Empty Spaces

Chapter I

Author’s Note

I will say this only once: PROCEED WITH CAUTION. This was written when I was fifteen. I’m not fifteen anymore. I’ve grown and matured extensively as a writer and a person in the years that have elapsed since writing this story, and as I reflect on it now I am aware of its many, blatant flaws. For instance: it is incredibly typical for a modern “high school” retelling, Christine has been mildly sued and Raoul has been demonized (though, thankfully, not made into an abusive!Raoul). The writing is decent, fairly typical for the average literate, grammar-conscious fifteen year old. It is not overly refined stylistically, and its execution is mundane, average, etcetera.

So what is the point of me telling you all this? Well, I just want to (a) warn you, and (b) politely ask you to keep publish dates in mind as you review. I am not afraid of feedback (actually, I love it), and feel free to critique away. But keep in mind that my writing has change dramatically since this story was published, and many of the weaknesses that plague this particular story have been worked on extensively and overcome. Please don’t use this work to judge my current writing abilities. Plus, I am not planning on ever re-writing or editing this story at all, so most story-specific critiques will never be put into action. Of course, critiques and reviews of all kinds are still welcomed and appreciated.

Why, then, have I decided to keep it up here? Two main reasons. First, I do not feel that people should be ashamed by the natural development of their writing over time. This serves as a progress marker. Looking at where I started reminds me of how far I’ve come, and that there will always be room for growth. Second, a fairly large number of people have it added to their favourites, and some people continue to enjoy it, so I am leaving it up here for them. It might get taken down eventually, but for now, I’ll leave it here to bop around in FanFiction’s archives.

Peace,
Tiffany V.

The following are the original author's notes that were included at the time of the story's publication, or (per the edit) shortly thereafter.

Edit: This is a new, beta-ed version of Chapter I. Anyone who read this story before will know that the lovely Bina, was my beta-reader for chapters four to epilogue. After things were finished, she agreed to go back and edit the first four chapters. A big thank you to her for agreeing to do so. So far only the first has been done, but the next three are soon to come.

A/N: Okay, before I start this story needs a slight explanation. This is not exactly a modern-retelling of the POTO. I will not be retelling the same events as they happened in the book or movie in a modernized way. Instead I will be using the characters from the book in a modern setting with a similar but also very different plot. Also, because this is done in a modern setting, the character’s personality’s have been slightly changed, as I feel that they would not retain the exact same characteristics if they existed in modern day. The characters may seem OOC in accordance to the original character’s traits, but please keep in mind that these are not the original character’s but their modern day counterparts. This is more of a concept usage, than a story that is trying to stay true to canon. If you looking for canonical characters, you reading the wrong story. Thanks for reading this story, and please leave me a review

Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera belongs to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

The tiny room was small and dank -- the sole piece of furniture: a rickety looking bed that stood in the corner. Behind him, the woman smelled like cats and cheap whiskey. The house smelled like socks -- the dirty kind with holes; the ones that get shoved under the bed and forgotten. Erik dropped his suitcases -- more like a couple of large cardboard boxes, really -- on the floor, watching the dust fly up at him as the boxes made contact with the dingy carpet.

“You’ll stay here, boy. Do what you like with the room, just keep outta my way, and outta my sight.” The woman’s voice rang sharply in his ears as the door slammed shut.

He was just a cheque at the end of the month; a means of finding a little extra cash, and probably a toy for her drunken husband to beat the shit out of when things at work didn‘t go so well. He sighed. It’s better than the streets.

Erik leaned back on the door and slid down to a sitting position, his head swimming. The third foster home in a month. Unconsciously, he played with the sleeve of his black shirt. At least I don’t have to change schools, he thought, I won’t have to get used to any new types of derision. There's that, at least. Something's consistent, if only the method of cruelty.

He flipped open the flaps of one of the boxes with his belongings in it, and began to rummage through, pulling out a few posters to stick on the wall. As his hands smoothed the tape on the wall, he noticed the colour of the paint: black. How fitting, he thought, black hole for a black soul.

After throwing his other belongings into a corner, he took a moment to look at his two most prized possessions: a guitar and a violin. He hid the violin under the bed, not wanting the cat-lady to find it and sell it on him. The guitar was a little different -- it wasn’t something you could jam into a box to go unnoticed. Hell, it was hard enough shoving the violin in there. Gingerly, he lifted his guitar out of its case and strummed out a few chords, gently humming along with it.

After a few moments, his fingers stopped moving across the neck of the guitar, and he gently placed it back into the case. He prayed that nothing would happen to it. At his last foster home, they’d taken it away from him, threatened to sell it.

They hadn’t given it back for a week.

That week had been excruciating. That guitar was his one link, his one stronghold to sanity. He’d played till his fingers bled when he got it back.

There was blood, a lot of blood. And screams. And then light, beautiful white light. And then sirens, and cold metal, people leaning over her, a mask on her face, lungs expanding and contracting again. And light. Hard and cold. Sterile.

Christine bolted upright in her bed, breathing heavily. She was drenched in sweat, and her bed sheets were tangled around her awkwardly. She raised a shaking hand to her face.

It was that dream again.

She’d relived that night for six years now -- the night her mother had died.

The night her father had begun to die.

She had been twelve. Christine and her mother were on their way to pick her father up from work. He usually took the subway home, but not today. Today it was his birthday, his fortieth. Today they were going to surprise him, take him out for dinner, then a concert.

They never made it. Eighteen wheelers never could stop on dimes.

Christine had lived. She laid in a coma for two weeks, her tiny chest moving up and down; her weak breaths barely making her lungs inhale and exhale.

Her mother had died on impact.

The doctors said it was quick. No pain. Her father blamed himself, took the responsibility onto his shoulders. When Christine awoke from the coma, her father was no longer the man she once knew: he was an empty shell. Her mother may have been the one to die, but both their souls had gone to heaven that night.

Her father died six years later. He suffered a massive heart attack.

And that’s how she ended up here. She had been eighteen when it happened, so instead of moving in with a guardian, she’d stayed on her own, in her father’s old house.

But memories filled the large home, haunting her. Even her high school, the one she had always gone to, became hard to bear. She was an orphan; she was different from the rest -- fragile, breakable.

So she left.

She used the money her father had left her to move to New York City, and in the rush of people, she was able to at least start to forget.

The shrill sound of her alarm clock woke her from her silent thoughts. Seven in the morning, September the third: a new school; a new sea of lonely.

Christine showered, and blew her hair dry. She smudged sticky concealer underneath her eyes, willing away the large back circles underneath them. Dressing numbly, she reached for the first things she could find -- as it happened, jeans and a blue sweater. Good enough. She tied her long curly hair back into a loose ponytail and grabbed her backpack.

The door of her apartment locked shut behind her, and the September breeze swept across her face. Sighing heavily, she made her way towards the subway station.

Erik pushed his way through the throng of people at the subway station, ignoring the way they whispered under their breath as they looked at him -- as they gawked at him, rather. He was wishing he could disappear, become nothing more than a shadow -- then a hand grabbed his shoulder. He jumped and swiveled around, accidentally whacking the person behind him in the knee with his guitar case.

“Holy, Erik! Would you mind not dismembering me on the first day of our senior year!”

Erik rolled his eyes and let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Oh. It’s you, Damek -- you scared the shit out of me. Sorry about your knee.”

Damek Nadir shrugged. Erik took in his friend. A familiar face, a friendly face: Damek had been his only friend. They met in their freshman year. He had been an outcast. A loser. ‘Just like me,’ Erik thought.

Damek was the only person to ever see behind Erik’s mask -- both the physical and emotional. Erik hadn’t seen him all summer; he’d gone to Toronto to visit family. But here he was -- dreadlocks pulled back loosely, the same pair of jeans he’d had on the last time Erik had seen him, the scruffy ones with the holes in the knees, along with his treasured Bob Marley shirt. And, of course, his bass guitar. Erik swore Damek was glued to that thing.

Erik couldn’t say anything for himself and his electric guitar, though. The guitar was his lifeline. He played several musical instruments -- the violin, the piano, the bass -- but the guitar was what brought him to life. He poured his pain into it, his longing, his frustration his passion, his very soul.

Erik found himself pulled into a large hug by his friend.

“I missed you, Erik. How was everything? Are you still with the same family?”

“No, and summer was hell. I was in four different homes. The last one was the worst. They took my guitar, and said they’d sell it if I didn’t take my mask off. The social worker finally pulled me out of there after the father pushed me through the glass of their china cabinet.” Erik smirked.

Damek grimaced, his chocolate brown eyes filling with sorrow for his friend. Damek worried about Erik. He had never known love, nor affection. He was strong on the outside; he’d built a wall around himself, to protect himself from the outside world -- but inside there was a very tormented soul.

And a very unstable one.

“I’m sorry, Erik,” Damek said very quietly.

“Don’t be.”

At that the conversation stopped. Erik’s eyes seemed to stop seeing, and they were taken over by a glassy, dead look. The past was never easy to forget.

Damek looked at his shoes.

The subway train lurched to a halt in front of them.

Christine pushed her way onto the subway, and took a deep breath as the box filled to jam packed. As she grabbed the pole to support her self, her hand brushed against someone else’s. She looked up to see one of the most interesting people she would ever meet. He was tall, and looked about her age. He had shaggy black hair that hung in his face.

His face.

He had beautiful sapphire blue eyes, and one half of his face was covered by a black velvet mask.

His eyes were rimmed with black eyeliner, and his lower lip was pierced.

His elegant throat was encircled by a black dog collar.

He wore a simple black muscle shirt, and fishnets ran up his arms until about the middle of his upper arm.

He had on baggy black pants, and combat boots.

Christine felt her breath lock in her throat, and her mouth go dry.

He was beautiful. He was dark. He looked like the way she felt inside.

She found her eyes lock with his own for an instant in time -- and then he tore his gaze away and moved his hand out from underneath hers. He looked down at his feet, hugging the guitar case he was holding a little tighter to himself. Christine had a sensational urge to reach up and touch his mask and feel the soft velvet underneath her hand.