I, Phantom

Chapter Four: The Chapel

2005-07-15T12:11:00.000-07:00

She guided me to the Opera Populaire house in the middle of Paris. I had never seen a building so frightening or large. In hindsight, I suppose that the darkness of night must have made it look all the more foreboding, but nevertheless, it was frightening and awe-inspiring the moment I saw it.

“This is my home. I live in the dormitories with the ballet dancers, but I know a place where I can hide you. I’m something of an explorer sometimes.”

She smiled with the pride of a child who knew nothing about exploration, but sometimes went into the dark basement and called it an adventure. And yet, I trusted her. I trusted her completely even as she led me through the streets of Paris and through a small grating on the side of the Opera house.

I found myself in a cold, dank stone room. There were a few candles burning in it, and several pictures around. I had never seen such a room. Janine followed quickly.

“This is our chapel. It is dark tonight, and seldom has visitors. But this is not where I wish to hide you.”

Janine pushed me through a doorway to a solid stone wall.

“I found this a year ago.”

Janine pushed against the stone, and it moved! Behind the stone wall was a large passageway leading downwards.

“These tunnels, I believe, were dug so that the Opera house would have access to the river below. But the Opera has been here so long, nobody remembers that these tunnels and catacombs are still here. You will be safe down here.”

She must have seen concern in my posture, because she spoke up about the very things I was worrying about.

“I will steal you food and bring it to you. And let us remove that bag from your face.”

Before I could react she had the burlap sack off of me. I suddenly felt naked and afraid. She would despise me. She would fear me. She would feel for me all the things I secretly felt for myself. And yet, somehow she did not.

I reached for the bag over and over again, but she would not let me have it.

“No Erik. No bag. No mask.”

Suddenly, my voice burst forth at her with an intensity I had never known myself to have.

“I must have a mask, Janine!”

She stepped back, eyes widened. I had frightened her. My only friend in life, and I had screamed at her in fear and frustration. My eyes felt the sting of wet tears as they streamed down my face. Janine’s hand reached out and touched my face, lifting my eyes to meet hers. My emotions and fears finally came bubbling forth.

“I am ugly, Janine. I must…I must have a mask. I need it. It is all I have to survive with. It will keep me safe. Keep me strong.”

Janine sighed deeply. She could see my fear and frustration. She knew, even then, somehow, what I would become. She knew how deeply the scars had already invaded my soul. She knew what the mask was to me. But yet, she relented to a small, scared boy.

“Then, my dear Erik, you shall have a mask. But not now. Let us go down to the catacombs and find you a living space. And then, once you are settled, I will make you a proper mask.”

A proper mask.

Chapter Three: Murder...and Janine

2005-07-13T12:10:00.000-07:00

Paris. City of lights.

We had traveled for one month. I had worked each night on my body. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Pull-ups. Whatever I could do to make my body as strong as I could. I knew I would need strength to escape. And I knew I must escape. The music was an escape of sorts, but if I remained in the circus, I would surely die. I had no concept of morality. No idea of right or wrong. It was a simple computation for me. Kill and escape, or die.

We spent days in Paris, maybe weeks. The days were the same as always. The coins, the moldy fruit, the beatings, and the music. But all the while I would retreat inside my mind to hear the music, my hands would coil around the belt holding up the rags I wore as pants. The gypsy hadn’t noticed the belt. After all, who would notice a simple length of rope around the waist of the devil in the cage? I was preparing.

The only thing that stopped me from striking out and escaping at any moment was the thought that I had nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. I would be caught by the other gypsies and surely killed. It wasn’t until a damp evening that my plan suddenly took form.

As the beatings began that evening, I retreated into my mind as usual, but my eyes flickered open at moments. I was having trouble concentrating. Something seemed amiss. There were people all around me shouting and cheering as the gypsy beat me over and over, but one of the people around me was silent. I was unaccustomed to that sensation. I could not tell who it was, but rather, where it was. It was like a gap in my hearing – sound here and there, but not there. I focused in on the location, and saw its source.

A little girl.

She was about my size, so I would guess her at about my age. Somewhere around ten years old. She was looking at me. Not at my deformity, not at my monstrosity, but at me. I was stunned. She could see inside me it seemed. She could hear my music. She could breathe the air in my mind. She could float with me. She could also see the pain I was suppressing, and it was hurting her to watch.

I had long ago come to grips with the gypsy hurting me, but now he was hurting this poor creature, who had done nothing to deserve it. She was not even hideous. She was merely a child. And by hurting me, the gypsy was hurting her.

I could feel the rage swelling in me. The music was reaching a crescendo in my mind. A climax was coming to the song. I had never felt this strong before in my entire life. As the gypsy herded the people out of the tent, I donned my burlap sack and rose to a fully standing position. I surveyed the inside of the tent, and saw the girl hiding behind a crate. She was waiting for something. Me perhaps?

When the gypsy returned, he bellowed at me to sit and wait for food. A noise from behind him caused him to turn. The girl had stood up as well. His breathing quickened and he began panting. He gestured her towards him. He meant her harm, clearly.

Without a word or a sound, I struck. My belt quickly unlooped around my waist, and the lasso was in my hands. With a snap it was around the gypsy’s neck squeezing the life out of him. I could hear the music crashing through my mind as his body went limp and fell to the ground, dead. The girls eyes went wide with panic. I thought she would run away, but instead she ran to me and lifted the gypsy’s keys to the lock.

I was free.

“Hurry, they will be coming for you soon. We have to get you out of here.”

She grabbed my hand and ran with me in tow. I had never touched another person willingly before that. The feel of her soft skin on my hand was new and forbidden and frightening. But as she squeezed lightly, I could tell she meant me no harm. We ran into the darkness together, getting as far from the circus as we could. After we could no longer see the lights from the circus, we stopped a moment to catch our breath.

“You can come with me to the Opera Popularie house. It is where I live. I can hide you.”

I merely nodded at this girl who wished to help me. She reached out and touched my shoulders, her eyes soft.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you. You are safe with me.”

She smiled at me.

“I am called Janine, Janine Giry. Do you have a name?”

I shook my head and looked down at my feet.

“That is well anyway. Your life is restarting and I shall name you, as your first friend.”

I looked into her eyes.

“I shall call you…Erik.”

Chapter Two: The Punjab Lasso

2005-07-13T10:15:00.000-07:00

The circus traveled all over Europe, and carted my cage and me around. Days blended together into months and years. The circus arrived at the outskirts of an Austrian town, with an enormous castle in the center of town. The happenings were the usual ones, with my daily showings and nightly beatings. On the third day, however, a man remained behind after the show, with the fat gypsy.

He was a shorter man than the gypsy, and his head was covered with a wrapping of purple cotton cloth. His skin was darker than the gypsy’s and he spoke with a thick heavy accent. I was not able to understand much of what was said because of the accent, but it appeared that the man wanted me brought to the castle for a special showing. As the gypsy counted the money he was given and started laughing, I went back to my thoughts and music.

Two days later, my cage was hoisted onto a carriage and brought to the castle. I was carried into a large audience chamber and placed before a raised dais where a solitary chair sat. The room was filled with chairs and people. The man with the purple head wrapping was to the side of the throne. I sat quietly, surveying the scene through my burlap sacks eyeholes. The gypsy was seated near me, smiling.

The man with the head wrap clapped his hand loudly twice, and everyone in the room rose. From behind a tapestry and tall man in robes emerged. Behind the tapestry I could see a small panel that had opened and was now closing. He sat in the throne, and the people all sat, except the man with the head wrap. His voice was loud and booming.

“What have we today for my amusement, my dear Punjab? Another demonstration of your lasso skills, perhaps? More magic tricks? An escape?”

The man in the head wrap, who was apparently called the Punjab, gestured towards my cage. The gypsy stood and ripped my mask from my head. Soft music filled my mind. The melodies were warm and tranquil. They kept me safe from the pain and fear. They kept me away from the gasps of the crowd.

I heard a loud crack and my head suddenly burst alive with searing pain about my neck. I reached up for it, and found the edge of a noose that was tightening around my neck. My eyes flew open, and I was face to face with the Punjab, who had thrust his hands into my cage and was strangling me with the ferocity of a wild animal. He spat his words at me, thickly accented.

“You will not hide in your mind from me, boy!”

I stared back at him defiantly. I would not cry out. But my music had gone. All I could feel was the pressure around my throat. The people in the room were laughing and clapping. I tried to find my music again. The pressure increased. I was losing the air I had left to breathe, but I would not cry out. The Punjab smiled at me. I recall the smile now, as it seemed odd that someone who was killing me should smile. But he did, nonetheless. And then he leaned closer to me and spoke again. This time, his words were softer and calmer.

“You have a marvelous spirit, boy. You may survive this cage, yet.”

All at once, the noose was gone, and the people roared with cheers. I scurried for my sack, still gasping for breath and fell into my music. It came quickly as I donned my burlap and curled into a ball. The Punjab had failed to break me. Sleep came easily.

Late that night, I heard a soft tapping at my cage. My eyes fluttered open. The room was darkened, and I was face to face again with the Punjab. I glanced around quickly for the gypsy.

“He is gone, boy. Drunk of my master’s wine for the night. I wanted to speak with you.”

I was puzzled, but he went on.

“Give me this.” He reached for my sack. Instinctively, I pushed far away from the cage, to get away from his hand. Inside my sack, I was safe. Would he hurt me? He had come close to breaking me, but had not done it. Was he here to finish the job?

“You have a gift, boy. Your mind is a vast place that you can create in. That creative energy must not be wasted. You must learn to use it, despite your deformity.”

He produced a piece of paper in his hand, which suddenly burst into flames and was gone.

“You will be able to amaze and astound. But first you must do that which without my help you cannot ever do…”

He slid a lasso into my hand and whispered.

“Escape.”

I was ten years old, and I was going to escape.

That night the Punjab taught me to use his lasso with deadly accuracy and precision. I could throw it and hit a target two yards away. I could close it on a neck in under a second. He showed me exercises I could do at night to get stronger and more agile. He showed me how I could use my mind to create anything I could need or want. But he also told me that anything I wanted, I would have to take, for nobody would ever let me earn or have anything.

“Use the sack, boy. People fear you, because to them, you are a monster. Use their fear to survive. Hide so that your mind might seek life and refuge outside this cage.”

By dawn, when my cage was carted back to the circus, I knew I would be ready soon to leave this cage.

When we returned to the circus, the gypsies were in a celebration the likes of which I had never seen them in. Usually they were only so happy when one or more of them had made a lot of money somehow or when they were off to some highly populated locale with many people with loose pockets.

As I listened in, I discovered it to be the latter. We were going to Paris.

That night while the gypsy slept, I began doing pushups. The music in my head was louder than ever.

Chapter One: Memories

2005-07-13T10:10:00.000-07:00

My earliest memory is of being beaten. There is nothing before that. I can hear the laughter and the coins plinking on the floor around me. The leather strap wore welts and sores in my skin so deep that I thought I would never recover. I coughed blood most nights as I slept, curled up in my cage. By all accounts, I was nearly five years old, and nearly dead.

The other ‘performers’ in the gypsy circus never paid attention to me. I was merely the devil in the cage. I spent most of my day with my head covered in a harsh burlap sack. The fabric would cut into my face as I lay on the ground. Periodically the fat gypsy that beat me would rip the sack off of my face. My cage was surrounded by people, laughing and throwing food, money, anything they could get their hands on. I would try to hide myself from them. But the fat gypsy simply beat me harder until I had to show my face.

They would gasp. They would laugh. They would cry out in fear. But they would always pay the fat gypsy. Always.

And then, finally, when I looked as if I would pass out, and after all the people had left, he would feed me. I ate one square of day old bread daily. I was given what was left of the water the horses drank when they were done with it. It would have gone on like that forever, had I not had the fortune to wake up one night and hear something I had never heard before.

A woman was outside the tent the gypsy kept my cage in. I could not see her, and have no idea to this day who she was. Her form was silhouetted against the tent. I never would have noticed her, except for the sound. She was singing. My mind fell into the song. My eyes closed, and my soul at once came to life.

She sang for an eternity. I have no idea how long she was there, nor where she went, but all at once she was gone. But the song remained. The music was in my mind. And I found that if I opened my mouth, I could recreate it. That night, I stood in my cage and sang as loud as my voice would let me. I created music. But only for a moment.

The gypsy had awoken at the sounds I was making. But even as he whipped me repeatedly that night, I felt no pain. I would not cry out. I simply retreated into my mind, and floated in the song I had heard. I finally had a way out of that cage and past the fat gypsy. From that day forth, I never cried from the pain of being beaten.

I spent every night singing new songs to myself. I would create the tunes as easily as a bird flying. I stored each tune and melody in my mind, and each one opened a new world of music to escape to when the gypsy would beat me, both during the day, and now every night when I sang. I knew as I sang, he would beat me, but not only did I not care, I hardly noticed anymore. I was growing as a musician, and as a boy. I no longer cowered while wearing my sack. And when it was removed and the people would gasp and laugh, I had my music.

Prologue

2005-07-13T10:05:00.000-07:00

It is entirely possible that as you sit there, reading, that you do not believe that this is an account of true events. “How can it be true?” you might ask, seeing as my fate is unknown to you, even after reading it. Surely I was imagined, you must think. I was a figment, an invention. I was used to scare the chorus girls and stagehands into working. None of this could have happened. And even if it did, surely I must have perished in the catacombs. There is no way I could have survived to tell the true tale. And yet, I have, and I wish to. I wish you to know exactly what the truth is and how it came to be. Yes, I still live and breathe as I write this. I still feel the love, and the loss. And I still feel every ounce of my heart aching for what I lost in myself, for what I became. I was a genius, they said. But I was also a man. An angel. A composer. A murderer. A demon.

A Phantom.