Author's Note: I do not own any aspect of Phantom of the Opera. Credit goes to Leroux/Kay
Now that we have established this, Enjoy.
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As I allow my thoughts to swirl aimlessly, I come to a sudden and shocking revelation that would probably be deemed obvious to most but somehow remained overlooked by me. Not only have I stripped myself of all the dignity I once possessed with my depressive, lovesick attitude, but I have allowed the relationship between a weak, overconfident viscount with the complexion of a young woman and a foolish young soprano to destroy the legendary Opera Ghost. When my dream of love and marriage shattered that fateful night, I have hardly been the same.
The first month after Miss Daaé left the Opéra Populaire, I kept myself together, only due to the need for my own survival. After that night of bitter disappointment, I was absolutely sure of two things. First, there would be an investigation into the death of Count De Chagny, and that meant officers would be wandering about. Second, those looking to end the life of the Opera Ghost after the destructive and murderous reign he had over the opera would hear the tales the viscount was babbling on about, and my home would end up stormed by idiots who have no patience to hear another side to the story.
It was clear in my mind that I had to move, rebuild, and start somewhat anew. Traveling through the dark corridors of the underground, I managed to find a dark corner that suited my vision. That's the wonderful part about living under the opera, even if a man set out to search the entire area, there would always be some corner he missed. And this is where I chose to build my new home, the darkest corner I could find. Using resources I had, I managed to use the beams supporting the opera as support structure for my home. It only took a bit of stonework and grand creativity; it delighted me I still had my carpentry skills as it ended up being more beautiful than I had thought it could be. Oh if only I was not working and living in secret! How I would love to see disbelief on my guests' faces as I informed them I and I alone was responsible for the architecture. Silly dreams though, I have learned all to well my dreams are always laughable when spoken out loud.
I moved most of my furnishings from the lair, though I wondered if I was being foolish by bringing so much when I would spend the rest of my miserable life completely and utterly alone. No one would see my lavish decor, so there was little purpose, but I decided there was no harm in it really; arranging it all gave me something to do. After dismantling the torture chamber and throwing the pieces to a pile, my eyes caught sight of the room for Christine, and I thought of the furniture I had chosen specifically for her. As I placed my gloved hand to the doorknob, I froze, asking myself why to bother with such a thing. At first it seemed most logical to relocate her room in case she would return one day; after all, I had extra space. At this thought, my body tensed then as I realized that there was no chance she would return, and it was time to destroy that foolish hope. Leaving the door closed and removing my hand, I wasted no time in setting the remaindered of my former home ablaze, and watching the contained fire burn. I thought it would be a symbolic blaze, representing my freedom from the past and a new future, but the opposite occurred. Afterwards, I felt as if I had burned down the floodgate holding my raw emotion back.
Yes, the sight of the fire had revealed far too much to me, reminded me of the loss I suffered; no matter how I may have deserved the pain. When I arrived back at my dark corner, preparing to lie down as weariness began to settle in, I suddenly lost control. Embracing the emotions I tried to flee from, the mass confusion began. At some point, I collapsed to the floor, sobbing, screaming, and raving like a madman; after thirty days of remaining mostly calm and collected (except for when I spoke to the Persian and made an absolute fool of myself), it was only to be expected. Everything was vivid and yet blurred; for I was no longer in the lonely living room, but rather trapped in the past, memories the only thing visible and hardly clear. Placing my hands to my head I tried to make the images of beautiful Christine disappear, but even I, the greatest magician could not pull off such a trick. It was such great agony for what seemed like days, as I laid on the ground lost in this emotional breakdown. The kiss, oh the kiss between the two lovers played over and over in my head. And then came the reminder of how my love had tried to take her own life to avoid a life with me. While I wept over all of these things, I call out all of my thoughts of love, all of the things I wish I would have said. By the time the weeping finally ended, I had simply been repeating her sweet name. Eventually it ended; I was greeted by a welcoming silence as I could see I had returned to the corner. As I slowly rose on shaky legs, removing my mask to wipe the tears, and swallowing hard as my throat ached from the screams, I could only feel my body tense in fear of what could come next.
I am a master at the art of torture. Just ask anyone who has spent time in my torture chamber; though it would be hard to find someone, as all but two have gone fully mad and ended their lives to escape. And due to my self-loathing and hatred of my own existence, I suddenly found myself using the methods on a victim I had never expected…myself.
After the breakdown, I began to force myself into the silent prison I am just now breaking free from. It began with the end of my music, the end of my passion in that regard. Every time I placed my fingers on the keys, the felt as if I was touching a flame. Every time I thought of singing a gentle melody to comfort me through the long days, I would feel a terrible tightening in my throat. I burned my sheet music as it taunted me so endlessly, and a sheet remains draped over my piano. I lost all desire to return to the Opera, to regain my position as Opera Ghost. I ended up no longer leaving to head aboveground as there was no desire, and I felt that this was where a demon like myself should remain. I had built myself a magnificent home, but slowly it and my mind were boxing me into this silent prison which I could not break free from.
While the world around me was silent, my mind was not, memories and words racing through my mind constantly. I would sit all day, unmasked face in my hands, rocking slightly, as I allowed myself to be haunted by the past, to stay trapped in it. My thoughts cried out for Christine, cried out for the loss while no sound left my lips, and each day I felt my heart being ripped to even smaller shreds. I criticized myself and went over each of the rambling words I said to my love, to my friend, to my rival, and I only now see how I wish to take each one back and explain my thoughts. Every detail had to be relieved, every other option in the situation had to be explored; it had become a sick routine.
But now, now as I stumble along this revelation, I raise my head and pause for a moment. In this moment, I am breaking free from this prison as my temper rises up through me, heating the mental bars keeping me back, bending them back and setting me free. My heart leaps back upward, the sinking sensation leaves. No longer do I feel weariness on my shoulders, no longer do I feel like a lovesick schoolboy with a fantasy crush; I am a man again. Rising from my seat with a sudden leap, as my mind begins to race and run.
It is clear now that I am putting far too much of the blame on myself, saying that I caused all of this sorrow for myself is simply and utterly ridiculous! The world has taught a once innocent boy that the only way to get what you want in the world is to lie, cheat, steal and murder; especially when you have a face like mine. Yes, the world is to blame!
To be mocked and teased, taunted and hunted like some rabid animal! And when I find a lovely girl who cares for me, why should others have to interfere? I never meant for the threats and the terror, but once they began playing with me and pushing my limits, I had to act the way I did. I wanted her to have the best life, a life of adventure and excitement!
Never the life the Viscount will provide; a life of dullness where the wife is expected to act as a servant to her husband, is considered only useful for reproduction, and is only respected if a son is born. She was meant to be more, meant to have a husband who would cater to her every wish! Who would support her in the idea of having a career and not just being a mother! Oh how I loathe the foolish staff of the damn Opéra Populaire who convinced her she wanted to be someone who mattered she would have to be a De Chagny!
The rage is nearly unbearable as I think of it all! To finally understand the blame rests on others than myself is wonderful, freeing even. As I look to all the characters who played a part in this tragedy, I see blame lies with each of them, even beautiful Christine. And now I understand that someone will pay for the hardship and loss, a plan is forming as a grin crosses my lips. After six months of not speaking, my first word escapes the grin.
"Revenge."