Disclaimer: Hey guys, I think it's pointless to write these things over but since I have to I have to. I sadly do not own poto, Erik, Christine, or Meg. Please do not ask me what possessed me to write this, it's almost 6 am and I haven't slept a wink in days, it feels. I promise to work on my other stories, this one begged to be told so naturally, I answered. If it sucks, please tell me, I'm really worried that it does.

Oh, I can't believe I'm writing this. I'm so foolish and childlike, but I simply must account my adventures, as it were. Give myself a voice to all this crazy madness. Rather that I'm so afraid that if I do not write it, it will seem as my mother calls it, "one of Megan's stories".

This is in a way, one of my stories, or rather, my side of the ordeal. Oh, if I talk this way maybe it will seem all too impersonal, and of course, I can't be having that. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Megan Giry, daughter of the ballet teacher/mistress Madame Giry. I am in the corps de ballet, and I perform here at the Paris Opera House, Charles Garnier's exalted creation.

If you ever find this and are lucky enough to find me, here is a description. I am now almost seventeen years old, I am short, but have a dancers body, and have long blonde hair and blue-green eyes. Maybe by the time you read this I will be a prima ballerina, or wed to some charming man. I say charming, because I cannot say handsome, or, attractive. These two descriptions mean nothing now when it comes to finding love, for love only knows the true inside, and not a face.

That is the lesson I learned, and if it seems too sentimental, well, I can only say that my feelings are influenced by my events today. You see, I had to help Christine return the angel of music to heaven. She couldn't say "bury", or anything like that . If you knew Christine Daae, then you would know why. Such harsh words are too rough to come out of her mouth.

Back to the subject. I helped return the angel of music to heaven. My mother thought this was a horrible task to be asked of me, seeing as I still had the heart of a child and not of a woman (who would ever want to be a woman if it means doing things like this?), but that I was a loyal friend and saw that Christine could never do it alone.

I had only seen a few corpses in my lifetime, and never by choice, I assure you. It is difficult to be the strong friend that I have to be, I feel so inadequate because Christine is a few years older than me and I am of course, not well versed in love, seeing as how the only relationships I have seen were in the Opera's and Ballet's that were performed here. Christine has the mentality of a child at times, and my mother says it is like her personality stopped developing when her father died, waiting subconsciously to grow up somehow. It amazes me how fast these big words fly on the paper, I am usually a simple minded little girl. Maybe it is that I am a girl no longer, and lay somewhere between the precipice of these two stages. Christine has changed into a woman, but at times she can fly back into that stage of childhood and she has to be reminded that she isn't a child.

If it hadn't been for my mother's firm guidance into this matter, I don't know how I ever should have got through it. She is such a dear woman, though no one takes the time to listen to her (I think this might be because of her gender, as I've come to notice that her position at the Opera does not guarantee her a chance to exercise her opinion) . It was the angel's wish, or rather, Erik's wish that Christine bury him in his home. My mother had such a loyalty to Erik that she felt she would be intruding on his wishes for her to help Christine, and so of course I had to go.

Erik wouldn't mind me, however, Christine said as we walked down the steps to get in the boat. I had after all, seen him pass on to this world from the next. This I did not tell Christine, as she had secrets herself about Erik that she would never tell me. I had my own life, and my own experiences, and if I kept a few to myself well, that wouldn't matter. His death and consequent burial was a secret too, and even though he had done horrible things, he deserved dignity. To say that he was an animal or monster takes away his dignity and grace, and while the world can say such things, I of course, cannot.

The lovers that passed through the Opera House, for there were three, Erik (even now I can't begin a description, and to let him pass without one is a disservice), Raoul a patron, and Christine, my friend all loved here. It however cannot go without saying that love is full of suffering with a few wonderful moments of joy, and this I observed while their love for each other was declared. I do not know the feeling myself and at this point, do not wish it for a long time, girlish fantasies aside.

Where he is buried, I will not commit to memory because he wished to rest in peace. He was never given the dignity and respect in life that a human being deserves, and even in death criminals deserve peace. One could not call Erik a criminal, however, as his crimes were only to those that some might consider fit to receive his punishment. A crime is still a crime, but it matters not, anymore. If Christine can forget, then so can I. For he is dead now.

I will say that I remember vividly (for what is Erik but a maker of vivid and sometimes jarring memories, like a painting?) the first real time I spoke with Erik. I call him Erik because perhaps I can wish that in the end he would not mind it, as the terms Opera Ghost, Phantom of the Opera, and other classifications for him are demeaning and not worthy of his memory. Let me back track a bit to the night of the Bal Masque, when he showed up as the Red Death from Edgar Allen Poe's Poetry. I had been having such fun with mother, sipping Champagne and parading in my costume.

Christine did not seem to have time for me, and at length, it made me angry. She was caught up in a whirlwind of love and romance, and it was tinged with fear. Maybe she did not want to confide in me because she was afraid of Erik hearing everything. It was a fear that was well backed up by facts and at the time I did not want to accept that, nor remember the night the chandelier came down upon the stage. I did not go to her-maybe it was my selfish pride or that I felt not needed. After all, at the time I thought that I was too young and now that Christine had a new future, she would not want to talk to me anymore.

My selfish mind told me Christine only wanted to be friends with me because I could keep my mouth shut, not that she really desired company. The other rats (what an affectionate term!) in the ballet were as secretive as an open window, always flowing with tidbits of gossip. I was always an odd little girl, and perhaps I was thought to be a person that she saw as trusting. I am glad that I was the person she told her secrets to.

Back to the night of the Masquerade, as I keep drifting off topic. By the time that the Masque was getting well underway the champagne had turned my good mood into a sour one. I was sulking and angry. I was jealous that Christine had only time for Raoul, our patron of the Opera House. They had been children together one summer when I was still much a little girl-I do not recall the year that she told me. Raoul had rescued her red scarf from the sea one day while Christine and her father were singing and playing music upon the beach. They were friends from the instant, and Christine's father would tell them both gothic stories from northern Europe.

I learned this all when Christine told me in her room about the Angel of music, and it was a beautiful story and I could not deny that I too would have been swept away by it's promise. After the chandelier dropped, she stopped talking to me and everyone else, and I missed her stories of the past. The night of the Bal Masque was difficult to describe. I had hoped so much that Christine might have taken notice of me and spoke to me instead of dancing away with Raoul. It would seem to everyone that I am a cheerful child that would make friends easily, but I do not and when I do find a friend that I can speak to, I dote on their every word.

My mother had tried to cushion the blow as best she could and kept me distracted for a while with ballet, and told me to pursue my girlish fancies to my hearts content. I learned that was hard to do that by myself, and did not try as I should have. At any rate, that night started out fun, but in the end I became downtrodden and sad, thinking my older friend was truly done with me.

Then, of course, Erik appeared. To say appeared might be a disservice, for one cannot say enter. He simply was there as if by magic, and I saw out of the corner of my eye Christine shrink back and hide in the comforting shadow of Raoul's body. The events of that night scarred me wholly. I do not think that I have ever seen something so frightening, except of course the death he gave the men in his traps in his house underneath the Opera.

The mask that he had on frightened me, for it was so realistic and I was at the time, a child easily frightened. The jaw of the mask moved when he spoke, and how he achieved making such a feature I really and truly do not know. I was frightened beyond belief at his tone and his nature, and silently I crossed myself and prayed that he would be brief with Christine and not horrify her. Though, of course, my wish was impossible to grant.

After he disappeared underneath the trap door the party broke up at once, needless to say. There was an investigation, and everyone was called on to stay long into the night (not unlike most parties, except no one could enjoy their alcohol, music or dancing) to give their accounts on the incident. Christine and Raoul however left immediately, and the police were furious that they had to depend on the questionable evidence given by the already drunken and hysteric witnesses. They were not interested about information from a child, and quietly I slipped away into a place where I could place my thoughts.

I felt someone run past me, a rustling of sound as I entered the darkened room. I wouldn't scream, no, it was too usual in this Opera to find a ballet student had taken her lover into a darkened room. I discretely wanted to exit, when I felt his hand come over my mouth. His eyes bored into mine as if he were trying to read my very mind. I had always received the reproving look of my mother, as if she knew my scheming mind and heart, and this look was no different, only more severe. I could barely breathe.

He told me not to scream, rather he hissed it. I could no more than nod, my whole body shivering with Goosebumps. His fingers were thin, cold, and clammy, as if he was nervous, even afraid. But his glare gave away to the contrary.

"I won't harm you, Megan Giry." He said, and then took his hand from my mouth. I was too stunned, and my feet failed to help me in my flight. So I was frozen there.

"Harm me?" I whispered.

"Yes, though I probably should with all the lies you helped spread about me."

I could not break his hold on me and so I stood there. "They…were just…stories. I didn't know you were real." I stuttered.

"Ah yes, if it doesn't exist in your world, it doesn't have feelings to hurt. It. Even a ghost was a person at one point, Mademoiselle. Not to worry, it is a common mistake, even Christine seems to forget that I too have ways of hearing her. Why she even forgot you, did she not? All for her Vicomte. " He muttered abstractedly.

I began to cry, out of shear fear and otherwise, well pity. "She'll remember me, Monsieur."
"When it necessary to her, I'm sure she will. Do not cry."

I tried my best to still myself and stop my sniffling. His eyes were still upon me and I was silently wishing for my mother to find me. "She is my friend, please do not talk about her so. Whatever has happened between you and she, do not punish me for it."

His eyes softened and he too began to cry. I cannot express on paper what that cry was like to hear, only that if I was strong enough I might have comforted him by a kind word. However I wasn't, and I stayed quiet.

"Christine….." He gasped. " She is an angel among men, Erik was wrong to put her down so, and certainly not in front of her friend. You won't tell a soul, will you, Megan?"

I watched him and finally got a glimpse of him in the dank light that was provided. All I could see was a man taking off his feathered hat to untie his mask. I looked the other way.

"They say, your hands at the level of your eyes. Erik will not show you his face, Megan. Erik wouldn't."

I realized he was talking to himself, as a hysterical man. I finally gathered my thoughts and was able to speak , kneeling towards him as he was on the floor. "No, I'll never tell anyone as I live, just let me go."

"You won't tell Christine?" He looked at the ground, and I was grateful that I could not see his face. As I have said I am frightened easily.

"No, I won't tell." I whispered again.

"Leave!" He growled, pushing me away. "You are free to go as long as you keep your vow of silence!"

I confess that I didn't even look back and ran into my mother's arms. My mother noticed the change immediately but did not say a word, and I suppose that maybe that was for the best, all things considered.

Ok, that's it for the first part, Tell me what you liked about it, or hated about it.