A/N: Since OUAT adapted several books to their universe-significantly Frankenstein-I figured it would be fun to see how Erik and Christine's cursed memories and lives might be. Erik's personality and his false memories have been influenced by several different versions of POTO, though his background as a violinist was particularly influenced by the 1943 Claude Rains version.

He held an old violin in his hands with far more care than the owner had ever held the instrument in its entire life. His mouth curled up in a sneer as he looked down at the poor thing. The moment the violin had arrived in his possession he had disliked the owner of it for several reasons. For one thing, he had a smug, youthful curl to his lip, and his collar was mussed.

Despite the fact that he generally looked like a corpse that had crawled out of a grave and then took a stroll in the rain, Erik still had the mind to dress decently and be mindful how he presented himself. The man that had walked in holding a violin around the neck clearly did not care about presenting himself well.

So when the man sat the instrument on the counter, leaning his elbows on it, hips cocked, Erik paid special mind not to register the man's name when he first said it.

"Can you fix this?" the man asked.

He jabbed his finger at the violin. It was covered in dust and the A and E strings were snapped, the front ends of them curled up on themselves like dead insects. What did the man do to it, take a hacksaw to the strings? He might has well have done, judging by how the ends of the strings were frayed.

Erik pulled the instrument closer to himself, perhaps out of a misplaced protective instinct. "Yes, I can. Do you want to sell it to someone else as well? This violin needs special care."

The man shrugged his broad shoulders, flexing his jaw. "No, I just want it fixed. How much will it be?"

"Thirty-five dollars." Oh, he knew very well that replacing violin strings typically only cost twenty dollars, but he wasn't feeling like being generous with this customer, even if this was one of the very few customers that had come in that week.

The man frowned, putting one hand on the counter and staring down at the violin as if he was thinking about taking it back and attempting to fix it himself. If he tried that, he'd probably end up making the violin sound like a squealing rat being slowly strangled to death.

"Fine, call me when it's fixed. Here's my number." The man pulled out a pen, and then a crumpled piece of paper that had several items scribbled out. The man wrote down his number.

He shoved the paper across the counter. It had an unidentified reddish stain in one corner. Erik picked it up by the opposite corner, and before he even looked up, the man was walking away, waving a hand. "See you later, man."

And now it was several days later and the strings were replaced. In fact, it had been fixed for two days already, and the man (what was his name again? Mr. Johnson?) would have known that if he had taken the time to pick up his blasted cell phone. So now, rightly irritated, Erik picked up his phone and dialed the scribbled number. He listened to it ring just as he had the past two days, and just like the past two days, the man's phone went to voicemail.

So Erik left him left him a rather unpleasant voicemail that might have contained one to two swear words before he snapped his cell phone shut and set it next to the violin whose owner had apparently abandoned it. He pressed his hands against his eyes, breathing out slowly. His cheekbones stabbed against the thin flesh of his hands.

So this is what his life had come to. Wasting away in some forgotten, tiny eclectic music shop in an pathetic, equally forgotten town with the nauseatingly twee name "Storybrooke". It wasn't as if the rest of his life had been spectacular. In fact, the majority of it was rather unpleasant, and there were certain days he wanted to slam the door to whatever tiny, cramped apartment he was living in, crawl into bed, and forget the rest world. But for some reason, he still managed to remove himself from his bed and arise. It was somewhat funny, wasn't it? The living dead rising every day despite everything that had happened.

But at any rate, however miserable the majority of his life had been, at least he had been indulging in the only thing that mattered-music. Even his owned wretched mother had noticed the fact that he was exceptionally talented. That was why she had sent him to a private tutor for years. Well, that and the fact that she wanted to avoid seeing her son's hideous face and didn't know how to deal with a prodigy. From a young age, she gave him a mask, and then, in tandem with teaching him how to dress himself, she taught him how to apply makeup to cover the discoloration of his skin. She later got him a false nose from somewhere (and he'd made a habit to wear a similar one for the rest of his life), but every time she saw him, even with his face caked in makeup and with a small, false nose covering the hole where his nose should have been, he still saw the skin around her eyes tighten.

She probably could have used a good parenting advice book, but even Erik could admit most books wouldn't have completely helped her deal with the situation. He sincerely doubted there was a parenting book entitled "How to Raise a Son With a Gaping Facial Cavity and Help Nurture His Genius".

Whatever other flaws she had (and there were countless, myriad flaws), at least she had done that. And despite how strict and distant his tutor had been, Erik owed the wealthy, retired man for his freedom. He'd partially helped Erik get the money he needed to leave France (and leave behind every dark memory made there) and attend a private musical college in America.

His college years were best forgotten, and he did the very best that he could to avoid remembering them. Suffice it to say that college students weren't the most understanding individuals when it came to facial deformities and reclusive personality traits. He'd long ago given up attempting to have a vocal career with a face like his, so he'd settled into an instrumental career. Perhaps it was better that way. Instruments hardly cared about someone's face, all they cared about was how one played them. He'd then gone on to have a mundane, forgettable career in an orchestra as a violinist, but still, that wasn't enough.

Certainly he played beautiful music, but the sound of his violin was lost among the tones of the rest of the orchestra. And he had no creative freedom. Over the years, he'd written stacks upon stacks of music, each score gently laid to rest inside of a drawer. Every time he moved, he always removed his scores with reverent-sometimes trembling hands-and placed them in a plastic box that he always checked repeatedly to be certain he hadn't misplaced them or that they hadn't been damaged in some way.

So he went on scribbling sheet music in the darkness of his small apartment at night. And despite the cracked, smudged window, and his constant hunger caused by a small budget and his habits of spending money on music, that was the only time he approached happiness. When the music spilled from his head onto the paper, he felt himself smile. But during the day in the bright lights, and the shift of the orchestra pit, he starved. He stroked out the scores to dozens of different musicals, operas, and the works of famous composers, and though some of the scored he undeniably loved, he was never as happy then as he was when alone in his apartment, scribbling down his own music.

It wasn't much of a life. But it was an existence of sorts, and it involved music. Since he spent his life being disappointed, he had settled on simply existing with music. But even his music was going to be taken from him.

It began when his fingers began to stumble more than usual against the violin strings. And then it became worse when he made clearly audible mistakes during rehearsal and once during a performance in front of a live audience. When he finally swallowed his stubbornness and saw a doctor about it, he was informed that it was a form of early arthritis, likely caused by the various genetic issues that had caused his deformity.

He knew he wouldn't forget the day he was given the diagnosis. The doctor began telling him the diagnosis with the sort of voice that the police use when they arrive at one's home to and say with grave voices, and their hats in their hands, "We have some bad news sir." Erik had spent enough years learning to push down his emotions that he was able to mask part of his reaction to this news. But he couldn't keep himself from clenching his fist, nails digging into his flesh so hard that his palms began to bleed. He couldn't keep the brief, wheezing noise escaping his lungs. He could barely remember the rest of what the doctor said. He was certain that they were platitudes, repeated "sorries" and a discussion about how to treat his joint pain. He didn't remember the specifics.

But he did remember entering his car with a numb mind and numb hands. He remembered driving back to his apartment, and when he reached it, he slammed the door, pounded his hands against the table in the corner and threw a half-written score to the floor. He then took another half-written piece and shredded it between his hands-those hands that had betrayed him, that dared take away the single thing that mattered at all to him-and screamed. The screams turned into gasping sobs as he knelt on the floor, holding the tatters of his music against his chest, the cage of his teeth clenched as he wheezed and he ached for what he had done and what he would soon lose.

And then of course he wasn't allowed to mourn his loss in peace. His downstairs neighbor had heard the screaming and commotion, and of course assumed that the strange, reclusive man that lived above them had finally snapped and probably strangled someone. So at around 2:00 AM, there was a knock on his door. Once he dragged himself from the floor and looked through the peephole, he saw it was the police. Somehow, by some miracle, he was able to calm himself enough to open the door and informed the men in uniform that, no. No atrocity had taken place. He had simply received some upsetting news and reacted badly to it, and yes of course they could have a look around his apartment, that would be perfectly fine. The only source of comfort was that they flinched at the sight of his face. During his rage, the false nose had fallen from his face, and the police were met with the fine image of a skull trying to have a conversation with them. Their reaction, disgusted though it was, was the one predictable thing out of the whole day.

After that, the days and weeks after that were something of a blur. He was fired from his job at the orchestra due to his mistakes and ensuing inattentiveness that occurred after he received the bad news regarding his hands. When the firing came, he simply shrugged, packed up his violin and went home. And stayed there for days upon days until he was given a note informing him that he was going to be kicked out soon if he didn't pay the rent. Since he'd spent his life moving anyway, he found an opening in a nearby small town that needed someone to take over a shop that sold instruments and repaired them as well as selling sheet music.

Why not?, he'd decided. He'd fled from unpleasant memories before to start a new existence somewhere else, so he might as well do it again. At least he could still be among his music somehow.

Except that hardly anyone ever came into the shop in all the time that he could remember. That was fine, he supposed. He liked being alone, and he liked having time to work on his music. He'd once spent an entire slow week taping back together the music that he had shredded during his rage.

And then sometimes idiots came in every so often like the one that refused to pick up the phone. But mostly no one came in. That was fine, he supposed. Yes, that was fine.

Several weeks later, he finally got the buffoon to take his violin back, despite the fact that Erik wanted to prevent the man from further abusing it. But the fact that a customer came in wasn't the only significant thing that occurred within those few weeks. A new woman had come into town, and her name was Emma. A newcomer in and of itself wasn't strange, or at least it shouldn't have been. It stood to reason that newcomers would occasionally pass through the town, though he couldn't exactly remember when the last one had passed through. Maybe his deteriorating at the same time as his hands.

But within those weeks, another thing happened. A woman came into the shop. The fact that she was a woman wasn't significant, as women did tend to make up 50% of the Earth's population, and thus they would come into the shop every once in awhile. But when they did, they usually seemed disinterested in everything, just as most customers did.

But this one was looking around with wide, blue eyes, her neck craning up at the various instruments that were set on the walls, and she wandered near a large piano. It was her curiosity that made him willingly ask, "Is there anything you need?"

She hadn't noticed him there, or perhaps she was too engrossed in what she was looking at. Either way, when he spoke, she jumped. And when she took in his gaunt face (albeit with makeup and a false nose attached), her eyes widened a bit. He was used to that reaction. However, once she had gotten over her surprise, she stepped up to the counter.

"Yes, actually. Where do you keep the sheet music? The window says that you sell sheet music in addition to instruments, but I don't see any."

He raised his brows. Among the scant selection of individuals that came into the shop, hardly anyone asked to see the sheet music. The demand for it was low, so there was only a small shelf of sheet music next to a wall of guitars. He rounded the counter and stepped up beside her.

"It's right this way. I'll show you where it is."

He wasn't certain why he was being quite so polite. Certainly he managed to have some semblance of a minimal verbal filter in front of customers, but he was typically much sharper than he was at the moment. He and the woman walked the short distance to the back wall where a short shelf of a sheet music was nailed to the wall.

"Is there anything in particular you're looking for?" he asked, surprising himself again. He rarely asked follow up questions. Typically he'd show a customer what they wanted, and they go on their way.

"Faust. I used to work at a theater, and they put it on once and I liked it quite a bit. Would you happen to have that here?"

"Yes, I have it. It's right here." He sidestepped and removed the score from the shelf and presented it to her.

The moment she saw the cover that he had meticulously kept free of dust, she took it from his hands, the tips of her fingers brushing his bony joints. He quickly withdrew his hands, placing them behind his back, his fingers twitching as if he was burned.

"So...you worked in a theater?"

It took her several seconds before she responded. During those seconds, he wanted to kick himself. Of course she had worked at a theater, she had just said that. Why was he trying to make conversation-and horribly stilted conversation-instead of going back to lurk behind the counter like a specter?

But once she processed his question, her eyes lit up, and she lowered the score from her face and she smiled. "Oh, yes. I didn't do anything significant, I just worked behind the scenes, but I was still able to hear the music and occasionally watched from the wings. I sort of had a pipe dream of playing Marguerite actually, but..." her eyes fell to the floor for a moment, lost in some dream that had never come to pass, but then it was gone, and her eyes flashed back up to him.

"Anyway, Faust is one of my favorite operas, although the woman playing Marguerite nearly drove all of us crazy because she was such a diva. There was a time when the other techs wanted to put something in her drink so that her poor understudy could have the spotlight for once and they could have a night off." Then she bit her lip and shook her head. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure why I'm telling you all this. I'm sure you have things you need to get back to."

Under most circumstances, he would've begun ignoring her several sentences ago, but the whole time she was talking, she had kept him engaged, and with each word, he felt sympathy for her. He too knew what it was like to wish to put his creativity to use rather than working in the background.

"It's perfectly all right. It's always refreshing to find someone that truly appreciates music, particularly Faust. That one is one of my favorites as well."

She raised an eyebrow. "Really? Well, what a coincidence. Or perhaps not. A lucky happenstance? At any rate, I'm glad I stopped by here, Mr...?"

"Beaulieu."

"French? I thought you might be, though your accent isn't very strong. I went to college in Paris."

If all of this was coincidence, it was quite an amazing one. Why hadn't he met another person before who appreciated Faust and had lived in Paris? But it was just like his luck that he wouldn't have met her until now. But...at least he had met her. Lost in his musings, he had missed her frowning at the back of the score and putting it back on the shelf.

"I'm sorry, is there something wrong with this score? Is it a bad translation? I'm sure I can order a better one if you want me to."

She shook her head. "No, nothing like that. It's just-I don't have enough money for it right now. Maybe another time."

And, once again, he found himself doing something mad. Maybe his mind was being affected by his genetic anomalies as well. Whatever the reason, he found himself saying, "You can have it now. You can pay me back later when you have the money."

"Really? You're not joking, right?"

"No, I'm not." Though he should have been. At any other time, on any other day, he would have said the same thing sarcastically in front of a customer that didn't know he was being sarcastic.

"I'm not really sure what to say besides thank you." She took the score from the shelf again and smiled at him, beginning to walk away.

"If you're to come here again, may I know your name?" That request, at least, wasn't strange. If she was to pay him back later, it would be normal to ask her name.

"Of course. My name is Christine Daae."

He blinked and inhaled quickly, the hands behind his back twitching. Why was her name so familiar? Why did he feel like it held some sort of weight inside of him? He could chalk it up to deja vu, perhaps. It was an accepted scientific phenomenon.

"Ms. Daae." But the way her name sat inside of his mouth wasn't scientific. And neither was the way it made him smile, but caused a sensation in his chest that felt like the twist and burn of grief. "I'll look forward to seeing you again."

It was a generic platitude that he would occasionally use on customers if he particularly needed money that week. But he found that this time he truly meant it.