Erik's Last Moments
The world is my playground and the people in it my playtoys. I have always-in my adult years-been able to acquire what I want, to have what I delude myself into believing I need. By means of murder, theft and the use of seduction through my voice (which I regarded as a weapon) I have used people and had my way. And yet I sometimes I wonder if I have ever had what I really want.
As a babe and a child I had the cold hands and even colder heart of a now deceased mother with only the warmth and loyal companionship of my mother's pet dog, Sasha.
The closest thing I had to a father was a master mason in Italy...and I caused the death of his beloved daughter, a selfish girl who infuriated me almost to a breaking point. But her death was an accident of her own foolishness.
The closest thing I've ever had to a friend was a Persian man called Nadrir…and I gave his son a beautiful painless death. I could not find it in my heart to allow the frail boy to perish in the cold, merciless hands of Goddess Nature.
Many years ago I had a realization; there is no knowledge beyond my understanding, not an art or skill throughout this world that I cannot master. And yet, I am denied one thing I would give it all up for. As long as I live, no woman will ever look on me with love in her eyes again.
After Christine I learned to shed the last remnants of what little humanity I had. I released blind hope, pathetic yearnings, and idle love. So I turned to the things that accompanied me in my seclusion beneath what was left of the Paris Opera house. Darkness and silence only broken by my music; they have been my companions since Christine, since the day I turned my back on my playground and all its playtoys. I was born to be alone. A peaceful resignation I contentedly resigned to.
Even with all this, a part of me refuses to let her go. Last night I heard her…saw her. I often do even in my waking, lucid hours. There are fewer every day with my opium addiction. Only that sound…her voice… can drag me out of my blissfully drugged veil long enough to write my music…our music.
Raoul and Charles, Christine's and my son, live near the Opera house. The viscount has begun to rebuild the second greatest reminder of his dear Christine, of my angel. I have begun to watch the impossibly perfect and beautiful child that Christine and I created in our one night. The beautiful boy has shown much of the same genius I did when I was his age. My son…my lovely son will never know me. He is one year of age now and will grow up believing Raoul his father. Its better that way I believe.
I think this last lucid thought as I plunge the morphine filled syringe into one of the few veins on my person that hasn't collapsed. I laugh dreamily and imagine Christine, Charles and me together in my childhood home in Boscherville. My musings become hazy and I become numb. My body is shutting down. Use of opium and countless other drugs has made my body to weak to withstand this last dose of morphine. I slump against my piano, fingers on the keys, then slide off the bench onto my knees. I can't breathe and I'm quite certain that my heart will cease beating any moment. Sweet, cruel and lovely death has at last embraced me. My eyes slip shut as convulsions seize me and I fall at the feet of my piano, my Goddess, with a soft thump. I wonder if Christine knew my fathers name was Charles…