This is my first attempt at fanfiction, please bear with me as I get used to the whole thing!
I have changed names, eg: Christine Chantelle, MegMelody, RaoulRohan, Erik stays and so does Antoinette Giry.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of it, as much as I wish I did.
1: Erik's madness-
Silence. It surrounded Erik like the shroud of black haze that now encircled his world. He liked it this way, he didn't have to block out unwanted voices or sounds, just unwanted thoughts.
Easier he imagined, to block out thoughts than sounds because they are made by you and not some annoying other vying for attention. Though some thoughts were harder to shake, like those of her.
She would creep through his mind at times like this, brush past his fingers, and flick her hair just so that her seductive aroma filled his nostrils, making his heart leap.
But then he would see her eyes, those warm loving eyes that did not burn for him, but for that half-wit D'Chagny. He would imagine them, holding hands, laughing, crying each other's name as they made passionate love. This was the most searing cut of them all; she now belonged to D'Chagny in heart, in body and by law, not to him.
Erik would feel his insides grow cold; the iron curtain that surrounded his heart which had temporarily been lifted by her was now drawn once and for all in a painful, final act. These thoughts would have him stand quickly and hurl something, a bottle, a ledger or even a chair at the cold stone walls of the underground grotto that was his home, listening to it shatter and break in the darkness, listening to it shatter and break his perfect silence.
He would then go to the drawers in his desk and remove a vial, a black silk tie, and a syringe. He would half fill the syringe, flick it gently and smile before rolling up his sleeve and tying the black silk around his bicep, coaxing one of the few unbroken veins to appear. Morphine was his cure from the thoughts that plagued him, haunted him. Without it, there would be no escape, not even his beloved organ with hundreds of scores and compositions could ease the pain she had left behind, the pain that was slowly killing him.
He sighed, a deep hollow sigh before slowly but surely easing the needle beneath his skin, piercing the swollen vein, letting blood mix with chemical in beautiful but sickening patterns. He shook his head, before gently pushing the plunger.
In his out-of-mind state he would sometimes find himself imagining her face if she ever saw him like this, tweaked out and crazy. Then he would laugh. Why worry? He would say aloud, it's not like she will ever see me again. What do I care? She's probably fucking him right now!
He would collapse on his bed and laugh, a cruel hysterical laugh of a madman, drifting through past and present with a numbed mind. It was at the height of this mindless rampage that he would more often than not compose his best works, bashing the organ with the passion and ferocity of a supernatural being, almost as powerful as music itself.
Before long, this phase would pass; leaving a poor excuse for a man slumped on the piano stool or against the cold stone twitching and shivering, staring into black oblivion until the drug got tired of lugging itself around his sorry body and ceased to release him.
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