This is a non-profit work of fan-fiction based upon The Phantom of the Opera novels and films. All related characters, places, and events, belong to Gaston Leroux, and Andrew Lloyd Webber, and are used without permission. This story, and all original content, belongs to the author, © 2005.

Asylum
by Orianna-2000

---

Blinding rage filled him utterly. Even now, the world would damn him for the sin of loving a woman. He would not be allowed the simple joys which every man took for granted, he would not be granted the privilege of being part of the human race. Perhaps Christine could finally look upon his unmasked face without shuddering in terror, perhaps she could at last give him her heart without reservation... but the world violently declared it would not be so. Even as she pressed her lips to his in the only kiss he would ever receive, the public masses shouted in outrage.

Why? Why?

Why could they not allow him the slightest bit of happiness? Was it truly too much to ask, to love and be loved in return?

Indeed.

He could hear the thunderous cries of the approaching mob. They would not be satisfied until they held him, broken in body and spirit.

The hardest thing he'd ever done was to step away from Christine, the taste of her kiss forever imprinted on his lips. He ignored the look of confusion on her fragile face, the tears forming tracks of salt down her porcelain cheeks.

"Take her," he whispered, forcing himself to back away from his angel. "Take her and go, quickly – before it's too late."

Erik's voice cracked, and his heart shattered as Raoul took Christine by the arm. She resisted, her eyes wide and pleading, but he shook his head. "Forget me and go, before they find you. Go!"

He turned his back, partly to hide the shame which distorted his features into a mask of agony, and partly so he wouldn't have to see the expression on her face. If she asked to stay, he would be unable to refuse and they both would die. Even as the shouts of the mob grew louder, the sounds of Raoul and Christine's footsteps faded as they fled together. That insolent boy would now have custody of his angel's heart...

The resentment bubbled over, and Erik screamed, his beautiful voice twisted with anger and injustice. "Go! Go now, leave me! Leave me alone!"

He would always be alone, trapped in an eternal Hell of loneliness and hatred, forbidden by public decree to have any chance at happiness. Always dreaming of that which could never be. "Christine..."

Erik doubled over, the pain rendering him nearly senseless. He prayed that the mob would kill him this time, putting an end to his miserable existence. "Let it be over now," he begged in a whimper. And darkness took him.

---

"Pitiful creature," she murmured, stroking the man's hair back. She couldn't help but shiver at the sight of his face, but after so many years of exposure, she didn't find the sight frightening as the newer nurses always did.

He relaxed at last, under her touch, the muffled groans dying. The nurse sponged the sweat from his neck and ravaged face, then loosened the restraints holding him to the bed. The worst of his nightmares was over, and it would be several days before they grew severe again. As she stood, she wondered what sort of twisted dreams could hold such power over the poor man. For the first few days of the cycle, he would be calm, almost enchanted, but without fail, the dreams would plunge into a web of terror and rage, turning the patient into a madman. His wrists held the scars to prove the violence of his mind.

"And how is Monsieur Erik this evening?" the doctor asked, stepping into the dark cell.

The nurse folded her arms and made a face of sorrow. "He's passed out from exhaustion, the poor thing."

The doctor nodded. "At least you'll have a few days of relief, then. Do you think he'll sing again? Such a marvelous voice, it seems wasted on someone like him."

"It makes you wonder what he might have been like, what heights he might have reached, if only..." The nurse shook her head and averted her eyes from the distorted ruins of Erik's face. The fact that he sang with the voice of a heavenly angel seemed so wrong when he had the face of a rotting corpse. "Do you ever wonder what it is he dreams about? Who this woman is he calls for?"

With a sigh, the doctor shook his head. "He obviously got the name 'Christine' from one of his early nurses. He's been here since childhood, you know. As for the rest, well... who knows what sort of scenarios his mind has invented to take him away from this reality? Not that I blame him. Even a sane man would go crazy confined in an asylum, much less one with Erik's infirmity. Come along, we've got other patients to look in on."

"Yes, doctor." She gave one final glance to the man tied to the narrow bed, then bolted the door shut.

---

In the safety of his mind, Erik looked down at the opera stage from the vantage point of his personal box. His eyes focused on the giggling pair of ballet dancers, their voices floating up to him.

The one named Meg prodded her friend. "Go on, Christine, sing! Maybe the Opera Ghost will hear you!"

And Erik listened.