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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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For two days the young woman in my care teetered between states of consciousness. I tried nobly to go about my normal activities, though I found my attentions so torn between whatever I was doing and my unyielding awareness of the presence wrapped in my cloak on my bed, that I could scarcely do more than stalk slowly around my home, picking things up and replacing them for no reason, staring into blank air at nothing, and thinking such ridiculous thoughts as what the young woman’s name was. Even when I forced myself to turn my mind to work, like a wary horse who cocks an ear on something troubling him, I never fully gave my attention to anything. For such a small and helpless creature, her presence was overwhelming and rendered me useless. On the occasion that she stirred, as she often did the second day, I was at once by the bedside hovering protectively hoping I could ease whatever pain had caused her to wake. She usually settled back to sleep easily, even when I dared to touch her bruised face with trembling fingers.

For two days I did not sleep more than thirty minutes at a time, finding the settee mildly uncomfortable for one of my stature. I was beyond the grips of exhaustion, my body worked out of mere necessity, driven by my restless mind which never strayed far from the welfare of the young woman. My greatest discomfort was due to my singular lack of nerve when it came to removing my mask. I lived in a constant state of apprehension those two days, not knowing when the poor soul would wake and by all means not wishing to plunge her into further despair by subjecting her to my monstrous face as soon as she opened her eyes. Such a shock would make her wish the brutes at the stable had done their worst and killed her outright. I could not add to her torment, therefore I suffered for her. My mangled flesh itched and burned beneath the confines of the mask. I could feel the rawness of the sores that were no doubt forming due to the constant abrasive nature of the leather casing against such fragile skin as mine. At times the urge to tear the damnable thing off and dig at my face until it bled was overwhelming, but I resisted the temptation. In truth, it became so uncomfortable by the second night, I wept from the sheer pain. I sat at my organ, head resting in my upturned palms and cried like a child. Perhaps as a final blow, God’s goading proof that I was put on earth to suffer, the tears that seeped beneath the edge of the mask burned into the lesions concealed there. Tormented to tears and yet denied the luxury of them, I felt I had been thrust into the final level of Dante’s hell, where tortured souls long to cry, but find themselves incapable, their very tears frozen over their unblinking eyes. I often wondered if a body robbed of the ability to relieve itself of pain outwardly would drown from the tears that could not escape. It seemed a likely fate.

It was on the third morning, as I sat in the wooden chair, my eyes swollen from lack of sleep and an excess of tears, my neck stiff and my head throbbing, that the young woman stirred and at long last blinked her eyes open. I watched from my vantage point, letting her get her bearings, and she hesitantly sat up surveying her surroundings curiously. Her eyes fell on me and for a breathless moment she stared blankly, no doubt struggling to register who I was and why I was sitting by her staring back with equal apprehension. Her face seemed to slacken considerably however, and she muttered the soft word that eased my mind ever so much. “Phantom,” she said. She spoke it not in fear, nor with a questioning air, but rather as a gentle sign of recognition and I thought even relief. I found my breath again, assured by the fact that she remembered me.

Cautiously I rose from the chair and went to the bedside. Seeing that the young woman was not afraid, I sat down gingerly, keeping my distance but trying in my awkward way to affect a comforting countenance (no small feat I assure you given the nature of my face). I inquired as to how the young woman felt and she replied with only a nod. “What happened?” she asked, and the second of my fears became realized. I was overjoyed that she had recognized me and doubtlessly remembered our heroic effort of dislodging an unfortunate Cesar only a few nights past. But I felt my gut wrench at the thought of having to explain the condition in which I had found her and how she came to be here.

“You have no memory of it?” I implored simply. I watched the pretty face, bruised as it was, trying to recall the events that had landed her in the bed of the infamous Opera Ghost, and saw the instant she started to gather recollections of what had transpired. Her bottom lip quivered as her eyes filled with tears, she looked down at herself as though expecting to see the evidence of the offense. I longed to be of some comfort, though I had reservations about how well I would be received.

“Lachenel,” she spoke the name of the head groom and then a loud sob escaped her throat. “He found out.” Her eyes turned to me, tears falling freely down her hollow cheeks. “And he…” she tried to continue, repeating ‘he’ over and over again until something in me broke like a dam and I instinctively pulled the frail form to me. I half expected her to pull away, to regain her composure and reject my meek offering of consolation. She would see through me, I thought, she would see that it was a self-serving desire, to hold a woman in my arms, to feel needed, to feel strong and purposeful. But she did not pull away. Instead she collapsed against my chest, her body racked with painful sobs and she shook and trembled and soaked my shirt with unstoppable tears. As much as it sickens me to admit it, I found solace in the poor woman’s torment. Yes, I enjoyed it! Felt empowered by the knowledge that another had caused her pain, and I could ease it. An opportunist at all times, I was too blinded by self-importance to see the true nature of my sin. For as anyone who has been in the position knows the ability to harm and cause fear pales in comparison to the ability to prevent harm or ease fear. Mercy is the greatest power a living thing can have.

“You are safe now,” I told her, my hand stroking the back of her head, cradling it against my chest, encouraging the outpouring of grief. This seemed to settle the woman, and she sat up, still allowing me to hold her and looked into my eyes and thanked me in a ragged whisper. I found myself unable to return the faint smile that she offered, and instead asked her name.

“Madeleine,” was the answer, and as I said the name over and over in my mind, she clarified further. “Maddy. Everyone calls me Maddy.” She seemed to be gaining control of her emotions and looked down at my soaked shirt with astonishment, immediately apologizing. I waved it off as nothing, and instead humored myself with the idea that Madeleine was such a beautiful name, and the shortened version fit the waiflike creature before me. When she asked, “What is your name, Phantom?” I was shook from my thoughts and stared dumbly for a moment. “You do have a name, don’t you?” she questioned.

“Erik,” I said my name as though it were a surprise to me as well. Yes, I have a name. Can you believe that? Someone actually took the pains to give me a name, and then I was cast out and shunned by humanity. It seems cruel, to humanize something only to banish it eternally from mankind. But I have a name, perhaps the only shred of evidence remaining that I am a man.

Seeing that she was growing weary already, I tried my luck at coaxing her to come back against my chest, to allow me to hold her. Surprisingly she acquiesced to my wishes quite easily, allowing me to support her fully. Her cheek was still damp and her breath was warm against the fabric of my shirt. As I felt her breathing lull into a steady shallow rhythm I heard the whispered sound from her lips. “Erik,” she repeated my name, and I felt the effect as though she had said it directly into my heart.
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Memoirs of a Monster