Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. I'm not that awesome.
"Poor, unhappy Erik! Shall we pity him? Shall we curse him? He asked only to be "someone," like everybody else. But he was too ugly! And he had to hide his genius or use it to play tricks with, when, with an ordinary face, he would have been one of the most distinguished of mankind! He had a heart that could have held the empire of the world; and in the end he had to content himself with a cellar. Surely we may pity the Opera ghost!" —Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera
I Could Have Loved Him
I could have loved him.
The thought strikes me as I watch him disappear from sight, consumed by the darkness of his own making. It hits me unbidden, unwanted, and I shudder.
I do not love him: that much I also know. How could I love a man who hunted to kill? A man who took the lives of others to be near me? A man who scared me with his temper, cursed me for my curiosity…a man who taught me to sing like I never had before, a man who awakened inside of me things I was not ready to feel—things I still do not understand.
But I notice, for perhaps the first time, that the list of impediments which would keep me from loving him does not include his face. Once, perhaps mere minutes ago, it would have figured, even in the smallest of ways, in my ability to refuse him. But suddenly, something as small as appearance does not seem such an important factor in deciding love. Even a visage as horrifying as his may lose its impact over time. If it belonged to a man of pure heart and noble intentions, I am suddenly sure that I would hardly have noticed it.
And though he is not perfect—though there are real, tangible reasons why I cannot love him—I know unmistakably that if things had happened in a different way, if the story had run another course, I could have. It would not have been that hard. It would not have required much effort. This is what shocks me the most, this realization that it would have been so easy for me to love him, so easy for me to give him my heart as well as my voice and devotion. After all, what makes a murderer a murderer? What makes any man who he is to become? A life lived in loneliness, shunned by others due to something as unchangeable as the look of his face, cannot be a life that breeds compassion or a sense of value for human life. It cannot be a life that breeds humanity, a quality one must certainly learn by association with others.
In this moment, I cannot blame him for hating the people who are disgusted by something he can do nothing to change, for they allow this disgust to consume them so greatly that any positive qualities are completely overlooked. In this moment, I feel that the blame lies with them—yes, even with myself! I am the one who has made him who he is, as certainly as all of the others; I have contributed to the creation of the "Phantom" as surely as has everyone who ever walked within the Opera Populaire. Every man and woman who shunned him, for whatever reason, only added to his agony.
I do not think it was right for him to kill, nor do I think the deaths were not his fault or intent. I merely have realized that, given the circumstances, I am not surprised. In a life bereft of even the most basic experience of human love and kindness, there is no way for one to build a sense of life's value. He has never been taught to regard life as precious, because he has never valued his own.
If only he had not been shunned. If only he had not been neglected. If only he had been raised in a family capable of loving him for his intellect, capable of cultivating in him the feeling that he was human and deserving of love. These last hours have showed me the depths to which he can sink, but they have also imprinted upon me the fact that his soul, given the chance, could be a noble one.
And, if this had been the case, I could have loved him. I could have seen past his music to his face, past his face to his heart, and I could have loved him deeply.
I could have loved him. This is something I did not know before, but now I do—and I shall never be the same.