Disclaimer: Ah, if I owned the story I know how I'd make it end, but alas I do not own it, so I must content myself with this.

Life is cruel; it is torturous to be forced to live in a world such as this. I can not die until I find someone who shall love me despite my deformity. As much as I claim there is no God, I know there must be, but a God who is callous and unfeeling. One who watches his creations with a never-ending source of amusement.

I miss my old France. The France in which I loved a woman and held the disillusion that she may one day love me as well. I was a fool, and it is my foolishness that causes me to continue living in a perpetual state of thirty-five years old. I was in the twenty-first century France where all the charm and beauty has been lost to technology. While in my earlier years I wanted nothing more than the convenience that this new world provides, but now I would give it all away to have back my old sweet France. I cannot, thus I left it and came to this rough, abrasive country. The United States of America, united indeed. The divisions here are preposterous. I have resigned myself to living beneath the California Theatre in a dingy neighborhood in a horrid part of California. Call it a penance, or more accurately my own insanity torturing me in all new ways.

I am doomed to wander this theatre for all my days, little more than the ghost I once claimed to be. Choices, it was all about the choices I made. I made foolish ones; I live forever to regret it.

Now I shall go and see the preparations for the newest Opera to be performed here, my own. It is another cruelty of God to have my love of Christine made a mockery of in such a way, call it another penance that I will watch all that goes on with the production.

I sit here, just beneath the stage to listen to the auditions for Christine Daae and I cannot help but wince at the latest attempt at the aria in Hannibal this new halfwit has chosen to sing. I hear the management call out "Thank you, that will be quite enough" and I smile. As much as I loathe the life I have chosen for the time being I must admit the woman who is charge if the casting is quite amusing. I hear her mutter "Good God, that one sounded like a cat that's been stepped on" and I nod, agreeing with her fully. There is a pause as she scrutinizes the papers with the names of the girls who are auditioning for the part of my former love and then hear her cry out "Chantelle Doss, you're next."

I look at the girl who looks quite nervous and glances back at the other girl she had been sitting with. The girl gives her an encouraging smile and she steps forward. As soon as her back is turned, however, the other girl makes a face and frowns, causing all the others to burst into a fit of silent giggling. I survey this Chantelle with bored acceptance. She is pretty enough, long hair that is more brown than red and large solemn brown eyes that seem to be the exact shade of her auburn hair. Her skin is pale, but not sallow and she is of a decent height, judging by the way she stands several inches taller than the girl who just bounced off stage, she'd be about 5'7''. Very different from Christine in appearance, but pleasant to the eye all the same. Her most prominent feature would have to be her lips, full and deep pink even without the aid of lipstick. In fact, she has no make-up on whatsoever. This is quite different from the girls who appear behind her.

She opens her mouth and doesn't make a sound; I can't help but feel disappointed at this timidity.

"Well," the manager asks, "are you going to sing, or are you going to stand there all day?"

At this the catty girls around her friend burst into animated giggles and her cheeks flush pinker that they already naturally were.

"I'll sing." Her voice is pleasant, my hopes do not rise, though, as I have heard pleasanter voices that could not sing well. "I'll sing the song 'Wishing you were somehow here again.'" She glances around, nervously. Then begins to sing. At the first sound of her voice, my body goes rigid. She is truly exquisite.

You were once my one companion . . .
you were all that mattered . . .
You were once a friend and father,
then my world was shattered . . .

My mouth is dry, she sang the lyrics as though she had lived them, not as though she had memorized them. The crystal clarity of her voice silences all remaining titters, and everything seems to stop as she takes each note and caresses it like a mother does a favored child

Wishing you were somehow here again . . .
wishing you were somehow near . . .
Sometimes it seemed if I just dreamed,
somehow you would be here . . .

Wishing I could hear your voice again . . .
knowing that I never would . . .
Dreaming of you won't help me to do
all that you dreamed I could . . .

Passing bells and sculpted angels,
cold and monumental,
seem, for you the wrong companions -
you were warm and gentle . . .
Too many years fighting back tears . . .
Why can't the past just die . . .?

Wishing you were somehow here again . . .
knowing we must say goodbye . . .
Try to forgive, teach me to live . . .
give me the strength to try . . .

No more memories, no more silent tears . . .
No more gazing across the wasted years . . .
Help me say goodbye.
Help me say goodbye!

When she finishes, there is a silence that no one dares to disrupt. She looks at her hands as though she believes this silence is because of her ineptitude, not because of her perfection. Perhaps she does think so. I begin to clap, starting the applause from all around the stage where everyone is seated. I notice, though, while everyone else seems to want to congratulate her at once, her friend hangs back, not applauding, not smiling. I notice the danger in the cold calculation of the girl's eyes. She is no friend, but a foe in disguise.

"Brava, my dear, brava." The manager doesn't seem the least bit cross with her now, but beams her an exuberant smile. "You did very well."

"Thank you." Her voice, I cannot help but notice, which had only moments ago rang with confidence though the room, is back to timid again. It seems she is only content when she sings. This is one thing I can understand.

"Where on Earth were you trained?"

Chantelle falters, and unease crosses her face. "Trained?"

"Yes," then manager continues, "who taught you to control your voice?"

"I have no formal training. I did not know that was a requirement. I would never have auditioned had I known it was. I am sorry for wasting your time."

"No, Ms. Doss. It is not a requirement. I just assumed, with a voice like that you must have had many years of intense training."

I am beside myself. She has had no training? Her obvious discomfort made me assume this was not something she ever gave thought to. If her voice is that good without any training, then what would it be like with my gentle guidance?

It seems the angel of music has found himself a new pupil.

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