[COMPLETE] When Y/n signed a risky contract with the Phantom, then agreed to spend six months living in the basement with him, she was clueless about what the future held. Like the dutiful errand girl Y/n is, she follows his commands precisely-until...
Named after my mother, I was called Y/n. She gave me up immediately after my birth. Unfortunately, I was born out of wedlock, and in the preservation of what little reputation my mother had left, she asked the doctors to contact the nearest orphanage. She hadn't bothered to name me. Instead of calling me Rose or Elizabeth, the doctors quickly scribbled my mother's name on my birth certificate, a constant reminder of the woman who didn't want me.
No child wants to live in an orphanage, and Coldrock House is the worst of them all. Most girls were brought in off the streets. However, in quiet nighttime whispers, they'd tell me about the grand adventures they had during their homelessness. Clever little girls pickpocketed like a regular boy. There was never enough food or beds at Coldrock House, much less personal attention. You learned to protect yourself, keeping anything valuable under your pillow or tucked within a threadbare coat.
In a twist of fate, when I was nine, I received the news that I had a living uncle. Uncle Mike was a practicing doctor and renowned in Paris. My, what a dream! The other girls could only hope a successful relative would appear from the shadows and swoop them away.
Uncle Mike raised me as he would his own daughter. He coddled me with gifts and treats. However, in a tragic accident, he fried a boy on the table from an electrical surge. His medical license was revoked, and our privileged life fell out from under us. Uncle Mike tried to pull through at first, but the responsibility of money fell on me after he took up the ever-productive pastime of alcoholism.
I was nine years old and worked ten-hour days in a thread factory. I had scars from the quick thread slicing up my arms and hands.
"Uncle Mike?" I asked, washing a dish in the kitchen.
"What?"
"I think I will move away soon, like I've been talking about." I said.
I was twenty as of that day, but Uncle Mike wouldn't remember that.
"You can't. You're not old enough."
"...Uncle Mike, I'm twenty. I am old enough."
"Liar."
"It's on my birth certificate."
"Y/n! Finish the dishes and be quiet!"
"Yes, monsieur."
I scurried off to my room after being chastised, the dish still in hand. I was tired of waiting for another illusive uncle to come swoop me up out of this situation. I was an adult for God's sake, and I was still doing this old man's bidding!
I pulled the dusty blanket off my bed and put my few belongings inside. I tied it into a knapsack and grabbed it by the knot on the top. I put the large metal plate under my arm and hauled the bag over my shoulder. I went back out into the living room.
"I'm leaving."
"How many times do I have to tell you?" With great effort, he heaved himself off his sofa. "You've packed."
He cocked an eyebrow in disbelief.
"Like I said."
He walked up to me with labored steps. He grabbed my arm, mustache twitching with anger.
"How dare you!" I cried, jerking my arm away.
I slammed the metal dish on top of his head. It clattered to the floor. I jumped back, smacking the door with the back of my head. I fumbled over the doorknob with my hand. Uncle Mike had a glazed-over, far-off look in his eyes, but his face grew red with anger. He threw a punch but missed me in his haze. He pounded his knuckles into the rattling door.
Finally, I twisted the knob in the proper direction to open it. I raced down the metal steps of the dingy, rat-infested complex. I'd lived there most of my life, but now, it was hastily fading behind me.
"Get outta here! And, when you're starvin' on the street, you won't be crawlin' back to me!"
He slammed the door. The night was blisteringly cold. The street smelled of ash and garbage. I could mark the sound of at least two crying babies. A man was chain-smoking cheap cigars. He stared me down on the street corner.
"What'cha up to, pretty?"
"Leave me alone."
I walked past him, hardly looking.
"The name's Ryan!" He called. "Telegram me!"
Ugh, in what world?
I crawled my way out of the gutters of Paris society and found myself at a crossroads. In the center sat the greatest sight I'd seen in years.
The opera house crowned the street. Despite the sleeping world, it was lit ablaze with light. The Opera Populaire, I think? Maybe not, but it didn't matter. The night was only growing colder.
I crept around the premises of the building, looking for any nook to curl up in. My eyes caught a small window on the ground floor. It was slightly below the street level. I sat next to the fan-shaped window. I kept my blanket wrapped in a bag, afraid my belongings would be stolen, but I curled my knees to my chest, and I nestled my back to the glass.
The sun woke me up early the next morning. My fingers were so stiff with cold I could hardly move them, but I had to get out of here before an overzealous groundskeeper made me. I collected my bag and walked to the front of the opera. Hunger gnawed in my core, but I ignored it.
"You, girl!" A woman's voice called.
"Yes, madame?" I responded.
"You're here early," she said, looking down at me from her position at the top of the stairs, "get inside. You can help set up."
"I'm sorry, but I don't work here." I said, trying to walk on.
"My apologies. We are down one dance assistant if you're interested. I am not trying to bother you. I was just sent to advertise the position."
"Thank you, but I don't dance."
"That's not what a dance assistant is." She stared down her nose at me.
"Then, I guess I can."
"Come inside. That's something off my plate."
The warmth of the opera house hit me immediately, like wrapping my frigid fingers around a warm cup of tea or opening the stove whilst a delicious meal was cooking. My hunger still hadn't subsided.
The whole exchange I had with this strange madame made me wonder if this was a oddly thought-out job offer. However, If any rational company was looking to hire, I don't think a random, seemingly homeless person would be their first choice.
Either way, I found myself amongst the glittering splendor of The Opera Populaire, being led briskly down the halls by a stern woman dressed all in black.
This would certainly be an adventure. Perhaps a bigger one than being a little girl pickpocket?
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