How He Loved Her || Phantom of the Opera One Shot

How He Loved Her

How He Loved Her 

Phantom of the Opera One Shot - 4,460 Words

_______________________________________________________________

Fifteen years. Had it already been fifteen years since Antoinette had lured me away from those horrid gypsies and gave me my salvation, my freedom, my life? Had it already have been so long since I've seen the sunlight and felt its ever-pressing heat burn the exposed scars across my back? Had it been so long since I've been carried around and forced my cursed ugliness to various patrons who would then laugh or scream in horror?

Astonished at the amount of time, I held the paper tight to my chest choosing to sit down on the organ bench Antoinette had obtained for me. Well, truth be told either Antoinette obtained these items for me that the opera house no longer used or I stole what I needed. She was so gracious to rescue this organ and bench from the dumpster behind the building and with all the free time I had acquired I learned how to fix it and now use it as my own. Truly this organ, who has seen me bang furiously on the keys for days on end, knows more about me then I understand about myself. The organ does not judge me for being an outcast. The organ does not scream in horror when I chose to not wear a cloth bag to shield the exposed flesh that is my face. No, this organ is truly my greatest friend.

But now with the newest newspaper in my hand that Antoinette had curiously gifted me, I had just begun to realize how long I had been in this fortress of solitude within the walls of the catacombs of Paris, the one place where I belonged. My eyes lowered themselves back down to the date on top of the right hand corner, reading the date as if it were some sign that I should be moving on with my life instead of dwelling on the past; September 18th, 1861. The time of the Virgos as the gypsies would say, for they believed the planets and where they were aligned in the sky would tell them of various futures for those who truly believed. I had overheard of them telling various travelers of future loves, loss and whatever else the patron wanted to belief that I hardly thought the gypsies were telling the truth. They were greedy people who only cared about themselves. Hardly ever offering me anything to eat, bathe in or even clean clothes to wear as they often forced me to play the piano before exposing my curse upon them. I never minded playing, in fact I still do enjoy playing, but I will never force myself to play show tunes anymore. I can play real music, my music.

But throughout writing down the several melodies that swarmed my head I couldn't help but notice there were things missing. I would make sure to write down each note as they would sound within my mind, replaying what I wrote and fixing my notes over and over again until I could complete them entirely. However when I played them, though the notes and actions were identical in every way, there was still something missing as if there were no passion within the notes. I gave myself to music long ago, so what exactly was missing?

Setting the paper down beside me to my left, I looked over the organ keys once more as if the instrument would tell me what was missing, what I was doing wrong. Deciding that perhaps the organ needed a tune up, I went towards the edge of the lake where I kept the tools for it hidden underneath a curtained table. After obtaining them, I went back to my most beloved instrument and began tinkering with the keys, playing each key obsessively as the organ sprang back to life. Afterwards, I played my most recent composition but found that the notes were still lackluster.

How could this be? Am I not able to compose any longer? Turning towards my left I noticed I had knocked over a few items in my rage, picking them up and placing them on top of the tabletops as a sigh escaped my lips. No, I still have my emotions; perhaps I just need some inspiration. Unfortunately living under the Opera Populaire for so long, the constant repeated shows do not entrance me as they once do, and Monsieur Lefevre pays me extra handsomely in order for my attendance to not be required.