualified, show me your glory.”

It was something Erik would have thought of any designer or employee of his opera house. If they had worked here, he wanted them to prove they belonged. As weeks went by and Erik watched the sets come to life with something he did not recall seeing with any other designers. Her sets had life, and sparked vivid reality. Which even he had to compliment. She deserved to recognized for talent, especially after how her crew ignored her. Erik could feel the familiar emotion of hatred boil in his blood as he watched her crew walk out on her that day.

All she had asked for was to make the sunset look real. What was wrong with that? Erik watched her after hours working until late to paint night into the upper levels of the fake sky. “Is it so wrong to want perfection?” She had asked herself. ‘No my dear, it is not.’ He silently answered her. Deciding to return back to his lair for the evening Erik began walking only to have his cloak catch on the backdrop. Giving it a firm tug the cloak went free and so did the backdrop.

Cursing himself silently Erik was about to move to fix it when he realized that she had seen. He was going to put it back up after she left, but as he watched her she seemed to have the same idea. Surprised at first when she proceeded to climb up the ladder, he watched her carry the heavy material up into the beams of his opera house and proceeded to hang it back up. He was even more surprised when he watched her reach to far out and began to fall. Without thinking Erik had come out of his hiding place, only a few feet away from her, and grabbed her fiercely by the arms.

He watched her come to terms that she did not fall then watched in horror as she turned around to face him. The first thing her eyes seemed to focus on was his. Not the normal reaction Erik was use to. All eyes at once had gone to his mask. That had always been the case no matter what the encounter. Her brown orbs staring into his emerald and gold depths as if asking…No she was merely startled from the encounter.

He watched with mild curiosity as she tried to form some sort of speech. All he had heard her say in their encounter was a scream as she began to fall. Now her lips were trying to form some other words. Maybe it was another scream of horror, of fear. Dreading to hear her reply to his presence he was grateful when people came to see what had happened. Silently releasing his grip on her, he had disappeared back into the shadows watching her talk to some of the crew and then prepared to leave. As he watched her go he used his ventriloquism like he had with managers and whispered into her ear his concern and advise for working for him.

Erik stretched at his desk, putting his arms over his head not stopping until he heard a few pops from his bones. Tomorrow was the opening night of the new opera and he was determined to see her work. Her vivid designs had reminded him how much he use to love architecture and designing his own buildings and interiors. Briefly wondering if she shared a love for architecture Erik stood and walked over to his easel. The sketches of Christine were gone, and replacing it was a memory of his great palace in Persia.

Picking up his charcoal pencil in his left hand Erik began to draw out his memory. Losing himself in the building that had come from his dark mind, and flowed out of his calloused hands, into stone and sand. For a brief second he could smell the hot desert air and hear the sound of metal clanging as people continued to build his work. He sighed letting the memories clear into the cold, unfeeling charcoal sketch that was now on his canvas. Memories could be cruel indeed.

Like it? Hate it? Want to see me dead and never update again? Let me know. Please take two seconds to click the little purple button and review. Once again, I own nothing except for Mia and any other original characters. I don’t plan on having a lot. I just needed to give the head of the design crew a name: Theo. So I hope you all enjoyed. I have spent the past two hours writing this chapter and now it is time for me to go to bed. Thank you to all who reviewed, and please continue to do so. Here is my list of demands:

Reviews-wanted

Constructive criticism- accepted

Flames- used to light the lamps of the torture chamber

Next chapter, Opening night both opera ghost and designers are there. After Mia pays a visit to box 5 she leaves Erik with something he never thought he would receive. Till next time.

Your obedient servant,

Neko
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Portrait of the Soul