Set a month after Christine and Raoul flee the Opera Garnier (or is it Opera Populaire? I'm so confused..), from Erik's POV. I know this is like, my third in progress Phantom fic, but this idea just came to me and I was like GASP and began to write. Should keep this a oneshot but I wont. xD I don't own Phantom of the Opera or its characters, unless Erik makes the right decision and rescues me and loves me forever the end. :D
Ashes. Everything tasted like ashes. No matter which painfully cheery café I ate at, the food melted into a pile of ashy memories in my mouth. I had then given up on food, but not on the seedy bars that littered the Paris slums- they proved to be interesting.
A young waitress came up to me and seemed not to notice my masked face. I wasn't surprised, seeing as she worked in a place like this.
"What can I get for you, mister?" She was American. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled back into a short pony tail, and her dress was far too short.
"Coffee," I said briskly, before pausing to think. "Never mind that, bring me alcohol. The stronger the better," I waved her away as my mind began to lose interest. That was all I needed now, now that my life and only salvation had left me- I needed entertainment. When I got bored, I simply ended it. Tasting ashes perfectly personifies the long lost fire of hope that once was kindled within me. Look at me now, sitting in a seedy bar, ordering spirits I would regret the moment they invaded my lips, and wanting entertainment to stop myself from suicide.
The door opened and I gazed at the newcomer. It was a young woman, moderately pretty, with exceptionally long hair. It was as though she had never cut it- on second thought, she most definitely hadn't. It was in an unkempt braid down to the back of her knees, and bangs shielded her face in the front.
She had a man with her, who she leaned on heavily. He whispered too her fervently, and she nodded and obeyed whatever he told her.
"What an odd pair," I mumbled quietly, hastily taking the drink from the waitress. I raised the glass a little, as I always did, and closed my eyes in a silent toast.
"To Christine," I thought, and then drank it heartily. The burning of the alcohol felt wonderful. The more I drank, the more complete I felt. But the second I stopped, I was more broken than before.
Hearing a clatter, I glanced over to see the odd woman glaring at the man with her. Chuckling nervously, he picked up the chair that had fallen and pulled it out for her to sit in. She refused to sit and snapped her fingers in the air. The waitress headed over quickly.
"Yes miss?" She asked.
"Direct me backstage. I will be performing tonight and this man child here is completely unfit to accompany me." She shushed his protests by linking arms with the waitress and walking away. The two disappeared behind the decrepit stage.
I turned back to my drink and thought. Music, hurt, pain, black, dark, roses, blood, more hurt and pain… then emptiness. I could stand all the pain in the world but the absence of all emotion. I once embraced it, but with Christine I tasted all the happiness in the world- now my body hungered for it. I wanted love desperately, but the only one who could provide it had made her choice and abandoned me. And rightfully so. That moment, when she was faced with a terrible decision, she kissed me. She kissed me with such urgency and such depth that I forgot everything that had ever been wrong, the scars faded and the ashes surged into a roaring fire- but a flood of pain tore my heart out. The tears that fell through the kiss, the quivering lips that shook with fear, the mystery of what I was no longer intriguing, her darker side weak in the knees from what music it had seen and heard, her want to be safe in the daylight with the man she loved.
I never thought I was a monster until she kissed me. Then it all crashed into an array of cacophonous symphonies and disassembled set pieces- I was a monster.
So I let her go.
From my reverie I heard eerie music. My head snapped towards the source of the sound and I watched as the odd woman sang. The music was not beautiful, but it was not ugly. It seemed as though I barely existed. It spoke of stories and places that were not real, and tongues that were never spoken reverberated throughout the bar. Was it music at all? Was it a story, was it a chant? Colors blended together in the song and then pulsed, calming and awakening the mind.
Then it all crashed. The pulsing grew into punching, the blended colors fading into black and white, then all grey. The music turned into painful sounds that echoed outward from the soul. I felt it, and she felt it. That deep, low, sorrowful call. That harrowing scream that barely came above a whisper, that heart wrenching cry of those we have lost, those we are losing, those we have yet to lose.
An incomplete chord.