Confessions Of A Vicomte - Entry One · 28.06.07
Propriété de Raoul
Dear Diary,
It is the eve after Christmas, and what a wonderful holiday it was! Christine has given me this beautiful, green book. She says it is healthy for one to write one’s thoughts down on paper. The look on her face when I opened it…priceless!
The children were all pleased and elated by the gifts they received; I was glad to have helped out ol’ Saint Nick. Now, they are all tucked safely into their beds, sleeping softly. My beautiful bride is nestled close to me, and I can watch her pretty face in the twinkling candlelight, and write this first entry into my diary.
I am not sure what to write in you, diary. I have never owned one before; should I write in you as a letter, or as an object? Are you like a person, that I may speak of you as though you were a brother?
All these thoughts amuse me as I listen to the soothing sound of my pen scratching out these words onto you, diary.
My, that it has been a strange year.
I spent the greater part of the last year running for my life from the queer ‘Raoul Bashers’, a race I fear to ruin your pages with. These girls undoubtedly double as ‘Erik Lovers’. A shiver is sent up my spine at the thought of these girls, but luckily for me, I have the other groups of ‘phans’ on my side. The ‘Lovers’, and the ‘Defenders’.
The Lovers are a bit extreme, in contrast to the Bashers, they are infatuated with me, of all persons. As with all the ‘phans’ I have met, I fear for their sanity.
The Defenders are quite interesting. Their group is quite new, but nonetheless, they maintain a balance between the Lovers and Bashers. This was the group that saved my life many time over amidst the duration of the last few months. I now live in the county with my family; Christine, my two boys, and my three daughters. Being as it is, we put as much distance between the ‘phans’ and us as we possibly could. Where else, but the sea? We have gone as far east as we could possibly go, making many turns and twists on the road to safety. I do not want my children anywhere near the vulgar images and threats I discovered during my captivity in the Basher base. Nor do I wish my wife to be subjected to the horrors that may await her, should the E/C shippers decide their wishes should be fulfilled. I love my wife. I do not want her in the hands of Erik, or his followers, however confused my feelings for the man. After all, he did create a diversion for my family to escape once, however unintentional.
I must go, diary. I hear little Juliette crying, and Christine is sleeping so peacefully, I wish not to wake her.
~Raoul de Chagny
— MaskedNicci
Confessions Of A Vicomte - Entry Two · 28.06.07
Dear Diary,
There is not much else in this world I enjoy more than a day on the beach with my family. Christine enjoys the sun, and our children happily play in the waves, squealing joyfully every time the monstrous waters lap at their feet gently. Each and every one of them are loving our little ‘trip’, even though I have no intentions on going back to our old home. It is – without doubt – fraught with danger; not to mention the home I had grown to love was most likely the victim of the ‘Bashers’, during a fenzied hatred of my escape from their grasp.
Yesterday little Lewis walked up to me, – grinning to show off his little gapped set of teeth – and asked me if I loved his mother. I said of course, I always loved her, and I always would. He climbed up into my lap, wrapped his little arms around me as far as he possibly could, and then looked up at me, a tear in his eye. I asked him what was the matter, and he answered me, “It’s alright, father. You love mother more than me, is all. I love you more than anybody in the whole world. But that’s alright.”
Embracing him, my own eyes welling up with tears of pride, and love, I assured him that I loved them both, and all his siblings, more than anything, or anybody. After I explained to him that a person could love more than one person the most, the sweetest expression of elation crossed his features. “Really?” He gasped, gripping my arm tighter than I thought possible for such a small person. “Father, don’t tell me tales; mother says that’s wrong.”
Kissing him on the forehead, I stood up and took his little hand in mine. “I don’t tell tales, my boy. Mother is right; it’s wrong. You can love as many people as you like, as much as you like.”
He hugged my hand, smiling so broadly I was sure his pink lips would touch each of his ears. “I love you, father.”
“I love you, too.”
Now sitting out into the bright sun, looking up from the pages of my diary, I am met with the sight of my happy family collecting branches that the sea left as a gift to them. We will be having a bonfire this night, for certain. My children will fight to sit on their parents’ laps, then Christine will teach them a new song, her beautiful voice ringing through the night, leading them all in succession. I will try to keep up, but my off-key singing will certainly bring more laughter than praise. Caroline will turn and kiss her mother’s cheek, and inform her once again that she wants to be a pretty singer, like her mother. Christine will blush bright scarlet, and Caroline will turn towards me, and declare that, “Father isn’t a pretty singer; but he tries.”
Giggling and peals of laughter will be heard all around our little beach, and I will be content.
~Raoul de Chagny
— MaskedNicci
Confessions Of A Vicomte - Entry Three · 28.06.07
Dear Diary,
They are back.
I feel sore that I have not written in my diary for so long, as time flies back very quickly, but this last week is understandable. I have been imprisoned in the last week, and it would be very strange indeed to ask for you diary when you are imprisoned. No, instead, I tried to figure out how I would escape. For escape, I must. It had not been long after my enjoyable vacation on the beach with my family, when the Raoul Bashers returned for me. I know not how, nor why they are so determined to torture me thus, but I do know they are very talented at what they do, for being mostly blemish-covered adolescents.
Now I am feeling regretful for calling them names. Phillipe would be proud of my momentary spite towards my captors, but I feel much remorse, of which he would be ashamed. Phillipe never liked how ‘sensitive’ I am, as Christine put it. Phillipe called me spineless at points, normally in jest, but I have oft seen that look of shame in his eyes, when I do something particularly ‘spineless’.
Ah, that I ramble on about my dear departed brother, when I cannot even feel my toes! Yes, I have acquired my dairy while still being imprisoned, some poor soul deciding I needed something to do to pass the time while I sit in this infernal heat. Why is it hot here, you ask? Well, that is customary in a torture chamber – or so they call it. Many of them sounded quite proud of the hexagonal room with the mirrors, and the bright light that comes from the strange ‘bulb’ above me. But even I know it is a botched job, for I’ve been in here….lets see….at least twenty-four hours, and I feel as though I am merely in an uncomfortable ray of sunlight on a beachside. Why, it’s no hotter in here than a midsummer’s day!
When ‘torture chamber’ obviously did not do as was intended, I had the momentary joy of seeing the look of contempt and fury on the faces of the Raoul Bashers, their over-painted lips pursing in anger. So, they removed my shoes(or, rather, took them away. I had taken them off, and was enjoying the feel of the sand they placed in here on my feet), and hung me up by my toes. That didn’t work, because with the heat of the light in the torture chamber, I slipped out, covered in sweat. I think I broke a couple toes, though. That’s quite painful.
Since hanging me up by my toes didn’t work (I heard one girl try to explain the hows and whys of why it didn’t – something about sweaty pigs are never hung up by their hooves. I think I should be insulted), they decided to try the ankles. Yes, indeed, I am hanging upside down, the blood rushing to my head, and thinking certainly I’ll survive this ‘torture’, when my nose begins to bleed. Probably from the rush of blood to my head, combined with the dry air. I really am used to the more moist climates of Paris…
Either way, several of the girls shrieked, complaining of ‘gore of a fop’, and rushing quickly to get ‘holy water’ to ‘cleanse’ themselves with. One of them dropped the key, a bit out of arm’s distance away. I twisted around a bit, and was able to start a slow, swinging motion, and was able to grip the keys, and release my right leg. I didn’t think about what might happen, if I only had one leg in the iron chains overhead, but I soon found out, to my great pains. Several more minutes of sweat and curses, I was released, but my feet are screaming in protestation.
Despite lacking foresight to take their key with them, the Raoul Bashers remembered to close the door, which is now locked. Curses.
~Raoul de Chagny
— MaskedNicci
Confessions Of A Vicomte - Entry Four · 28.06.07
Dear Diary,
As each day passes in this torture chamber, I grow even more impatient toward my captors. It is very unlikely they will simply let me go. The guard is always doubled up now, because my last escape entailed a young girl who had ‘converted’ from being a Basher, and helped me escape despite the danger to her own life. I am ever grateful for all that the Lovers and Defenders have done for me, but it does not ease the pain of futile attempts to murder me that the Bashers are putting their whole heart and soul into – when they are not trying to woo the Phantom, Erik.
I’ve only seen him once or twice, but each time he was flocked by an enormous horde of phans. Despite everything, I feel a twinge of pity on him, not because of his accursed visage as much as what terror has been brought upon him in the forms of these young brats impressionable girls. Actually, I think I saw a boy or two among the crowd, a thought which plays in my mind more than I care to admit aloud.
They were all wearing masks or a variation thereof. They were all wearing black, red, or white. Each figure’s posture spoke very clearly of their intent, and each one insisted on singing lessons. I feel a bile raise in my throat, especially remembering what I spoke to the crowd.(They had all carried a very resistant Erik to the torture chamber, to show off their prize to their ‘Angel’.)
I said to them bitterly, “Why on earth would one seek a singing teacher who, in all matters in question, obsesses over his students to such an extent as to imprison them within their own mind?”
There are no words to express the look in Erik’s strangely haunting golden orbs as they bore into mine. There are, unfortunately, words for the looks which the Bashers gave me. One spat at me, and another gave me a rude gesture, saying, “Because! He will love me forever, and I will help him see that I carry a love more true for him than he could ever imagine.”
I am unsure at this point whether Erik was enjoying this shallow infatuation(for it surely is shallow, I have found. I am no head scholar, and I have been described as ‘naïve’. But I do study my surroundings, especially when my life is at stake.), or whether he was despising it. On further thought, I do believe he immersed himself within it, with no intent on it being a permanent set-up. My opinion is that, if he wanted them gone at any time, he would have been easily able to do so. One cannot, after all, blame him for finding amusement in the very foolish parade that followed him around like sheep to their dear shepherd, flocking around him and muttering confessions of love and devotion, each trying to win his affections. Affections of which I am always curious as to whether they exist at all.
He began walking out of the torture chamber, scowling as he passed at a particular nasty bit of paper stuck to the wall. It had my own face on it, with vulgar scribbles in bright-colors, giving me all sorts of disgusting items. “Take that down, for God’s sake.” Erik snarled, “None of us want vomit in here. Even in this weak excuse for an over-heated chamber, it’s not a particularly pleasant odor.”
Quickly, the girls scrambled around to rip it down first, several spreading their feet apart and declaring their own cleverness. Others took the opportunity to grip his arms and attempt to look serious and condemning at the silliness of their fellows. One girl(with her lips painted the darkest of blacks, and her hair with a queer shade that has no name), offered a sarcastic remark, which sent her companions in an uproaring applause. The girl gazed longingly at Erik, then left to go and – as she stated – to ‘compose more of my opera’. A girl (the one which had grabbed the paper from the wall and stuffed in into her pocket quickly) questioned about the piece, and the dark-lipped girl simply replied that it was called “Don Juan’s Immortal”.
With or without the picture of myself marred on the wall, I felt deeply sickened. My time with the Bashers had given me enough knowledge of their strange world to get the meaning behind the name.
~Raoul de Chagny
— MaskedNicci
Confessions Of A Vicomte - Entry Five · 28.06.07
Dear Diary,
I have escaped! I have had little time as of late; recounting the events sooner would have been impossible.’ How I come to continue carrying around this small book, I’m not quite certain. And yet I feel this diary will become liken to a chronicle for the events of my life, so that I may read it in my old age and remember the strange days I once lived. My life at sea used to be full of maddening adventures, from tending to the ship, to handling enemy forces, to surviving through the worst storms imaginable. But none of that contends with the terror that is one’s anti-fan base.
After the exit of the insane young mob that followed Erik without cease, I discovered that the new watch had stayed behind. They were two young girls, one looking around two or three years younger than the other. The older one was staring at me with a bemused look, whilst the younger watched me with an intense glare of determination. I felt it odd that the elder should look more laxed, and the other seemingly so to-the-point and full of conviction to her duty. I offered a weak smile toward them, causing the older girl to let out a quiet laugh, turning to look at her straight-backed companion.
“Enjoy this, Ma- er…what’s your codename again?” She asked her companion, a crooked smile conveying her coy humor.
The younger girl replied, saying simply, “It’s Berenice. It means victory bringer.” Berenice offered a tiny smile, “I decided it couldn’t hurt.”
The first girl let loose a laugh, then looked me up and down saying,“This – rocks. Doesn’t it? I mean, he’s right there. Raoul de Chagny. That’s pretty cool.”
Berenice seemed to agree, her eyes softening, but saying nothing for atime. “How long do we have, Dee? I sure hope we can pull this off. It would not be pleasant to be caught by those…” She seemed to bite her tongue, her face carrying a disgusted expression. “It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be, to convince them I was a Raoul Basher. Then I just had to let go of every bit of logic I’ve ever learned, and it came much easier.”
Dee checked something on her wrist that vaguely resembled a pocket-watch, then mumbled, “There’s about four and a half minutes until they’ll be ready for us.” She glanced up at me, “It’s a pity what they’ve done to our poor Prince Charming here, ain’t it? What’s that on your face?”
If I could have removed my arms from the very tight ‘duck tape’ that the girls had bound me with, I would have reached up to feel the sticky, slippery substance that the Bashers had rubbed on my lips and cheek. Berenice gasped, her face displaying shock and horror.
“Lipgloss!” she breathed, “The pathetic, shallow, brainless mongrels!” Dee started roughly wiping the ‘lipgloss’ off my face with her sleeve, and Berenice rolled her eyes and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, offering it to her companion.
I stared at the two for a moment, then growled, “If you don’t mind, I believe that I may remove it myself, if you’d care to unbind me.” My voice was gruff and my patience thin from my extended time with the bashers, and I was shocked at my own conduct. Obviously, both the females were surprised as well. Their eyes met in an almost pitying expression, as though they shared thoughts merely by meeting eyes.
“Raoul, we’re Defenders. We’ve come to help you escape….again ,” said Berenice carefully, watching my every move as she started picking the locks. I nodded – this was easily guessed by their demeanor in comparison to the others I had seen here.
Dee began to carefully cut off the ‘duck tape’ from my wrists, while Berenice continued to fiddle with the rusty chains on my feet, and explained, “There will be a group of people outside the back entrance, waiting with a peculiar transportation device. There will be a strap lying on the seat, I’ll show you how to buckle that. But it is very
important that you do not ask questions about the vehicle, and you forget everything about it that you see.”
“Why, may I ask, is it important to remain ignorant?” I questioned, and Dee grinned at Berenice, ripping off the tape abruptly. I gave a sharp intake of air at the sudden painful effect.
“Because,” Berenice said impatiently, “It’s not from your time. We avoid messing up your time as much as possible, but in this case, it was necessary. Here you go.” She stood back from the shackles lying on the ground, and went to check the door. Dee eyed me, while standing in quite close proximity.
“Don’t be bothered by her,” she whispered, and I raised an eyebrow at the girl looking frantically up and down the corridor outside. “She’s in her ‘world-changing movement’ mood right now, is all. Normally, she’s more fun.” Dee looked me up and down, her eyes lingering on my face. “Your taller than I imagined. Care to save me a waltz sometime? I imagine your brother Phillipe taught you one or two things.”
“My brother did not teach me much. He was much too preoccupied with certain studies.” I said briskly, “Not to be prude, but I do not believe now is a suitable time to choose dancing partners.”
“On the contrary,” Berenice said from the door, “Now is an excellent time. I hope you know a two-step. Because we’re gonna need to take two steps in the time of one! They’re coming!” She raced over to snatch my wrist in an iron-grip, and pulled me out of my prison. I heard voices coming from around the shadowy corner – high-pitched, giggling tones of affection – but I could not resist pausing to glance around at my surroundings. Where my imprisoning chamber had been unnaturally bright and vulgar, the corridors of this ‘base’ of sorts was dark and liken to an old castle. I was distinctly reminded of the bowels of the Opera Populaire – the place which still haunts my love’s dreams.
“Raoul – quick!” whispered Ms. Dee forcefully, and we rushed through a long, winding, and maddening series of corridors. Hurried breaths turned into gasps, and watchful eyes were soon filled with fear. Berenice opened a door that was behind a very unseemly statue of a witch, and I was blinded suddenly by the bright daylight that stung my eyes. I could hardly see the queer vehicle that stood outside, a kind of strange carriage with fat, black wheels. Two doors were opened, and the three of us leapt inside.
The brief instant of sunlight was gone, as the doors were closed, and a happy cackle floated through the air.
~Raoul de Chagny
— MaskedNicci