Greetings to all Phantom of the Opera fans! My name is Mary the Canary and I am pleased to share with you this little plot bunny that has been forming inside my mind for a while now.

As fellow writers know, reviews are warmly received and I try to respond to all comments. A review a day keeps resignation at bay!

Thank you, and enjoy :)

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Paris, France. Opera Populaire. 1871.

Vicomte Raoul De Chagny

I thought I knew jealousy.

I thought I knew it that very first night, when his deep voice emanated from Christine's dressing room, disembodied yet somehow whisking her away. I thought I knew it the evening of the Masquerade Ball, when she refused to publicly announce our engagement, the way she walked up those steps towards him with that mesmerized glow on her face. I was sure I knew it that night at her father's grave, when her opaline face shone like the moon as she poured out her soul to him, while I stood beside, helpless and dejected, unable to make her truly see him.

Oh, but those feelings were nothing compared to what raged inside me now. My nostrils flared as he snaked those devilish arms around her tiny waist, causing the sleeves of her dress to slip even further as he trailed a hand over her sternum and up to her collarbone.

It was a grand spectacle of hell, from the vivid depiction of their intimacy to the agony swelling within me. The stage itself was a fiery inferno, surrounded by flames that highlighted the bridge on which they were both standing. The ballerinas and their partners, garbed in garish black, were imitating them in slow, sensual movements. Murmurs of disapproval resounded from the audience with each intimate gesture, the air thickening with the scent of sin and unease. And the fire! The temperature rose with each passing minute, and I shifted uncomfortably in my suit as sweat trickled down my face. No, the devil himself could not have found a better form of torment for me.

He pressed himself onto her as their voices melded into one intimate coupling. I had to grit my teeth to keep from shouting. How dare he corrupt her reputation, and in front of all Paris high society! Philippe inhaled sharply from behind, though I dared not turn to face him; I had nothing to say for Christine's actions tonight. In fact I could not do nothing but lock my eyes on the scene before me, unwilling to watch that abominable sin yet unable to turn away.

My stomach churned as he callously slid his fingers up her delicate throat, and oh God, her curls! The same chocolate curls that carried with them the scent of lilacs and sunshine and her, the very curls that had tickled my face that night we kissed on the rooftop.

But worst of all was the fact that she did not recoil from him in revulsion or fear. A muscle in my jaw tightened at the sight of her countenance, serene, content, and unperturbed. There was no mistaking the slight upturn of her lips as he lifted a finger to graze her cheek.

Anger and betrayal swept through me with a sudden realization: she was enjoying it.

I couldn't bear to watch them any longer. Tearing my eyes away, I found the stage guard, Monsieur Bonnet, staring back as if expecting me to send the signal. But how could I? How could I let him shoot when that devil and Christine were entwined into one? To kill him would be to kill her, in more ways than one I thought to myself, eyes prickling at the thought.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime.

Lead me, save me from my solitude.

Say you'll want me with you here, beside you.

Anywhere, you go let me go too."

The metallic taste of blood flooded my senses as teeth clamped down hard upon tongue. I knew that song - it was the very one Christine and I had shared on the rooftop!

"Christine, that's all I ask of -"

Her lovely hands, resting gently on either side of his face, suddenly jerked back to reveal a deathlike, grotesque visage where his mask had been. Bloodcurdling screams erupted throughout the entire theatre as I stood, petrified, my eyes locked on the horror before me.

He was staring back at her, pain and betrayal alight in his ghastly, shrunken eyes, and for a moment I wondered if I looked the same. She stared back at him, wide-eyed as he pulled a knife from his pocket and began aggressively saw through the ropes holding their bridge up.

Now was the time. Turning to Monsieur Bonnet, I brought my hand to my forehead in a salute, the agreed signal. With that devil's back turned, Christine would be safe from the shot.

The next few moments happened in slow motion. A thunderous, cracking sound echoed from above as the chandelier began to sway, teetering back and forth as the ceiling broke apart and crashed down in pieces upon the spectators. Then the chandelier began its deadly descent upon the crowd, candles flying everywhere and setting everything they touched on fire. Amidst the screams came an ear-splitting crack, and I turned to the stage just in time to see his eyes widen with horror as he looked down upon Christine.

She stared at him blankly as she brought a hand up to her chest, a hand too small to conceal the crimson patch that blossomed across her white garment. A cry escaped my lips at the sight of her lithe body swaying, her lovely eyes closing as she began to fall.

He surged forward to embrace her and together they fell, through the wooden bridge and into the fire that had by now consumed the stage.

I ran out of Box Five, sprinting as fast as I could to the stage. I had to get there! I had to save her! My heart pounded in my ears as I began to feel sick, my stomach churning with each step. But I could not stop. Down the stairs, through the corridor, and into the theatre I ran until I neared the stage.

"Raoul!" Philippe shouted, his heavy footfalls sounding from a few meters behind.

I neared the stage, but all was fire and I began to choke on the smoke. Removing my handkerchief from where it was folded in my pocket, I hastily brought it to my mouth as I gasped for oxygen.

"Raoul!" Philippe called again, coughing as he grabbed my arm and forced me back. "Raoul, it's too late! Let's get out of here -"

"She's on the stage, Philippe!" I roared, wrenching myself free from his grasp. "Don't you understand? She is injured! She was shot! If I don't get her off stage, she will die!"

"So will you, if you don't leave now!" yelled Philippe. Ignoring him, I mounted the steps to the stage where a wall of fire raged before me.

"Raoul! Come back! It is no use - the bullet went through both of them!"

I stopped, unbelieving, as the smoke made my eyes water. It could not be true.

"Raoul, she's gone! She was standing too close!"

No, no there was some mistake. Surely, this was all a -

"Christine is dead, Raoul!"

I shook my head vehemently in denial. He didn't understand. She was just injured. She was not dead yet.

Suddenly a sharp pain pierced the back of my head. Lifting my hand to the source of pain, I brought it back and grew faint at the sight of my fingers.

They were covered in blood.

Vision blurring, I slowly turned to find Philippe gripping a wooden beam in his right hand, staring at me with a mix of determination and horror.

"Raoul...Raoul, I'm so sorry, I had to...I had to save you...oh God, Raoul, please don't die!"

Dropping the handkerchief, I began to sway as smoke burned my lungs.

Christine. Christine!

The last thing I remembered was a dizzying image of glimmering, sea-blue eyes and lustrous chocolate curls. Then the ground came rushing up to my feet, and I fell into the darkness beyond.