Oooookey dokey, this is my first shot at a phanfic. It's based on the movie version, but I suppose it could be the book also... Anyways, enjoy!
Disclaimer: Theres lots of things I don't own and unfortunately Phantom of the Opera is one of them... well.. i mean.. i have the movie... and the book... but you know... the characters regrettably don't belong to me...
You Can't Love a Ghost
Whatever he was doing, it was far from intelligent. She'd left; she was gone. He wouldn't see her again, so why was he doing this? The man had stolen his life, his dream, his love. She was happy, and that's what he wanted. Wasn't it? No, she's a traitor. A traitor to what? Her heart. What was he then? What did that make the legendary Phantom of the Opera? A ghost? He'd always been a ghost. What was different now? You can't love a ghost.
It was true. What was there to love? A broken, yet dignified soul that lived only in the music of her voice. A ghost. There was nothing to love, only music. Did she denounce her love of music by marrying the man? No. That's not true. She loved music still, but then what would that make him? For she did not love him. He was nothing. A ghost of a ghost. A phantom of a shadow.
If he was nothing, then why did he feel? Why would the world be so cruel as to gift a phantom with such acute feelings? He could feel the despair as cold as the air on his skin. The cold manifested in his soul, his mind, his world. Candles did nothing to chase away the dark and ice. They simply made the ice shine like a beautiful, delicate glass cage that refused to break. They made the dark seem blacker, like the utter absence of light that was his troubled self. Candles were a recreation of her. In them, he could see her form; their silent flicker was her voice, forever reverberating within him. She was the isolated light inside him, which was easily doused and enveloped by his overwhelming, crushing black of night. Before his beautiful, flickering cage of glass could be graced and crushed by night and wrapped in darkness, however, the cold unforgiving breeze took away the flame that slowly melted his ice cage. The delicate flame that danced and sang atop the garishly white candle bent and resisted before succumbing to the strong, insistent breeze from the light of day.
The light of day blinded him, fiercely harmed his darkness. The harsh reflection of the snow made it worse, and he refused to look at the streets, instead, the shadows beckoned him to their relieving solace. He gratefully accepted their invitation and wrapped his cloak around him against the cold.
Her house was large, elaborate and spoke clearly of her newly gained wealth. The doorbell was an angry lion head that seemed to roar at him as he gripped its cold steel and rapped it against the door.
He found there was no feeling. He was a ghost, there was nothing to feel but the finality of night. The dagger was comforting against his skin, but he soon found himself longing for the coarse rope as the Vicomte de Chagny opened the door. A hood hid his features, so the Phantom knew the Vicomte did not know who he was, but he seemed to step back, uncertain, when he saw the mysterious, hooded ghost that stood outside his door.
The Phantom did not bother changing his voice. He knew the Vicomte would find out soon enough. "How may I help you, sir?" the Vicomte asked cautiously.
"I would like to speak with the Vicomtess," he said.
The Vicomte looked at him shrewdly. "She is not accepting visitors, sir."
"Sir, it is a matter of utter importance. I will not…be in Paris for long."
The Vicomte looked unnerved. "Remove your hood," he suddenly demanded.
"Where is the Vicomtess? I would like to speak to her before I leave." The Phantom still did not change his voice, and the Vicomte put a hand on the sword at his waist.
"Who is it Raoul?" Her magical voice came from somewhere down the hall, and there were delicate footsteps before she stopped to stand behind the Vicomte.
"Christine," the Vicomte said, but she'd stopped in her tracks, staring at the Phantom as he stood silently.
"Christine, Christine," the Phantom whispered.
She took a step back, and the Vicomte drew his sword. "Angel," Christine whispered.
The Phantom ignored the Vicomte's weapon and stepped forward. "Christine," he repeated.
The Vicomte raised his sword to the Phantom's neck, and the Phantom stopped. "Christine," he said again.
There was a pause, pregnant with tension. Christine had tears in her eyes, and the Vicomte looked unsure of what to do. The Phantom did not advance any more but the Vicomte did not threaten him. "I will go now," he said finally.
He inclined his head once before retreating. The dagger was so close to his skin, so cold, so inviting. It would be fast, painless, and he would die with the image of her face as his last sight. Yes, he decided. It was a good choice. "Good bye, Christine," he whispered.
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He opened his eyes slowly. Was he dreaming? It was the underground lair he'd always known and the candles were lit. On the misty lake was a different gondola. What happened? He'd been free. He'd felt the warm blood against his skin. He'd felt the cold snow before he passed out. Her arms had been around him, and someone had been yelling. What happened? He'd been free from the cruel world. What was he doing alive?
Erik felt his side and found it bandaged, but the rest of the underground cave was empty. He sat up, heart pounding. Why was he alive? Did she save him? Why was he here? He put a hand to his face. His mask was gone. Damn her. He stood, finding that the wound on his side caused him no pain. Damn that foolish girl. He swept a hand at the candles adorning the walls, dousing them all and leaving him, chest heaving, on the floor by the lake in complete darkness.
What has she done? He wanted to die. He wanted to release himself from this tortuous world of light. She had saved him, he could smell her on his clothes. She'd stripped him of his mask, of his identity, of his life. What has she done? Erik kneeled at the side of the lake with his face in his hands, a wretched form of life. How could she save him from his death? From his release? Did she love him enough to condemn him to a horrible life of hope and despair? You can't love a ghost! She didn't love him. She loved the ghost, which was incapable of being loved. She loved nothing. He was a ghost. He was a shadow, a phantom, a fleeting shadow of life. A tear rolled down his cheek and into the lake. He was nothing. He was a ghost. You can't love a ghost.