Summary:The truth has been distorted. Christine sets out to tell the truth,the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.(The REAL story of The Phantom of the Opera) Just a warning to the resident R/C fans. This is not Raoul sympathetic!
A/N: This ia my first fanfic ever. While I welcome a good flame now and then (keeps my ego in check : ), please remember that I am trying to hone my writing into something better. If there are serious discrepancies please TELL me about them! And PLEASE let me know what I could do better.
Truth.
So much, too much, meaning wrapped up in one little word.
What is truth?
A question asked by humanity for centuries.
In 1871 the Parisian Newspaper Le Dauphiné Libéré released a front-page article portraying what the lead editor thought of as truth. Within the month, all papers in Paris were featuring front page articles with headlines screaming about the Affair of the Phantom. All of the stories were accepted by the general public as truth and later the world would be caught in the subtle trap of media induced lies.
Needless to say, the story became famous. It became part of the vast legacy of France. In a way it became a legend unto itself. Millions of people flocked to Paris just to get a glimpse of the famed Opera Populaire. The wealthier circles paid no small amount of money to be allowed to step past the boarded doors and try to sneak an exciting run-in with the "Ghost" or at the very least, catch a glimpse of that famous white mask. They would search every lightened corner; every obvious hiding place for their money worth's of excitement while police escorts followed tamely along, silently counting the bonus they would receive for their efforts. These escorts would, of course, have the appropriate fire power that would make even a ghost think twice about making an appearance.
They never found anything. The young nobles returned to their homes with nothing more than a daunting memory of a dilapidated Opera House in ruin and empty pockets. These "haunted" tours continued for only a few months after the incident. The young nobles found other, more amusing pursuits and the Opera House was finally left in relative peace. Worldly tourists still trickled in to gaze at the sad façade adorning the building and they still wondered about the Phantom and his love but eventually even those visits stopped.
For two and a half years I have visited the Opera Populaire. Faithfully (some say obsessively) I gaze into those shattered windows and remember. I remember happier times, better times filled with light and love. The memories assault my deadened soul with their light and splendor and everyday I curse myself for the torture I put myself through. Day after day I vow never to return. And yet somehow my traitorous feet lead me back through the winding streets of Paris to the scorched statues that look over the boulevards in quiet guilt.
For two years I have looked at that wretched building with tears in my eyes. My husband says I am slave to the past and as much as I despise him and his proud opinions, I have to agree. All I want is freedom. Freedom from my past. Freedom from the love that still grips my heart in its clawed embrace. Most of all, I want freedom from the eyes that haunt me and accuse me. Those eyes that will never leave me. It's those eyes that hover before me now as I write this memoir of events. The true events that never made their way to the newspapers. It is through these pages that my soul will hopefully be free of the chains that are wound around my heart even after the years that have passed.
The newspapers detail the chandelier's fall and the resulting mystery of the Phantom of the Opera as "A mystery never fully explained". Well I am here to explain it in the fullest sense of the word. The events you know as truth are sadly distorted and I am here to make it right.
My name is Christine de Chagny, formerly known as Daae.
This is the truth.
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