Disclaimer: I don't own phantom at all.

Paint it over

As a child, my existence seemed meaningless. I came from noble birth, but it seemed to help me little.

As a child, to say I was energetic was an understatement. I was manic. But that was only half the time. The rest of my hours were spent in lethargy and depression. And because of that I was discriminated. Perhaps the only sympathy I got was from my family, who knew about my disease, but refused to throw me in the madhouse. I later found out this was only for their reputation. What would people think if a man of high standing's daughter was a lunatic?

As a child, I was alone most of the time. I had always had a tutor for my studies, but it got to the point where no one would teach me anymore because of my unpredictable mood swings and tantrums. I resorted to teaching myself. I read to keep myself occupied and I read to keep myself from becoming truly mad.

As a child, I was an artist. That was the thing I loved more than anything. I loved getting lost in the drawing, pretending I was running in the meadow with the wild stallions at my side.

As a child, I wasn't really a child. When one looked at me, they would see the body of a girl. But what no one saw was my soul. I never fit my age. Whenever I looked into a mirror, I would see an old woman looking back at me, but simply from my eyes. I'm not even sure why. Maybe what makes the mad, mad, also gives them some sort of spirit undetected by others.

That is, except those with the same spirit.

The year my family became a patron of the opera house, they went to many operas, always leaving me behind. I was locked in my chamber whenever they went out.

"Be a good girl, Roxanne and we'll bring you back a pastry," my mother would say to me as if I was still three and could be excited by pastries.

"I don't want a pastry," I would say, usually from my window seat where I looked out. I would watch the activities of "normal" people. People going about their daily errands, people out seeing other people. I wanted to be part of it.

No, it wasn't the people I wanted to part of, I didn't like people. I wanted to be part of the world. One should note that at this time I wasn't allowed to go out of the house.

Then my mother would leave without another word. And then I heard the click of the door locking. I was trapped. My balcony was 3 stories high, unless I wanted to die, that would serve no useful purpose, and my door was locked. All I had was my chamber and a small bathroom.

I shifted on my seat by the window creating wrinkles in the silk sleeping gown I wore. Then I got down and went back to my painting. Right now I didn't even know what I was painting. I just slopped color on the canvas in generous globs, trying somehow to get an inspiration.

I opened my bottle of turpentine just to smell it. I loved that scent. Artists became used to it and learned to love it.

I put more red paint onto my palette. And I began to paint a face. Yellow, and blue, and green, and orange and any other color I could think of. I worked for hours, perfecting everything. I was a relatively fast worker.

Finally satisfied, I moved my easel over to the corner to allow my painting to dry.

I heard my door click again. I looked up to see my little sister with a bag in her hand.

The room was dark because I hadn't turned on my lamp yet but I knew it was her because of her short height. She approached me.

"Mother brought this for you." She handed the bag up to me. Slowly I took the bag and opened it.

An apple pastry.

I looked up to my sister from the bag. I walked over to my balcony door, and walked out. It was snowing and it was cold, but I went out anyway. Then I threw the bag as far as I could. I turned back to face my sister.

She just stared. Then silently she left.

"Can nobody speak to me?" I said quietly. It was at the point where people rarely spoke to me. The only human voice that I knew was my own. The rest were strangers. Why couldn't I hear a voice? Why couldn't anyone talk to me without being afraid? I'm not insane I thought. I'M NOT! I thought again, but this time I thrashed my arms and accidentally sent my freshly done painting to the ground ruining it.

"I'm not…" I said feeling the tears come to my eyes and not even bothering to fight them.

But everyone and everything seemed to disagree. My parents, when I threw tantrums. My sister, when I yelled. Even the ruined painting stared back with disapproving eyes.

I stood in the corner, oil paint from the painting covering my hands. It was red oil paint, the color I used the most of.

I stared at my hands. Blood. It was blood.

"I must be dead." I said. I walked back over to my balcony. "If I'm dead, I must not matter. I won't matter to anyone…" I put a foot on the edge of the balcony. Then another foot. Then I lost my balance.

Falling through the air, I felt more free than I ever had. I was flying. All too soon I hit the bushes that had surrounded the house. I meant to hit the ground. And die truly.

Now that I was out and I was still alive, I ran to the front of the gate and quietly I let myself out.

I felt the snow all around me as I walked away from the only home and jail I had ever known. Luckily, it was late and very snowy. This kept me from being seen, partly because it was so snowy but partly because it was so late.

Now that I was out here, I didn't know where to go. I thought briefly about going back home, but to face them after jumping off a balcony, I would definitely earn a beating for that.

I finally decided on going to the place that I wanted desperately to go to but was denied the privilege. The opera house. How I wanted to hear an opera. I often heard my sister playing the piano at home and although she wasn't the best player, I strained my ears to listen just to catch a note or a few more.

We lived reasonably close to the opera house so I wasn't in for too much of a walk. But the cold was beginning to get to me. I was afraid that my feet now had frostbite; I was barefooted.

When I reached the opera house, I stood at the top of the steps and looked out behind me. I could still see the top of my house above the others. It made me sick, to know that I could see my house anywhere. I couldn't be rid of it.

At this point, I didn't even know if I was going back or not.

I turned my attention back to the opera house. I pulled on the door, expecting it to be locked. For some reason it wasn't. Maybe they don't lock it I thought.

After a little tugging, I got the large door open enough for me to fit through.

The inside was very beautiful. I now knew why everyone talked about it. It was amazing.

I made my way into the main part of the building. There was such art around me. I walked down the isle and headed toward the stage. I managed to get onto the stage by jumping to it where the opening to the pit was small.

For a long time I had been depressed but right now, thoughts of depression were far away. I danced by myself on the stage, twirling around so that my gown flared out about me. I laughed.

Then I started to become tired and I sat down, my legs straight out in front of me. I had been taught that it was undignified to sit like that. But I didn't care. No one was here to stop me.

I got up again, keen for more exploring. But before I got to do that, I felt my legs falter then give out beneath me. I guess I was still worn out from all the dancing and the walk in the cold. I fell but managed to keep myself from hitting my head. I was fine although I was sure I was going to have a lot of bruises the next day. I got myself back up and headed incoherently backstage. I was tired and weak and it was all I could do to walk.

Backstage, there were sets from many operas, costumes, props, millions of things that would have been fun to go through, But I didn't. I sat down in a corner. I wasn't even thinking. I just sat.

I didn't even see if coming, but within a few minutes someone walked up to me. I could see their feet, black shoed feet with trousers to match. Slowly I looked up. I found a mask, a white mask with golden eyes staring back at me.

"Who are you?" He asked. His voice was deep and smooth. I would imagine with a voice like that, it makes even angels jealous.

"Roxanne," I answered quietly.

"Roxanne…?"

"Delancy."

"As in Armand Delancy?"

"Yes, Monsieur, my father."

"I see…a patron of the opera, am I correct?"

"Yes," The man crouched down to my level.

"What are you doing here? Wouldn't you rather be at home with your family?" He spat.

"I…well…no, Monsieur."

Just then the door to the main part of the opera opened. We could hear it. The man when over and looked behind the curtain.

"Policemen." He stated plainly. "Do you know why?"

"They must be after me, father must have sent them." I said as quietly as I could. "They probably followed my footsteps, maybe the snow didn't cover them up."

The man started to walk away.

"Wait!" I said. I scrambled up. "Where are you going?"

"That is none of your concern, I suggest that you go home with the policemen." He continued to walk.

"But father will beat me and then lock me in my room." The man stopped and turned.

"Beat you? Lock you in your room? What cause would he have for these cruel punishments?"

"He doesn't beat my sister if she does wrong, only me. He thinks I'm insane." I looked down. After a moment of silence, he finally spoke.

"Come with me then for now." He started walking toward one side. We reached a brick wall. I could hear the policemen's steps. They were getting closer.

"What are you going to…" I whispered and he shushed me with a finger. Suddenly, as if a door, part of the wall slid to the side revealing a passageway. He beckoned me through it then came after me. He shut the door and then went ahead of me.

The entire journey was dimly lit and wet and dirty, full of secret doors opening, trap doors leading to stairs, and basically, just a lot of doors. But it wasn't too long a journey, maybe 15 minutes. But I had a feeling he was going slower than usual. He seemed to know the opera house like the back of his hand.

And don't think me a fool, for I did know who he was. Of course he was the ever infamous Opera Ghost. I just wasn't aware he was still living.

We walked in silence and I found this a little unnerving.

Then it became pitch black; there were no more candles. We came out of the passage into a large room. There was a large lake. Who would have thought it, the opera house was built over a lake. I spotted a boat and the Opera Ghost was leading us to it.

"Get in." He said and I obeyed. He pushed us along in his gondola and I thought. I wasn't even sure why I was trusting him. Maybe because he offered me an escape, at least for tonight, to get away from my horrid family.

On the other side of the lake, there was a door in the wall. He opened it and led me in.

The room was beautiful, fully furnished in Victorian decor and Persian rugs.

"Come this way." I followed him down a hallway full of doors. He opened one of them. It was a pretty large room with a nice bed and a wardrobe, there was even a bathroom.

"Bathe." He ordered. "The come out, I want to speak with you. There are sleeping gowns in the wardrobe." The he closed the door and left. At first, it was a big shock, being in a stranger's house. But then I calmed down.

I went to the wardrobe to pick out a gown to wear. There were so many, not all sleeping gowns of course, but gowns in general. I was assuming that he didn't wear these, so who's were they?

I bathed, washing my brown hair in the large tub that I had filled with hot water. I was now clean, but the water was still warm and I didn't wish to get out. Eventually I did, remembering that he wanted to talk to me. I dressed and combed my hair. Then I went out to talk to him.

Remember children, reviewing makes the world go round!