Red Roses can turn Black

1. Worthless

The dark, shining pavement lit up the streets before the Dozens of endless racks of Parisian houses. The archways, the trees that blew in the wind, were wet and dripping with silver, cold raindrops. The stars that lit up the entire alleyway.
This was a normal night, nothing abnormal about it at all. Nothing at all.

A young girl in her 16th year, not a beautiful one, no, but definitely not ugly either. her brown hair like a mop on her head, clearly not washed in quite a while, scanned the cold, dark, wet street with beautiful oak brown eyes. Her poorly clothing, rags and scraps of material that her family could afford, not enough to seal her from the cold Parisian night weather.

This girl is Eponiné Thénardier.

Life had not been kind to the poor girl, with thieves for parents, the oldest child of three, sent onto the streets to care for herself at the age of 13.

Life sometimes seemed hopeless for young Eponiné, wandering the streets aimlessly at night didn't do her any good, life was cruel and unfair, to young Eponiné, but she refused to step down and let her poorly faith take her down, she was a fighter, a girl with something on heart. She wasn't well educated, and how could she be? She wasn't a good speaker, so she obviously couldn't be a leader. But she wasn't just a dog you could yell at and give orders, no Eponiné was her own person.

In a whole other section of Paris, near the deathly waters of the Seine, a bridge stood, broad and antique. This was a stone bridge with so many details, that the architect had to have used at least 10 years on deciding how to build it. Though the natural beauty of the bridge, that held carts and horses and their men, out of the deadly water, the place was known to be a good spot to commit suicide.

These thoughts had been useful to many in the past, many brave warriors had chickened out at left their homes, before the crack of dawn, to jump into the icy water, fully armored, and sink to bottom, but before they could hit rock bottom, they had become frozen sculptures, forgotten.

A young girl, in her 17th year, seemed to have the same thoughts, she had previously been a dancer, a ballet dancer, for the now burnt down Paris Opera House.
Meg Giry had led a good life so far, but life had become cruel. Her childhood friend had left for London with her newly found husband.
The infamous Opera Ghost, was desperately in love with the girls friend, and did not pay any attention to poor Meg.
Neither did the Patron, Raoul de Chagny, why would he do that?
Nor her own mother paid much attention, always wanting everything to be perfect for young Meg's friend, Christine, she had forgotten about her own daughter, leading for the poor girl to committing suicide.

Far under the seine, far under the ground, a neat island had its spot, a boat was firmly tied to a pole near the river, a river that ran all around the island, how could there be a island so far under ground, is unknown.
On this little island, so far underground, there was a house. A house that held both wonders and horrors.
A beautiful organ, that could play the most tantalizing tunes, very passionately, was owned by a man, so deformed, that such beauty shouldn't be able to emerge.

It was the ugly truth.

It was there, Deep below the burnt down Opera house, the Opera ghost sang, sang his heart out for his beloved Christine, who had left, not long before, to go with what she found beautiful, go and marry into fame and money, and not beauty and love. Not in his opinion.

This was the infamous Opera Ghost, the Phantom of the Opera.
The red death.
The trapdoor lover.
The Angel of Music
Or the Angel of death.
It was there, far down, beneath the surface of the beauty of the sun, he created his music, that he lived and breathed for. Hiding his deformity behind a mask, a white half mask, a porcelain beautiful mask. A man so deformed as him, as Erik, shouldn't be allowed to own such Beauty.
His slicked back black hair, his cheekbones, his beautiful golden orbs, the perfect straightened suit, his hands, that smelt like death.
The Opera Ghost.

Farther away, in the slums of Saint Michelle, with houses parading on both sides, making the alleyway small and Dark.
There was a café, a café known as the Musian café, or ABC café.
The little place was owned by Madam Houcheloup, a fat little lady, who wore a tight dotted apron.
She wasn't pretty, but that didn't matter. No, Houcheloup isn't the one. Inside her café, a bunch of schoolboys sat, they were planning a revolution.
In their midst, there was a chair of wood, on this wooden chair in the middle there sat a man, in his 20th year. His golden curls, that fell in over his eyes, covered a handsome young mans face, no scars appeared, his cheekbones were perfected, by clear coincidence. His lips tight, as he concentrated on what was before him, his lashes now and then brushed over his eyes, when he blinked. Girls would swoon over this man, but he was as cold as ice, he did not care for foolish schoolgirls crushes. He had a bigger goal in life, Enjolras wanted a revolution. He was the leader. He did not care if he wasted his life on a lost cause, he would fight for his land, he would fight against tyranny, like many before him. And he would sacrifice himself, if it could clear the way for his dear France. In front of the man there was a flag. A blood red flag. This was their logo. Now it was revolution. Finally.

***
First chapter, I had to update, the time is now
1.11 I am SO tired, but it was worth it.
-H.G