A/N: This story came to me quite suddenly. I can't say much, or I'll give the plot away. I hope you enjoy it.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom, or Christine. I do own everything else.
The composer sat at his organ, letting the music flow freely from his fingers. He was so…inspired lately. He stopped only to write down the notes he'd composed. It would be a beautiful opera. Far better than Don Juan Triumphant. He smiled as he put his quill pen back in the inkwell and began to play again.
Quite suddenly, he was interrupted by a pair of warm hands covering his eyes. "Guess who?" said a voice he knew well. "I don't have time to guess!" he said irritably. "I'm composing." The hands released his eyes and a sigh ruffled through his hair. "I wish you paid half as much attention to me as you do to that opera." Whined the voice.
The musical genius stopped his playing and turned around. He could never resist her when she asked like that. "Come here, love." His wife smiled and slid onto his lap. She leaned back and kissed his neck lightly. He sighed. "How am I ever to finish your opera if you keep interrupting me?" She laughed. "You'll find time. You always do." They sat like that, entwined in a loving embrace, for several moments. "I love you, Erik." She murmured. "And I love you, Christine." Whispered the composer.
"John, what do you know about Inmate 117?" John sighed. "Not my business to know. He's just another inmate." Rob peered in through the bars. Inmate 117 was sitting on his cot, moving his hands curiously back and forth. His eyes were glazed, as always. He lived in his own world. "Yeah. Just another inmate." But Rob couldn't shake the feeling that there was something…different about Erik Destler.
"How long has he been like that?" Robert asked curiously. "As long as I've been here." Mumbled John. "He don't hurt nobody, so leave him alone." The older man yawned. "Come on Rob. Time to do our rounds." The young warden took one last glance through the bars. "What's his name?"
The two wardens began their rounds through the asylum. "What happened to him?" Rob whispered. "Who? Asked John. "Destler." John shrugged. "Rob, I told you, it's not our business to know. We bring 'em food and make sure they don't kill themselves. That's our job." Rob shook his head. "Destler's different. I don't think he even knows he's in here. He just sits there, waving his hands around, talking to his imaginary wife. I wonder how she died?"
John shook his head. "He's a crazy, Robbie. You can't listen to anything he says. I happen to know that Erik Destler was never married. His 'wife' whoever she is, is a figment of his imagination."
Erik woke up with his arms wrapped around Christine. He'd had nightmares again that night…always the same nightmare. He was trapped in a horrible place. A cage. And Christine wasn't there with him. In his nightmare, it seemed that Christine had never been his wife…she'd left him long ago. He sighed and pulled her closer as he remembered the voice from his dream. "Just a figment of his imagination…" it had said. Erik kissed Christine gently on the cheek. "Don't worry, my love. I know you're real."