Note: Don't own the Phantom or Christine - they belong to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lyod Weber. "Where Will You Go" is by Evanesence.
Deep underneath the ground, underneath the Paris Opera House, an organ blared. The dark, haunting melody echoed throughout the open passages and caverns. Following the sound, one would find a world lit by candlelight. A world of music.
At the organ sat a man concentrating intently as his fingers flew over the keys. His eyes were closed; all of his focus put on the music he was creating. Half of his face was hidden behind a white mask, concealing the deformity that made him hide from the world. The revealed side of his face was darkly sensual. But no one saw that side of him. All they could see was the mask.
You're too important for anyone
There's something wrong with everything you see
But I…I know who you really are
You're the one who cries when you're alone
The man opened his eyes cautiously as he withdrew his skilled hands from the keys. The notes replayed themselves in his mind over and over again long after they had faded from the air. He sighed deeply and rubbed the back of his neck.
He had been in seclusion for a month now, completing his masterpiece. Perhaps the greatest of his compositions. However, he had made little progress. Almost every time he sat at the organ to compose, the music he played was depressing, fit for a funeral. A reflection of the composer.
His continued self-exile from the world was his shelter at the moment. His muse had betrayed him. Denied him. What cause was there to inspire him now?
The Phantom, once known as Erik. He had never felt more a shadow of a man than he did now.
Where will you go
With no one to save you from yourself
You can't escape
You don't want to escape
Pushing back from the organ, he walked over to the model stage of the Opera House. He had not touched anything since the performance of "Il Muto." Looking over the set up, he noticed the drawings of Christine he had spent so long lovingly creating.
The feeling of rejection returned, tightening his chest in agony.
Without a thought, he swept everything off the table in anger, sending the papers scattering to the ground. He then turned abruptly, heading for his bedchamber.
How ever did you manage to push away
From every living thing you came across
So afraid that everyone will hate you
You pretend you hated them first
He fell into bed, clenching and unclenching his fists in anger. The night on the roof of the Opera House replayed itself in his head yet again. In the shadows he had witnessed Christine refute the music he had shared with her. She had demonized him, and made him into a monster. More than he already was. Then, she had declared love for that man. The Vicomte. Christine had broken his heart effectively.
But he could not feel this new pain. His life was nothing but pain. All that was left was a raw and unhealing wound. And anger.
Anger served him better than sorrow. A wounded animal to strike back at the inflictors of his pain.
The man was not aware he was still able to cry until he realized a single tear had slipped down his unmasked cheek.
Where will you go
With no one to save you from yourself
You can't escape the truth
I realize you're afraid
But you can't refrain from everything
You can't escape
You can't escape
He was scorned his entire life. The one time he was close to happiness, to the possibility of love, it was snatched away from him. It was not his fault.
The managers of his Opera House would not see reason in running the arts effectively. Carlotta was useless, not a diva. Her voice was as appealing as the whines of a whipped cur. Christine was to captivate Paris. Joseph Buquet had gotten in the way. His death was not regrettable. There had been warnings.
Turning onto his back, the man once Erik starred up at the cavernous ceiling of the chamber. His was a life of loneliness. And he thought Christine would take away the loneliness with her beautiful voice. Her scornful words that night had proven him wrong.
I am so sick of speaking words that no one understands
Is it clear enough that you can't live your whole life all alone
I can hear you when you whisper
But you can't even hear me screaming
A hand drifted up to his face to touch the delicate mask shielding his marred face. He had given her his most precious gift to give.
His music.
She had taken it, used it, and then proceeded to deny him. It could not stand. He was not one to be used and discarded so easily. Nor could he be forgotten. She would know her teacher was not pleased.
He sat up, swinging his feet to the ground. Sitting erect, he looked over at his music box. The monkey in Persian robes. At times it felt like the closest thing to a friend he had. He gripped the bedclothes under his hands.
"No," he said. His voice was deep and raspy from disuse. "This will not stand."
And where will you go
With no one to save you from yourself
You can't escape the truth
I realize you're afraid
But you can't reject the whole world
You can't escape
You won't escape
You can't escape
You don't want to escape
"They think to banish me. To deny me? She above them all!"
The man stood, hardly a shadow of Erik. He pointed to the monkey, which starred back at him quietly.
"She is mine! No one else's! She will not repay me in this way!"
The Phantom stalked from the bedchamber, his boots echoing behind him. He descended the stone steps to the main chamber, ranting as he went.
"I will not be denied! I will not be forgotten!"
Approaching the organ, he stopped, looking back to the alcove that held the model of Christine and her wedding dress.
"Christine…" he hissed. "Would you deny your teacher? Your fabled Angel of Music?"
He turned away to sit at the organ again, closing his eyes tiredly and placing his fingers at the keys. Before opening them, he could not help the silent snarl that escaped his lips.
"You belong to me, Christine."
It was not long before the echoes of the organ's music filled the underground passageways of the Opera House again. However, this time the music spoke of a menacing darkness.
Of retribution to come.