Hide Your Face
Phanfiction by [
Miss Pirate] AKA Luke-Warm Predator
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters associated with this "phan"fiction. All characters are copywright to Gaston Leroux.
Follow-up to
Paper Faces on Parade
The dark was so deafening, you’d think I’d heard the thing creeping up on me. No. I didn’t hear a sound. Not even the wind rustling the sycamores outside my bedroom window.
These were the times I regretted heavily the decision to permit my staff to leave at night. It left me alone in the enormous house that used to be my brother’s. His death instantly gave way to my inheritance; money and a house. Of course, the power that came with the title I bear helps as well, but the power wasn’t as overwhelming as the estate I now made my home.
I had been here a mere month, and already I’d swear he was after me. He’d gotten his prize I heard the buzz around Paris; they’d eloped. There was no way to know for sure without asking one of them and that was something I was surely not going to do It was no longer my problem, or so I’d thought at the time.
Years of haunting a building, weaving through rafters and climbing ropes. It must have given him great stealth, for the first time I noticed anything amiss was when I was violently jerked from my comfortable, warm bed. A strong hand had a very firm grip on my hair from the scalp.
“Wh... Who’s there?” I asked the darkness. Uttering any form of words the exactly the wrong thing to do. I tried to prepare myself for impact, but was still too stunned from the initial attack. My body collided hard with my own thick oak wardrobe, the doors splintering with the sheer force. Who or what ever and thrown me was strong. Too strong for me.
Too afraid to move from my crumpled position on the hardwood flooring of my bedroom, I let my eyes frantically search the black that surrounded me, but in vain. The only thing I could see was the sliver of moonlight that came through the slightly open curtains. Even that did not offer what I needed, for the moon was but a thin slice this cold winter night.
Before I was able to speak again, pressure was put on my lower jaw as my head was forcefully shoved backwards, only splintering my inherited wardrobe further.
It was then that I saw a flame flicker; a match One of the kerosene lamps in the far corner was lit and allowed a very dim effect. The only object that was illuminated was a small patch of a rather tattered shirt. It looked as if it had been whipped harshly. What skin was visible beneath was indeed freshly scabbed, purple, and swollen. A masculine, yet thin hand held the lamp as it was brought closer to me.
“You will feel the pain as I did,” a deep voice sounded. It could only be coming from the large black shape advancing on my dazed mind. Slowly, but surely, I stood up and gathered myself. I summoned all possible courage and strength that was in my body at such an early hour, which wasn’t an impressive amount by far, but just might be enough to survive the remainder of the night.
“I know not who you are,” I replied, my voice far too shaky for my own good. Soon, I realized that my body was trembling in rhythm. Where had I heard that voice before? It was vaguely familiar to me now.
The deep, tenor voice laughed maliciously. “If my memory serves, you will come to recall me very quickly, Vicomte.” I heard the slam of the lamp being set on the nearest table and watched the small flame steadily grow larger until a reasonable amount of light clouded my vision that had so nicely adjusted to the dark room. Wincing slightly, I took in the tall man before me. I did indeed know him. Know who he was anyways. I did not know him as a person, only a murderer and criminal. Not to mention kidnapper.
My eyes raked his body. His tattered clothes hung sloppily off of his exceptionally thin frame. He wore no shoes, but his shirt and breeches were severely destroyed with lash marks. On his shoulders and biceps there looked to be scratch marks in the material. Upon further inspection of those areas, I saw the deep, uneven and dirty cuts made only by the fingernails of an insane person.
As I really looked, I noticed a thick red ring around his neck and immediately grew arrogant. Perhaps it was all a defense mechanism, but if I were to redo this moment, I wouldn’t have said it. “It looks to me as if the Phantom has been caught in his own noose!” A silly grin that said “I win” slapped itself upon my face and I did not know how to take it off. I knew what the man before me was capable of. I knew the things he’d done first hand; what he’d done to my beloved older brother.
A deep, guttural growl emitted itself from his throat as he lunged at me, forcing his full face into the light instead of the mere profile I’d been given. He wore no mask, his last being shattered by my former lover. I felt his boney fingers wrap themselves around my scrawny neck in an attempt to choke the life from my body.
“And it is all your fault, you worthless pile of flesh! You think your life is of any importance to me? There you are mistaken. I shall to do you whatever it is you have done to my Angel!” He seized me by the nape of my neck hard, his short, dull nails biting into my skin, piercing the fragile sheen of salt that covered my muscles and drawing blood. I could bet you my fortune that he enjoyed feeling the warm liquid flow over his fingers.
Roughly, he drug me to my own full-length mirror and made me look upon myself, made me look at the creature behind me. “Remember this face,” he hissed in my ear. “For it is the last you will ever see.” With that, he thrust my head forward, cracking the glass. He pulled back by my neck and repeated the action, fervently bashing my head into the expensive mirror, the fresh wounds upon my forehead staining the glass a red colour.
“Stop!” I begged. I was not one prone to begging, but this called for it. I had the man who’d won, stolen my childhood sweetheart’s love from me and lived happily. It was true, I could tell by the ring on the finger that held the mirror in place that they had truly eloped.
“I do not believe that is in my plan,” he sneered wickedly. Our reflections were now cracked, fragmented, jagged and tinted a disgusting shade of deep red as the blood splatters dried on. Trying to imagine the look on poor Olivia’s face when she discovered the mirror in its current condition sent shivers up my spine. She was but 15.
I tried to break free of this monster’s vice-like grip, but to no avail. His anger was so great that it doubled his strength. I’ve no need to mention the sorrow and pain he’d endured earlier that same night. The heartbreak that he himself had been put through. He told me later on that he could hear the sound of his heart that was allowed to grow so big shatter within his chest, piercing every major artery and organ in its path as his beloved wife bled him dry.
“I’ve no intention of stopping until you know the equivalent of my pain! My pain! You will be a rotting corpse by my hand!” he roared as he threw me with great force across the room so that my already injured forehead made harsh contact with the metal washing bowl on the side table. I outwardly cringed and inwardly screamed as I felt the slow trickle of a warm, thick fluid slide down my temple. If I lived through this, I would surely leave this retched place.
“I know nothing of which you speak,” I said weakly. What had I done that I was not aware that I did? I fumbled to find the post of my bedframe with success and hoisted myself up, leaning against the carved wood so that I did not fall back down.
That laugh again. That menacing laugh that had always sent shivers down my spine. “You corrupted her. Turned her against me, you did. That was what you’d been doing all those years, teaching her to betray me once I’d given my her my heart, my existence!” His voice bellowed from the pit of his stomach and I heard him strain the last word. With a violent cough, he spit something that resembled a half-liquidate
d blood clot in what he’d hoped was my direction.
“Please. I know not of what you speak, Phantom! I’ve done nothing of the sortQ We were merely friends, nothing but childhood friends. That is, until you stepped into the picture,” I spat out, hoping to cause enough emotional damage to drive him away. This was the fool’s thing to do. I should have known that it would only anger him further.
Whimpering slightly, I felt his thin hands once more wrap around my neck, pushing me farther into darkness, shoving me against the hard wall. Once more, he began to savagely beat the back of my cranium, causing a fresh wave of headache and nausea. I could swear that at the rate he was going, my head would surely break through the wall, but I was never granted that luxury. As I closed my eyes, I bit back the rush tears behind my lids. I refused to show him that I had a weakness against him.
“She..” slam, “loves...” slam, “me...” slam, “She...” slam, “chose...” slam, “ME!” SLAM! That was it.
I caved.
A scream so raw with pain and pent up anger ripped itself from my throat. No longer could I take the bashing, no longer could my brain, my skull take any more of this treatment.
He stopped abruptly, looking at my face with curious eyes. “That one hurt, didn’t it?” he purred. I couldn’t make the words form, so I merely nodded my head slowly. “Good,” he growled with a smile on his face. “This is only the beginning. I’ve brought you a present. Straight from my darling herself. I had the pleasure of this gift earlier. Share the wealth, as they say.”
Those cold steely hands clamped around my head and shoved me into the bed. Although aiming for the mattress, my right temple came in hard contact with the thick wooden bedpost. Instantly, I found myself tied to either post, standing, my arms like Jesus on the rosary setting by my bed. To think of what could possibly come next made my body quiver uncontrollably.
I heard rustling. Looking around, I had just noticed that the lamp had been put out or had burned out. What time was it? How long had I been enduring this pain? There was no question of time. It seemed to slip away along with reality. To me, it seemed like I had been tied there for an eternity, yet it couldn’t have been more than maybe one or two full minutes.
When I heard the sound of leather slapping the ground, I knew what was to come. Attempting to brace myself was useless. I’d never felt the sting of a whip on my skin. If I had any scars it was from playing as a child, maybe fencing lessons. Phantom, on the other hand, had a harsh childhood. He was used to the beatings and knew what to expect. I did not. I had only heard tales of the wondrous feeling of pain it brought. Lashings were never a part of my history.
“Do know the feel of a leather cord, Vicomte? The feel of the tight end cutting into your flesh so cleanly, you don’t feel it until afterwards? The sting it brings loves to get that adrenaline going.” I could only hear his voice. I did not try to guess where he was, nor did I lash out. I had already lost. I know when to accept defeat, and now was that time. Let him have his way with me. It would be pure bliss to be stricken from this world
Shuddering, I felt the cool, thick, tightly wound handle of the leather whip caress the side of my face gently, like a teasing lover. I knew better than to think of a lover, though. It was a monster standing before me in the pitch darkness. This was no man. This was inhuman.
I sensed the whip being drawn back and shut my eyes tightly, expecting the worse. To say I could withstand the pain would be a lie. The feel of the narrow material slicing my salty, bloody skin was pure hell. What? What had I done to deserve this?
Lash after last exposed itself to my fragile and unexpecting body. I refused to cry out as I did before. I found it gave him an odd pleasure to know for a fact that I felt the pain he inflicted upon me. I was being treated as a rag doll, being thrown about carelessly and ripped to shreds.
Finally, I heard the thud of the whip hitting the wood floors and let out a deep breath. I had been holding it for some time, hoping the tensed muscles would help with the pain.
Just as I thought it could get no worse, it did. And in the worst way. I felt those dull, disgusting nails digging deep into the flesh of my lashed torso, seeming to peel the outer layer of my being away. This action made me cry out. I could no longer hold it in.
“Oh GOD have MERCY on my soul ” I cried to the darkened ceiling. I felt my blood fleeing by way of the deepened and widened wounds residing just above my navel. Surely, after such actions, I would be just as much a monster as he in appearance.
“God, has mercy on no one, Vicomte,” I heard whispered in my ear as a dirty thumb nail scratched its way down the side of my neck, digging deep and demanding the blood-shed.
“Let me go. I am sorry for whatever I have done Please Just stop this insane torture ” I pleaded with this master of darkness and despair.
“Admit to your crimes, your sins. Tell me that you plotted against me. Say that you trained my Christine to hurt me so.” He grew silent and I could hear his quiet sobs as I felt the rope on my wrists being loosened. “Please,” he begged me in a hushed tone. I could tell he was trying to hide his tears.
I heard a large thump and knew he’d dropped to his knees before me. Carefully, I lit the solitary candle beside the wash basin that I had grow very close to a few moments ago. Bringing the light to his form, I saw him, face in hands, shoulders shaking. Eventually, I too, crumpled to my knees from loss of blood.
He grabbed my shoulders roughly, nails biting through my nightshirt. “Please!” The look on his face was one I thought I’d never see upon the great Phantom of the Opera. It was as if he wanted me to say so just to make him feel better about the situation. Even God knows he wanted to strangle the life from my weak and scrawny body, but he himself was too weak to do so. “Tell me that it is your fault. Let me know that she does not break me intentionally! I swear by my life and hers I heard my own heart shatter. I’d let it grow so big Oh dear GOD Why? Tell me it is because of you!”
Hanging my head, I nodded. “Yes, monsieur. It is all my fault. I told her not to love you. I taught her to break you and whip you.” My tone was so hushed, I thought that perhaps he hadn’t heard me.
“Liar!” he shouted at me, roughly standing up. With one last push of my head into the wood frame of my bed, he retrieved his whip and left out by way of my door. I heard the gallop of hooves and I could swear, on the wind, I heard a scream of, “Chris-tine,” dragged out in a hushed tone.
I let exhaustion and dizziness take over control of my body and darkness consumed me very quickly. I kept hearing the same words echoing in my mind, “Please... Let me know she does not break me intentionally... I swear by my life and hers I heard my own heart shatter!”
Those haunting words have been on my thoughts ever since that painful and regrettable night. When I dress, seeing those scars in that cracked mirror makes me cringe and think of the pleading look upon his face. It makes me wonder whatever happened to my once sworn-enemy.
They say you can still hear the cracking of a whip and the name of my former beloved in the night, carried on the breeze. I know it still wakes me in the night.
Stumble!