Chapter 3: Too Many Years

Roselyn seemed to be dazed and confused. Her mind was racing. Her throat was burning. The first day of vocal lessons with her angel seemed to be tasking, dare she say, draining. It seemed so familiar. The voice the masked man had was from another world. Another time, even.

She felt him always looming over her. Always following where she went. She always felt his judgment. She could always feel his gaze. She could sense him, even when she wasn't singing. She wasn't a student there. She was just a mere costume designer.

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Erik seemed to be pacing. No, he didn't seem to be pacing, he was pacing. He could not shake the image of Christine from his mind. He longed to be at ease. He longed to be in the one place he couldn't. All he wanted was for his Christine to be returned to him.

He did not want the cheap imposter known as Roselyn. Roselyn seemed to pale in comparison to his angel of music. The girl Erik had trained many years ago was gone. She left him on Coney. Erik could no longer be there. It was his choice. Every night he could hear her. In every sound he could feel Christine.

Then again, Roselyn did match every single detail of Christine. If she had a birthmark in the same place Christine had taken a bullet, he would know that Roselyn was his sweet Christine. Erik's beliefs were that if his beloved were reincarnated, a bullet hole would be replaced with a birthmark. He would only know at that point.

"Too many years have I lived in this darkness," Erik began as he stole over to the piano that he had found himself playing aside from his beloved pipe organ. "Too many years have I live alone. My family's dead and gone, and I have done no wrong. The only sin I have is loving you." Erik began to pace. He seemed to be going off the emotions Roselyn had used in her audition, seeming to add to her opera.

"Too many years that I have heard your haunting voice. Far too many days have I heard those ravishing refrains. They tear at my mind and yet I want them to stay. A mocking angel toying with my heart, my patience no longer tried. Perhaps I can make a change. Then I wouldn't hide."

Erik seemed to be memorising each word he uttered. His melodic voice seemed to echo through the theatre. A woman's voice seemed to be singing. A soprano. From what he could tell it was Roselyn. Her voice was still slightly uncontrolled, yet it was getting better. "Too many years you've been alone," Roselyn's voice added sweetly. "Too many years have you been left to roam. Is there any God that will show you mercy? Is there any love that the heavens would give?"

"There is no love for one shrouded in darkness. I have been cursed by the hands of the devil himself. Everything is hotter as I burn in a dwelling that to the world is unknown," Erik seemed to respond. Roselyn seemed to know what words to sing. She seemed to know that the aria she sang for her audition was incomplete. "Gently you wonder what life will bring to you. Slowly you wonder what your heart has yet to give. What chance do you have? What love do you share? How far away must you go and must you travel so far? Why do you leave me alone? Why do you even try to make it up to me? What love do you dare give? What love do you show? Is there anything in your heart, or is there just HATE? Why do you bother to make it up to me? Why do you ever get these ideas and fancies in your head? Just take your affection... just take these chances... just take it all from me and leave me alone with all these years that we've put to WASTE!"

Erik responded, "The wait is over and the task has just begun. Only a few more moments 'til I know what's still undone. Save your worries, child, for your spirit is wild and free..." Roselyn and Erik, though separated, ended in unison, "For too many years... I've longed for someone such as thee..."

Erik smiled softly. Perhaps this was what he needed. He seemed to be needing a new start, and he felt as though it had just been brought to him. All he needed to know now was if Roselyn knew German. He remembered Christine, how she did not just speak Swedish, but German as well. And now was the perfect opportunity. He would wait patiently. He had to know. He needed to know.

Perhaps he would teach it to her tomorrow. He would coach her, yes, but he would do so while she was singing. Her next lesson would be in expression and tone while singing. It only made sense. He already ran her dry with scales. He only did those one day with Christine. He wasn't going to treat Roselyn any differently.

As Erik headed off to bed, he removed the mask, the porcelain prison that his mother forced upon him. His mother, a singer as well, had passed when he was but a child, the tender age of three. His cries were heard throughout the opera house. It earned him the name of The Phantom, though he would rather be called Erik by those who knew him.

Though Erik was currently residing in France, before France it was Coney, and before that it was France, he was born in Germany, just on the outskirts of Bamberg, under the name of Erik Mulheim. He remembered his boyhood in Germany. It wasn't pleasant. He always heard music to drown out the sounds of his screams and cries.

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A boy of the age of twelve remained caged. He was desperate. He was terrified. He only wanted his mother. He then remembered that his mother was dead. He would always hear her singing to him, that was until she saw his face, horrifically disfigured. It was at the tender age of four when he received an unfeeling scrap of clothing. It was a mask. Pale. Porcelain. Perfect.

Upon his arrival at a fair, the porcelain mask was smashed, shattered into pieces. He was heartbroken. That was the only thing that made him feel comfortable in the world. That mask was replaced with a burlap sack that tore at his flesh. It stung. It bit. It ripped. It frayed. It was then the boy felt like he was a monster.

He had hunger. He was never fed. He had thirst. He was never given water. He needed love. He was never given it. He was stripped of anything that made him human. He was turned into a monster. It was all because of his face. A face of a demon. As he aged, he was told by heaven that he was an angel. An angel that was trapped. He believed it. He let heaven sweep him up in promise.

With his age, he grew stronger. Wiser. His mind seemed to become engulfed with sweet music. The music of his homeland. As he aged he longed to see Germany again, only the difference was he wanted to see it blossom and flourish. He wanted his boyhood there to die and be replaced with the memories of a man. A man who wanted nothing more than to be adored due to the music he had created.

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Erik did indeed grow older. The older he became, the more he was cursed. He was trapped at twenty nine. He was still the genius. As he thought about everything, the more he missed his beloved homeland. The only thing he held onto was the language. Each passing day made him long to speak, or even sing in the language he loved. Though French had its beauty, there was something about Erik's native language that spoke to him. There was strength in it. The lonely composer strolled back over to his pipe organ, playing a melody that he heard in his head all those years ago.

Softly, he began to sing, "Auf Fürstengunst verzichte ich. Und auch, auf die Puderlocken. Der Muff von Staub und Weihrauchduft genügt, mir nicht mehr." Erik smiled as his native language passed through his lips. It made him feel great comfort. The composer continued on, "Ich will das wahre Leben spür'n. Es hat dicke, rote Lippen, es riecht nach Wein und wärmt mich in der Nacht. Es flüstert, weint und lacht. Die Frage ist bloß: Wie wird man seinen Schatten los? Wie sagt man seinem Schicksal nein? Wie kriecht man aus der eignen Haut? Wie kann man je ein andrer sein? Wen soll man fragen, wenn man sich selber nicht versteht? Wie kann man frei sein, wenn man seinem eignen Schatten nie entgeht?"

The music of his home plagued his mind, yet Erik continued in his native language. This was the only time Erik allowed his voice to be heard throughout the Opera Populaire when it was in the language of his home. "Was soll mir die Unsterblichkeit! Vor dem Sterben will ich leben. Der Grabgeruch der Lorbeergruft betäubt mich nicht mehr. Was ist die schönste Sinfonie gegen einen weichen Busen? Kein Geigenklang kann je so zärtlich sein wie eine Hand im Haar. Die Frage ist bloß..."

The more Erik continued on, the more he could hear the voices of the great composers in the past joining him. One in particular was Wolfgang Mozart, a man who composed while deaf. "Wie wird man seinen Schatten los? Wie lässt man alles hinter sich? Wie jagt man sein Gewissen fort? Wie flieht man vor dem eignen Ich? Wie kann man flüchten, wenn man sich selbst im Wege steht? Wie kann man frei sein, wenn man seinem eignen Schatten nie entgeht? Neben dir steht ein Dämon in Gestalt eines Knaben Ihm allein sollst du dienen. Was du bist will er haben. Nur für ihn alléin bist du gebor'n. Hinter dir steht ein Dämon in Gestalt eines Knaben tag und Nacht ist er bei dir."

Each word that Erik went through was bringing back each painful memory. He could hear the music of Mozart being used to drown out his pained cries. No more would that happen. The twisted flesh and bone still continued, no matter the pain it brought him. He had to stay strong. For his Christine needed him to be strong in his weakest hour. "Angst, die mir den Atmen raubt, Blei auf meinen Schultern, schweigen, das mir Fragen stellt, und keine Antwort gibt auf mein Warum. Unsichtbare Blicke, an denen ich ersticke. Der Schatten der mir folgt- ich glaub, eines Tages bringt er mich noch um. Wie wird man seinen Schatten los? Wie sagt man seinem Schicksal Nein? Wie kriecht man aus der eignen Haut? Wie kann man je ein andrer sein? Wen soll man fragen, wenn man sich selber nicht versteht? Wie kann man frei sein, wenn man seinem eignen Schatten nie entgeht? Wie wird man seinen Schatten los? Wie lässt man alles hinter sich? Wie jagt man sein Gewissen fort? Wie flieht man vor dem eignen Ich? Wie kann man flüchten wenn man sich selbst im Wege steht?"

Without a thought, Erik continued on. He sang as he exited the lair. He was in pursuit of the very person who resembled his beloved. There was a cruel trick. How dare she. The composer growled, "Wie wird man seinen Schatten los? Wie lässt man alles hinter sich? Wie jagt man sein Gewissen fort? Wie flieht man vor dem eignen Ich? Wie kann man flüchten wenn man sich selbst im Wege steht? Vor deinem Schicksal kannst du nicht fliehn! Wie kann ich leben, solang ich nur dem Schicksal dien? Kann ich den nie, kann ich denn nie, nie, niemals vor meinem eignen Schatten fliehn?"

Too many years had a child been without guidance. He could now give her what she needed. The proper lessons. The proper way to address him as her angel and teacher. The proper way to respect him. He would strike fear into her as a warning. It would let her know what would happen should she betray him.

He watched her innocent form. He heard her humming. It was time to scare her. "Insolent girl! You dare defy me! After my lessons, there's vocal rest! Ignorant girl! You do not listen! Pay attention to your mentor! I've been there before with someone much like you, years too long have I not been given my due!" Erik thundered, his voice was that of a man who grew bitter as each his student defied him.

Roselyn gulped in fear, but went silent shortly after. "Thank you, madame. Too many years have I put up with this. Rest your voice until I say it is alright for you to make a peep. However long that may be, I do not care," Erik dryly laughed as he stole away. Yes, too many years had he put up with it. Even while Christine was in heaven, her voice played at his ear. Before he strolled too far off, he caught a glimpse of something. On Roselyn's shoulder was a birthmark. It was the exact size of a bullet wound. It was in the same place as Christine was shot.

"Too many years," Erik sighed, "Too many years this world has been without you. Too many years have you been without my coaching. I can help you once again. I can make you be the Prima Donna once more. You remind me of my mother. True, my mother despised me, yet she was beautiful, much as you. Her name was Belladova. Then she died. She was brought back in the form of Christine, then she died. Now, you, Roselyn. You have both of their traits. I will bring you to your full glory. Too many years has this world been without you. You're in need of repair. I can fix you. Too many years have you been away from my gaze. Here we are once again, only the strength and memories have left. What has heaven done to you? Have they forbid you to sing? How can that be? What dreadful game are the angels playing with me?"

Erik felt cheated. He felt betrayed. He felt cheated. He felt lied to. His Christine was there. He just had to make her remember. Too many years had she forgotten. It was time for him to jog her memory.

A/N: Songs are "Wie wird man seinen Schatten los?" from Mozart das Musical-performed by Erik

"The truth of Emotions (duet)"-written by Rosco Rose, performed by Erik and Roselyn

"Too Many Years"-written by Rosco Rose, performed by Erik