What If He Wasn't Alone? (A Phantom of the Opera Fanfiction)

Chapter 18: A Story, a Threat, and a Promise

Author's note: Hello all you fine people of Wattpad!!! I just wanted to thank all of you for reading/commenting/voting!!! I love you all! :)

Disclaimer: (Sung to the tune of Phantom of the Opera) IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII DON'T OWN THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA!!!!!!!!! BUT I WOULD LIKE TO!!!!! (now how many people sung that in their head?)

It took a while for my tears to dry, but Erik held me in his arms the entire time. After a while I sat up and sniffed as I wiped the lingering tears away. I looked into his eyes and noticed just how blue they were, they were bluer than the sky itself!

“Are you alright?” he asked, with a hint of concern in his voice.

“I’m fine.” I said, sniffing again. After a moment of awkward silence, I asked “What was your childhood like?”

Erik’s face immediately grew somber as he said “This isn’t a story you would want to listen to, my dear.”

“Erik, I want to know.” I said softly.

He sighed and said “Alright, but I warn you now this story has no happiness in it.” Taking a deep breath, he began “I was born in a small town, not far from Rouen. My father and my mother despised me from the moment they first laid eyes on my scarred face.” Erik spat the last sentence with a look anger and sadness in his eyes. Without hesitation, I reached over and took his hand in mine and Erik looked at me with gratitude in his eyes before continuing “My mother made me cover my face with a dirty sack, so she wouldn’t have to look at me and my father never visited us at all. My distortion was the subject of horror and laughter in my town, and none of the families would let any of the children talk to me. I never had a friend in my life at that point in time. The only thing that kept me sane at that time was a slightly off-key piano that I found in the cellar of my home and with that I taught myself how to play. I think I was around seven, when the gypsies came into town and my own mother sold me to them and-”

“Wait!” I interrupted. “You think you were seven?”

“Yes, my birthday was never celebrated… I don’t even know when it was.” I fell silent with sadness. No one even cared enough to remember his birthday! When I said nothing, he continued his story. “The gypsies put me on display as the “Devil’s Child” they beat me, and kept me in a cage… people would come and laugh at me, and throw things at me. No one ever showed a bit of mercy or even sympathy for me. After every so called “show” my cage master would hit me with a whip or a stick, anything he had with him at the time. I still have the scars from the whippings… When I was nine, I decided that I wasn’t going to take it anymore. After the last show, I used a piece of rope and I strangled my tormenter, and that was the night that the ballerina’s were at the circus. Madame Giry saw me kill that man and she took my hand and led me to the opera house, letting me in through a passage to the chapel. She had discovered the catacombs years before and I decided that it was the perfect hiding place. Over the years I stole props from the stage, to make myself a home. Madame Giry brought me food and she helped me steal, even though she completely opposed stealing. I was going to leave the Populaire, but the music made me stay. Where else could I hear all these shows for free?”

“What made you decided to be the opera ghost?” I asked, genuinely curious.