Story of a Rose
She felt like two different people back then: two Christines. There was the Phantom's Christine, who fell under the seduction of his music. She was darker, sensual, spellbound. And then there was Raoul's Christine. He brought out her goodness like a white light, brought back the innocence of her childhood that was yet intact after the Phantom's darkness. To both of them, she shone like a luminous flower. Both the Phantom and Raoul felt that she was the light of his existence. Only the Phantom needed the light so much more.
She knew she shouldn't want him, but she did anyway. Even years after, she can't forget him, can't quite get him out of the mind he possessed. All her life, she remembers his kisses, his passion, the way his hands moved over her body. Sometimes when Raoul holds her tenderly in the dark, whispering sweet nothings, a tiny, tiny part of her recalls with longing a different set of arms and that peculiarly wonderful, indescribable voice . . .
But he wasn't good for her. She knew it then. He would suck the life that he so desperately craved out of her, consume her. She would have nothing left but darkness. Raoul would sustain her, nourish her, and be able to both bask in and add to her light.
Raoul was the son of the son of a wealthy man: a someone from generations of someones. Weakly handsome and debonair. But a good man at heart.
She never knew exactly what the Phantom was. He was everything and nothing. He opened the world to her and at the same time was shutting her away. He taught her so much, shaped her and her dreams. He was her polar opposite, dark pulling towards light with fascination. She was everything good in life that he was never meant to have.
Sometimes she wonders what life would have been like if she had chosen him. She had wanted so badly to heal him. This was half of what enthralled her. He belonged to the darkness, but sometimes she wonders if she could have coaxed him to the light. If she could have changed him. It was not his ruined face that had made her cringe away from him, but the darkness in his soul. Over and over, she wondered how someone who could create and bring out so much beauty could just as successfully dream up unfathomable evil.
Because of this, she had agreed to act in the Phantom's opera, to help capture him. But she was always secretly glad that he escaped. She was glad that she had left him the little ring. It was a symbol of trust and hope. She had needed to leave him something, and it was all she had to give.
She had never known what the Phantom was. She had never known what to expect from him. This had intrigued her. Then Raoul came. He was so predictable. Sweet, brave, protective—but predictable. Although perhaps that was something she also loved about him. After mystery and shadows and voices in the dark, he was like coming out into the sun.
They have a beautiful life together, she and Raoul. He loved her with all he had, and in time she learned to truly love him back. She is never sorry. He was her hero, the man who had saved her and brought her out of the darkness. She was glad that she had waited for him, and had never given in entirely to the Phantom. The Phantom had taught her so much, colored her whole life afterwards. He gave her so much.
But she repaid him in full. She was the one who gave him love, something he had never known before. Sometimes she wonders if it was enough to save him. If it was enough for him to be able to salvage his wreck of a life.
She was never to know.
But a red, red rose tied with a black ribbon and placed on her grave years later might have something to say about it.
It was the Phantom's thanks.