Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. I own Jamie.

WRITER'S BLOCK

"Errg!" Erik yelled. Some inappropriate language escaped his lips.

"Erik?" Christine asked tentatively from the doorway of his room. "Is – is everything alright?"

He struggled to keep his temper in check. He didn't want to take his anger out on her, since she had agreed to come back to the House on the Lake.

"Yes. I'm fine." He said shortly.

"Are – are you sure?"

Erik took a few deep breaths. "Yes, Christine." Slowly, Christine left. Erik tried to contain his anger. But the madness within broke through. He started groaning and pacing agitatedly around the room. He sat down, stood up, then laid down on the floor. He stood up again almost instantly. His groans began to get louder. Erik felt himself losing control as he picked up a candle and threw it across the room. Some of his groans were turning into low yells, and he tried to regain his control – but to no avail. His yells were getting louder, more candles were being chucked at the wall. He grabbed his hair and started to pull it out. "No!" He screamed mentally. "Stop it!"

"Erik?" Jamie stood at the doorway. Erik turned on her, his eyes blazing with fury. Why

did she have to come in at a time like this? Stupid girl!

"Out!" He screamed. "Get out!" fear filled Jamie's face. She ran out, leaving the door wide open.

Erik raged at the world – yet, he raged at himself also – he ripped of his mask and slammed it on his desk, the force of it knocking over the desk. He was blind, but he saw all, he was deaf, but he heard all. His tortured mind held him captive, nothing was real, but all was real, painfully real. He tore at the thin layer of skin on his face – the dead flesh came off, but the deformity remained – he yelled and yelled, screamed and screamed, and tore apart his room. He pulled out more hair, sat down at his organ, and wrote one note on the music that was there, pressing so hard that he ripped the paper –

And it all stopped.

Erik looked around his ruined room. He noticed the amount of hair he'd pulled out, and vaguely wondered how long it would take to grow back. He slowly picked up all the candles, moving in a dreamlike state, and put them in their places. He saw that he'd burnt himself when throwing them. His mask was cracked, he found, as he righted the desk, he'd need a new one – and he realized that his face was wet. Erik reached a hand up to his face, then looked at the red-like substance on his fingers. He silently cursed each day that he'd been colorblind. So, he sat down at his desk and waited for it to dry. He had learned to do so from his years at the circus. If you washed the blood away, it hurt and the injury was tender the next day. If you put on your mask while the blood was still drying, it stuck. And if Garcen ripped it off the next day. . . . But if you let the blood dry, it would form a protective layer, and when your face was healed, you could wash it off.

Erik sighed. His life was in ruins. It had been since the day he was born. And whenever

a song didn't sound right, or he couldn't write a note, he'd go into an insane, murderous tantrum.

"Erik?" He turned away from the doorway.

"Please, Jamie, not now."

"I just wanted to know if you were alright – and why there's blood on your floor."

Shame rose in Erik's chest. "I'm fine. I just cut myself."

"Can I see?"

"No." Erik moved farther away. He heard an intake of breath and he knew, somehow, that Jamie had seen his broken mask.

"Oh, um . . . I'll just leave." Jamie said quietly. Then, on an impulse, she asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes, could you get a new mask? And – and will you tell Christine that I won't be dining with her tonight?"

"I will." Jamie left the room, softly closing the door behind her. Erik laid down in his coffin, the blood almost completely dry. And there he rested until Jamie returned.