It was deadly this game of give and take. Giving all the passion I had for him and taking my time in deciding how to kill him. I should have ended it the first night he brought me down here. A quick slice from the knife I always carried would have ended this terrible duet. But I found myself, as he sat there, not moving only lingering in my presence, unable, no, incapable of such heartless murder. When did I turn into such a sap?
I remember when this was assigned to me. Everything was planned out. An apartment not too far from the opera house. A place in the ballet to make sure that I had decent cover. Who would suspect a ballet dancer to be an assassin? And then I was to entice him. The Phantom of the Opera, or the Opera Ghost depending on whom you were talking to. Months it took me. Months of wasted time and energy trying to please him with steps that I could barely manage, used to the fluid movement of killing, instead of the contorting of these god awful routines. But there was nothing. Not a peep. I was furious. So furious in fact, that I nearly killed my friend Meg as she entered my dressing room one time. Yet when I told her of my plight, of meeting the Angel of Music of course, she gave me the key I had been missing after all those months.
She told me to sing. An assassin does not sing. We are not trained to sing. In a world of silence, a mistake like that could cost you your life. Yet I sang, that night on the empty stage, an old military ballad I remembered from my travels. And he answered! The bloody ghost answered without an indifference that made me hot under the collar. Still I had summoned him and it was only a matter of time before his blood shall wet the stage I stood upon. So I continued to entice him, draw him in to my deadly grasp and with a single thrust, end it.
Yet as the days went by, his presence next to mine almost always became oddly comforting. His voice, completely new and unique, began to take on the sound of peace and of home. I shiver even thinking about it. I found myself focusing on how he was going to die. Quickly or slowly? Aim of the heart or the stomach, trying to deciding to leave him in agony. I didn't want to watch him cry though. Crying has never been the most pleasing thing to watch. Yet, even as I planned his death a thousand times, every time I heard his voice, those thoughts were forgotten and my weary soul released from the meticulous mask I was forced to wear.
Yes, Erik is not the only one to wear a mask. But mine I can never take off. Not really. Erik can removed the white slip of leather and become himself; a master composer, a skilled architect, an amazing magician. But I cannot never take off mine, not in front of him. The pain would be so great that I would probably kill me.
So, to whomever reading this little note I left, understand what I am about to do. Do not try to stop me, for it shall mean a swift death of you do. For Erik's life is in my hands and by God's grace, I am going to make sure he keeps it.
March 24th , 1871