I do not own Phantom of the Opera!
So do you end your days with me, or do you send him to his grave?
Her choice had been clear. The pain in her eyes, the tremble of her lower lip. Him. It had always been him.
And though she betrayed him, had carelessly trampled his heart with her naievity, he still loved her.
And that hurt most of all.
It was almost comical, really. Comical that someone as disgusting as he, someone who was nearly a rotting corpse, had ever hoped to find love and acceptance in someone as beautiful as her. The very sight of his own flesh in the cruel reflection of the looking glass made him gag, how could he expect Christine to be any different?
Christine was a porcelain doll, beautiful, but just as fragile. He was too dependant, like a child, needing to hold and play and cuddle with his beautiful doll, needing her to comfort him like only a security blanket could. And the weight of his passions would eventually, and did, take it's toll, and Christine had cracked, shattering around his hands, never to be held and loved by him again. And his beautiful doll would be no more.
So she had chosen the Vicomte, she had chosen to be pampered and polished and put on her pretty shelf, where she would be admired until it was time to take her down and dust her off, where she could be put on display for all of the noble men and women.
A gentle life. A preferred life.
Besides what could he possibly have to offer? His demonic face, his vile temper, his horrible, foul smelling one-room apartment in the most questionable part of Paris? One that he could only pay for with the occasional sale of his music.
Any parchment he came across was devoted to earning an income, but the rotting walls of his apartment were entirely covered in music, giving the whole area the strong smell of musk and mold and charcoal. Sweet notes and lyrics swirled about his head, torturing his soul, screaming in his ears until he ceased his attempts at wretched sleep and took to writing down his thoughts.
It was beautiful, it was there, inside his mind, but without his muse, all of his energy spilled forth as nonsense, no focal point to direct his attentions to. He had tried to, after Madame Giry had given him a stern talk, but his depression and lonliness was often too much to bear.
Not that it mattered much to Madame Giry, how he behaved, as he hadn't seen her since that night.
He hadn't seen since she had caught up with him in the street, since had dragged him by the wrist like a misbehaved child into her small, two-bedroom apartment. There, she had fed him, cleaned his wounds, and had told him he was an absolute beast. She had told him that if he was going to continue with his monsterous behaviour, she would call upon the nearest gendarme, and he would be hanging in the gallows by sunrise.
Despite her care, she made it clear that he was not welcome in her home, and that he was to disappear before anyone could see his hideous face leave her apartment.
So he went without help from Madame Giry, and without the love of Christine.
He hadn't seen his love for nearly two years when he spotted her at the local marketplace, her body heavy with child. And she was beautiful.
He had followed her, scurrying behind her like the rat he was, until they arrived at the de Changy manor.
And after that, after he had found his muse once more, he couldn't let her go.
Not again.
Several months later, he had watched through the window of the homestead as she tensed, strained when the labour of birthing her first child took it's toll, when her sweet, round, porcelain face had blushed a bright red with effort and pain.
Oh, Christine.
He had heard her in hours of the aftermath, when she had cooed over the child, saying how handsome and dashing her young son was, how much like Raoul he resembled.
He had slipped into the room in the midst of the night, when the child was fast asleep.
There was nothing quite as odd, nothing quite as strange, nothing quite as ugly as this newborn child. Red and wrinkled and pudgy the child was, well, quite alien-looking. What was this creature? He sees none of Christine features in the young lad, nothing that really appears to resemble either of his parents, really.
But then, the child opened his eyes, and he saw the breathtaking shade of Christine's eyes staring back at him.
The child blinked twice, regarding him with a sort of odd curiosity, before his shrunken face turned crimson and he began to wail bloody murder.
He couldn't help but smirk - the child whined when he Christine wasn't near and burst into headsplitting shrieks at the sight of his face.
Perhaps he did have some similar qualities to the fop, after all.
Despite his aching heart and Christine's red-faced child, he continued to watch her.
He watched as she bore three more children to the Vicomte, watched as her little girl took ill, and watched as Christine cried over her little body. And but three years later, he watched as she buried another child.
He didn't dare interfere, he was but a bystander to his life. There was one incident, though, that he had stepped in. He wasn't proud of the moment, but it needed to be done.
The Vicomte's waif of a boy had wondered too close to the pond one summer day, although he was but four years of age, and knew perfectly well he wouldn't be able to keep himself afloat. But that didn't stop the little rugrat, as he was too busy giggling over the sight of the fish that he didn't realize he was far too close to the water.
Well, surprise surprise, the boy had lost his balance, and had tumbled into the pond with a small cry of surprise. Erik, although uncaring towards the human race who had been so cruel, had witnessed Christine's tears, witnessed her anguish over the death of her children.
He would surely break if he saw that sight again, so he dove in after the boy, lifting him into his arms and straight out of the water, patting him firmly on the back until water spurted from his lips and breath entered his lungs.
The first sound out of his mouth had been a wail for his mother, giving Erik his cue to disappear.
But he had stayed close, and had watched as Christine ran into the gardens, saw her dripping son, and immediately flew into his arms, cradling him and rocking him back and forth.
She had pestered him, demanded to know what happened, and the boy had simply replied,
"The man with the mask saved me, Maman!"
He had never seen a look of such shock, such relief, cross her face.
Well, despite his lack of intelligence, the boy grew into adulthood, as well as Christine's other surviving child. The Fop wasn't always around, often on business or sailing on the seas, which Erik was never disappointed to see.
Christine never seemed to mind when he was away, she often enjoyed herself during his absences.
But she was always overjoyed to see him return.
It began to get harder and harder to scale the brick of her house, to sneak about the shadows, as time went on. He was aging, and his back would ache and his knees would stiffen.
But being away from her would surely be more painful.
So he suffered through it, even as Christine aged, and her own discomfort became more and more evident.
She had left him, carelessly abandoned him, but he still loved her. If anything, he felt more resentment towards the Vicomte.
He was not a young man anymore, Erik took much pleasure in the fact, and his beauty had faded. But as the pair of them aged, they seemed to grow further and further apart.
They still loved each other dearly, that much was clear, but there was a distance, one that had festered and become so ingrown that it was possible to ignore.
But with her children grown and gone, she was lonely.
He was her husband, and yet she was still lonely.
They both were.
And then came the day when the ill weather left Christine bed-ridden, and it was clear recovery was not coming.
She was dying, and it hurt his heart. What would he do without her?
Nurses and Doctors had come and gone, constantly checking on her, but her end was near. It wasn't until she had shooed each body from the room, begging for rest, that his impulse had taken over.
"Christine?"
Her eyes fluttered open, taking him in, drinking him in, in a way that almost made him shy and self-conscious.
She smiled.
"Erik."
Tears sprung to her eyes. "Oh, Angel, how I've missed you."
And he couldn't help it. He broke down, collapsed to his knees. "Don't die, Christine. Please, I love you so dearly. Don't die, I can't live without you."
"Oh, Erik." She motions to him, smiling.
He crawls along the floor to her bedside, nuzzling into her outstretched hand in a way only his dreams have ever permitted. Her face is heavy with lines and creases, but still so beautiful, her eyes still warm and kind.
"Erik, I'm cold."
Hesitantly, Erik slithers onto the bed and wraps his shaking arms around her.
"You're not afraid of me," he croaks, smelling the scent of her hair that has not faded over the decades.
"I'm not the silly little girl I was so many years ago, Erik. I've grown. I'm an old woman now. I have nothing to fear, I know that now." She smiles again.
"No!" he cries. "You're not elderly at all! You're much too young to die, Christine, you still have many years left."
Resting her eyes, she leans back against his bony shoulder. "I'm afraid not, Erik, I don't have much time left. I have lived my share of time on this earth. And it's been wonderful, Erik. I have lived a good life."
She rests her sweet palm against his jaw. "I am not ready to let you go. I cannot let you go! I won't! What of your children, Christine! They need their mother!"
"Oh, Erik."
Slowly, so slowly, she strains upwards, her lips meeting his in the sweetest of sensations, and he hopes that the Vicomte has savoured each kiss, each caress, each taste of Christine.
"Just because I am not with you here does not mean I am not with you here," she murmurs, holding her hand over his broken heart. "Think of me fondly, Erik, as I have thought of you."
He receives one last kiss, and the last words that ever escape my sweet Christine's lips are, "I love you, Erik, but you deserved so much more. Perhaps, I shall become the new Opera Ghost."
He cradles her until the very last ounce of heat escapes from her still body.
"Let your mind start a journey through a strange, new world.
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before.
Let your soul take you where you long to be."
Gently, still holding her lifeless form, he rests his gloved thumb over her brow, and slowly slide her eyes closed.
"Only then, can you belong to me."
Tears slip down his cheeks as he rocks her in his arms, sobbing helplessly as his beautiful Christine slips away from him.
And once more, Christine Daae slips through Erik's fingers, his broken doll once more.
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