Work Text:
Below the starry Paris night stood the Opera Populaire. It was silent to any stray passerby, having been closed for the night for some hours. No one heard the music of the night that roared beneath it, deep, deep in the catacombs of the building.
Erik’s thin, boney fingers danced on the keys of the organ. Ignoring the need for sleep, he’d been playing the instrument for hours as if nothing else existed. To him, nothing else did. There was only music. That was his purpose, his reason for living. He worked tirelessly on piece after piece, adding it onto a pile of completed works once through. That was where all his work ended up, in a pile.
He knew very well that his work would never reach the surface. The managers would shun his music, too moronic to understand it’s beauty. The rest of the world had made it very clear to Erik that he had no place in the world they’d created. He was a monster, a horrid, ugly creature that would cause children to cry and rush to their mothers. But that did not stop him from creating his music anyway, even if it was for him and no one else.
Erik took the piece of paper off of the organ and grabbed a pen to make a slight adjustment when he caught sight of something. Like a startled, feral cat, his glowing eyes locked onto the movement. His lair had been invaded.
A small, black spider was crawling across the wall nearby. Erik scowled and mentally cursed at the creature. Hundreds of feet under the surface and these things still find a way down here. As if the rats are not enough. He rose to his feet and grabbed a spare shoe off the floor. The spider made no move as he approached it. Erik gripped his shoe and was about to squash the spider so he could return to his music when something caught his eye.
In the corner of the wall was a web. It was not very large, but big enough to catch his attention. The silky strings glistened in the candlelight and Erik studied it for a minute. He looked at its weavings, admiring how thought out it seemed to be, how every stitch seemed to be calculated. Every cross, every turn served a purpose. It looked so fragile, as if it held a certain grace, an elegance. Erik lowered his weapon and narrowed his eyes. He looked back to the spider in his shadow.
“It is almost a shame,” he said aloud. “You work so hard on your webs, yet housewives merely sweep them away in their brooms as if they are nothing. And you meet your fate underneath the boot of anyone who comes across you. Young women shriek at the sight of you. The world thinks of you only as a disgusting, ugly creature, paying no mind to how you strive to create works of beauty. Your web is not just a creation, but your life, your reason to be alive. Yet, it is destroyed in an instant and you are stomped on.” The spider did not move, perhaps thinking that if it stayed still, Erik would ignore it.
He considered the web for another moment before glancing at the growing pile of his completed works that were just gathering dust. “I know how it feels, I suppose. To work so hard to add some beauty to this world we live in. To put so much effort and time into what you were born to do and never have anyone appreciate it. To never have anyone see you as more than a revolting, ugly creature. To have people wonder why in the world you were even given life, for to them you add nothing to the world. Their world, which you will never belong in.”
Erik’s eyes looked at the spider once again as he said quietly, “I know how it feels to be stomped on.”
He sighed a bit and replaced the boot where he’d found it. Erik then grabbed a sheet of blank paper and walked back to the spider on the wall. He brought the paper close and quickly moved the creature onto it. The arachnid walked in a circle for a moment before freezing once again. The opera ghost took the paper across the lake, making sure the spider stayed atop it, before making his way through the tunnels to the surface. The Opera Populaire was as silent as death.
Once he’d made it outside through one of his passageways, Erik walked for a bit in the quiet world until he found a grassy area nearby. He lowered himself to his knees and glanced down at the spider on the paper. “You will live to spin a new web. Perhaps somewhere away from people, far from those who will only destroy it. I imagine there is such a place for you. A place where you can hide and create your own beautiful creations without fear.”
He lowered the paper to the ground and watched as the spider danced across it before being lost in the blades of grass. Erik got to his feet and began to make his way back to his lair before anyone could notice his presence. Just the few minutes he was above the catacombs made him uncomfortable. This was not his world. Here, he was the ghost, the Phantom. He was the monster who frightened anyone who caught a glimpse of him. He was not a composer, musician, or even a human being.
He was the spider.