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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
- 4
- 5
A/N: Okay this is the last chapter of Book One.

Chapter Five

“Erik?”

Her voice echoed in my head and a wave of emotional pain crashed over me. I squeezed my eyes shut and put a hand to my forehead as if that would make it all go away.

The name pulled at me like an elusive memory, but it would have to be a memory of before I was born. I remembered everything from then on.

In my mind I saw the organ in the underground cavern from my nightmare. Whatever the name ‘Erik’ meant, it was connected to that place somehow.

I came back to myself hearing Dorothy softly singing a lullaby to me. My eyes flew open and I stared at her in shock.

Her voice, though young and untrained, sounded like the one from my dream. Or at least, I could tell that one day it would.

What did this mean?

I didn’t want to leave, but I could see the sky lightening outside the window; I had precious little time before the adults would awaken and the nurses would begin their rounds.

Dorothy was sleeping in my arms, and I was tempted to take her with me. She was asleep against my chest and one of her hands was clenched in my shirt, while the other clung tightly to my prosthetic.

I wanted this little girl with a passion that startled me.

I stroked her soft hair and smiled as her sleeping form huddled closer to me.

It wasn’t a sexual passion that I was feeling, although at almost fifteen-years-old I had already begun to experience those longings. No, I just wanted her with me, always. I wanted to teach her things. Everything I knew, if I could. I wanted her affection and child-like love. Perhaps one day, years from now, I could have her physical love.

The man on the bed let out a soft moan, and I knew that I’d need to leave very soon. I ran my hand through her curls one last time, knowing that as much as I wanted to take her with me, I could never take her from her family. Not yet anyway.

I brushed my lips across her forehead, then eased out from underneath her. She stirred but didn’t awaken.

“Until we meet again, Angel,” I whispered slipping the prosthetic back on my face and leaving the room.

I was confident in the knowledge that we would meet again, even though I didn’t know how or when.

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The full impact of Grandmother’s death hit me as I walked back to her room. It was empty now, and her body was covered with a sheet.

I wasn’t old enough to live on my own, and I knew the only option I’d be given was foster care. This was something I couldn’t allow.

I walked over to the phone beside my grandmother’s bed and called Mrs. Peterson. As far as I knew, her basement was still empty. If she allowed me to stay with her, I could just stay down there and maybe I wouldn’t cross paths with Andrew too many times.

I didn’t like it, but it was the only other thing I could think of to do.

When Mrs. Peterson arrived, I was drawing my grandmother again. I was actually on my fifth drawing of her.

I’d pulled the sheet back so I could see her face again. She looked different now.

I flipped back between the picture I’d drawn of her alive, and one of the ones I drew of her corpse. The contrast was startling. In the first one, you could see the burden of life weighing down on her even as she smiled. In the others, she looked so relaxed and at peace that I began to envy her.

I thought of Dorothy and shook my head. I didn’t want to die.

“Daniel? Are you okay?” Mrs. Peterson asked from the doorway.

I looked at her and nodded, packing up my things.

I walked over to my grandmother’s body for a last look, then covered her with the sheet again and followed Mrs. Peterson to the parking lot.

The priest and the man who had come to take me to foster-care were waiting in the living room when we arrived at my grandmother’s house.

“That was very naughty of you, sneaking out like that,” the government man reprimanded me.

I rolled my eyes at him, and walked down the hall to the guestroom to pack my belongings without saying a word.

As I packed, I could hear them arguing about me. For a second, I felt a flash of fear that I wouldn’t be allowed to live with Mrs. Peterson, but it passed when I realized that no one could really stop me. True, I was still a minor, but that had never stopped me from doing what I wanted before. Hell, I’d built a house! If they sent me to a foster-home, I’d simply run away. It’s not like I wasn’t capable of it.

When I was finished, I had three suitcases. Only one was filled with clothes and toiletries. The others held books and some of my smaller projects and art supplies.

When I walked back into the living room, Mrs. Peterson was smiling, and another man had joined the group.

He introduced himself as my grandmother’s lawyer, and informed me that her entire estate had been left to me. Also, she had willed that Mrs. Peterson become my legal guardian, and I silently thanked her in my head. In the end, Grandmother had finally done something right where I was concerned.

I slept in my basement, in a sleeping bag, on the floor that night. It wasn’t comfortable, but I slept with a smile on my face anyway. For the first time, I had my own room.

The priest and some of the men from his church who owned trucks showed up the next morning and took me back to Grandmother’s house.

I picked and chose among the furniture, and they hauled it back to Mrs. Peterson’s.

I only saw Andrew once that day. In the morning as he was leaving for a job interview, I passed him on the stairs. (I had no bathroom in the basement and had to use the one up there.)

He’d completely ignored me, and after he was out of sight, I gave a sigh of relief. If he kept up his ignoring act, then I wouldn’t have to live in constant fear of confrontations with him.

It was nice to have my own bed and wardrobe again. Mrs. Peterson came down to see how I was faring, and wrinkled her nose at my clothes and linens.

Grandmother had always shopped for me at second-hand stores, and it had been a few months since I’d gotten anything new. It seemed I grew an inch at least every week.

“Well, get ready Daniel, we’re going shopping,” she declared.

I shook my head.

“I don’t have any money. They’re not auctioning off the house until next weekend,” I protested.

“You’ll pay me back,” she said, waving a hand dismissively.

“I will,” I promised.

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I hate shopping. Grandmother had always done it for me, and I began to appreciate and even miss her a little more every day.

Mrs. Peterson bought me an entire new wardrobe, no matter how much I protested that I was still quickly growing and wouldn’t be able to wear the new clothes for very long.

She didn’t care. She just kept handing me new things to ‘try on’. A sales lady waited on us, and with every suggestion she made, my hands itched to strangle her.

We returned home four hours later. I guess it wasn’t all bad. I got to buy several new books, a desk and a computer.

My new room was coming together quite nicely. I spent the next week improving my space. I put up walls and two doors to make a bedroom and a bathroom. The money from Grandmother’s estate finally arrived, and I eagerly paid Mrs. Peterson what I owed her, then had her take me to buy more supplies. She offered to call a contractor for me, but I declined. This was my room, and I wanted to do it myself.

The plumbing for the bathroom was tricky, and I almost gave up and called a plumber, but thanks to my new internet access, I was able to find a message board and get help with my problems.

The internet is amazing.

I put tile down in the bathroom, installed lights and a ceiling fan in the bedroom. I built bookshelves for the area that I now called my study, and painted all the walls.

I put up a framed picture that I’d drawn of my grandmother on the wall in my study. That was the only piece of artwork I had so far. I had bought some pastel paints, and was hoping I could do a picture of Mrs. Peterson and Margo, maybe out by the pond this spring.

For Christmas, Mrs. Peterson bought me some beautiful Persian rugs. It was nice not to have to walk on the cold stone floor anymore.

Margo had a baby-sitter who stayed with her while Mrs. Peterson was at work and Andrew was out finding work. Two weeks after I moved in, the baby-sitter quit.

Mrs. Peterson said it had nothing to do with me, but the few times I saw the girl, she always seemed quite frightened of me.

Mrs. Peterson worked weekdays at the library, and three-year-old Margo would come down and stay with me in the basement.

I was a bit intimidated at first, but quickly warmed up to her. She was a very happy toddler, and as long as I kept the doors shut and the gate locked at the bottom of the stairs, I didn’t have to worry about her wandering off. She always had plenty of toys to keep her occupied, but seemed more fascinated with whatever I was working on.

Mrs. Peterson always spoke to her in a ‘baby voice’. As a baby I would have despised that. Yet another reason to be thankful for my grandmother.

Margo was nothing like me, but I still couldn’t bring myself to speak to her the way Mrs. Peterson did. She didn’t seem to mind though. And every now and then some word I said would amuse her and she say it aloud over and over.

I think I smiled more around her than anyone else.

One day, we had a particularly messy spaghetti lunch, and I had no choice but to bathe her. I was very uncomfortable about this. I’d never even had to change her diaper before because she was potty trained before Mrs. Peterson started leaving her with me.

But she had clumps of spaghetti in her hair, and I just didn’t see any way around it. So I carried her, holding her at arms’ length, up to the upstairs bathroom where all her bath toys and soaps were.

Margo was absolutely delighted by the prospect of having a bath and obligingly lifted her arms so that I could remove her soiled dress. She clumsily stepped out of her Beauty and the Beast panties, and ran – naked – to the tub.

“Water, Dan-Dan!” she called happily, turning to look at me with a grin.

I smiled back, and quickly filled up the tub, being careful to keep the water slightly warm and not hot.

She splashed and played with her bath toys while I attempted to clean her up and stay dry in the process. Apparently there are some things that even I can’t master.

I drained the water and wrung out my t-shirt, which was soaking wet. The only towels I could find were much too big, but she loved it when I wrapped her up tight in one and carried her to her room.

I sat her down on the daybed and began searching for clothes for her. I’d hold up a dress and she’d say ‘nope’, and I’d resume looking.

She ran around her room, chattering non-stop in baby gibberish mixed with real words, as she pulled out almost every toy she owned to show me.

I finally wrestled her into fresh clothes, and picked her up to take her back downstairs.

“No! I want my toys!” she cried, squirming desperately to get down.

“But Margo, you’ve got toys down in my room to play with, remember?” I asked, trying to reason with her.

I should have known better, she was only three.

“But I want these toys,” she said, two fat tears rolling down her chubby cheeks.

I sighed. Two weeks with the girl, and she already had me wrapped around her finger.

“Alright, you can pick one toy to take with you,” I relented, placing her on the floor, and she ran to the toy box, excitedly looking over her choices.

Twenty minutes later, she finally decided on a book.

I nodded my approval and carried her down the stairs. As we were walking through the living room to get to the basement door, she had me stop, and ran to the easy chair in front of the television.

“Read to me, Dan-Dan,” she said, hauling herself up into the empty chair.

I hesitated and looked at the clock. Andrew wasn’t due home for another couple of hours at least; so I could find no harm in staying up here for a while.

I walked to the chair and picked her up so that I could sit down. I placed her in my lap and she opened the book.

As she settled herself in my lap I was reminded of Dorothy, and began to wonder what she was doing at the time. She was about Margo’s age. Did she have someone to read to and bathe her?

We made it through about half of Cinderella before both of us fell asleep.

The only blemish on my otherwise happy life was Andrew. He spent his days looking for work, and his nights spending Mrs. Peterson’s money at bars and strip clubs. He was disgusting, and I didn’t want him around my new family any longer.

Of course he arrived home early that day, and I awoke to see him glaring at me from the doorway of the living room. I automatically tightened my arms around the sleeping Margo as if to protect her from her own father.

Andrew didn’t say anything at all, and after a few minutes, he spun on his heel and went into the kitchen. I heard the sound of a beer can being open, and knew that I needed to be out of his way when he came back.

As silently as possible, I carried Margo down to my room, making sure to dead bolt the lock on the door.

I placed her in my bed, and went to find my tools.

Andrew would spend the next couple of hours drinking. Then Mrs. Peterson would get home, he’d demand money from her, then leave to go drink some more.

I glanced at the sleeping girl in my bed. I’d come to think of her as a little sister, and decided that I needed to take action to keep her safe.

So, I pulled out my wire-cutters, and slipped outside through a secret back door in my bedroom, that not even Mrs. Peterson knew I’d put in.

I calmly walked to his car, and found his brake-line. It was a simple thing to cut the wires, almost all the way. His brakes would work for a little while, but by the time he was driving home tonight, drunk no doubt, they’d give out.

I smiled a grim smile, and quickly returned to the basement.

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His blood-alcohol was very high that night, and when the police removed his body from the vehicle that had been crushed into a tree, they didn’t even take the time to study the brakes.

With Andrew dead, life became almost perfect. Mrs. Peterson and Margo were sad for a while, but then spring came and they returned to their pleasant selves. I even talked them into posing for my pastel painting by the pond.

That summer I prepared Margo, who I now referred to as ‘my little sister’, for school. She’d be starting kindergarten in the fall, and was very excited. She was only four, but after spending so much time around me, she had a very broad grasp of knowledge. She had passed a special test that allowed her to start school a year early.

I turned sixteen and got my driver’s license. I used a good chunk of my inheritance to buy a car, but it was worth it.

One Saturday afternoon in August, I was alone in the house while the girls went school shopping. They knew better than to ask me along. I still shudder when I think about that one shopping trip I was forced into. Since then, I’d stuck to buying clothes and things off of the internet. If it didn’t fit, I’d just send it back. That was the only way to shop!

I was absentmindedly flipping through the channels on the television. I had watched it so much as a baby that I didn’t care for it much anymore. However on this particular day, I was bored.

A commercial caught my attention. It was an ad for a musical that was being put on by the local theater, Andrew Lloyd Webber’s The Phantom of the Opera.

I’d never heard of it, but that wasn’t surprising, as I always went out of my way to avoid anything that had to do with music.

I was about to change the channel again, when I saw him.

It was a man wearing a mask and a fedora.

The thirty-second commercial didn’t give me enough information, so I quickly headed to my computer. The internet would have my answers.

A few hours later, I lay on my bed trying to process everything that I’d just learned. The Phantom of the Opera was a story that I’d never heard before, and yet I could almost remember living it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that I was the Phantom in a past life. But that was absurd! The characters in the story never actually existed!

It was fiction. And yet, I knew it was true. Dorothy had told me who I was the night I met her.

Erik

From that point forward, I became Erik. I delved into the study of music and opera. When the painful emotions crashed over me upon hearing the swells of sound, I embraced them.

The first thing I did was legally change my name from Daniel to Erik.

Mrs. Peterson was worried at first, but I assured her it was what I wanted.

Within a week I had a piano, organ, and violin in the house. A month later I had mastered all three.

My music, and my voice, which never missed a pitch, captivated Mrs. Peterson and Margo. My ‘little sister’ had begun taking ballet lessons after school, and delighted in twirling around the room as I played.

Yes indeed, I had found my calling in life. It was music, and I was the Phantom of the Opera.

Now all I needed was my Christine.

End Book One

On to Book Two...
- 4
- 5
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Born Ugly: Book One