Denied and Betrayed

The stone of the wall at my back is cold as death and the roof tiles at my feet radiate no warmth. I am a shadow, invisible in the dark of night. I turn my face to the wall, for the white of my mask glows in the gloom and would give me away. It is the only part of my apparel which does not serve to hide me. Or, perhaps, it is the only thing that hides me.

Far below, in the Opera House, there is a murmur of panic and despair as the performers run from the stage and the audience rushes away from the carnage. No doubt the body will be removed hastily, but the damage has been done and the warning, served. No one will again mock the Phantom so openly. Or, if they do, they will meet a similar end.

My only regret is that Christine was not able to sing tonight. Her voice would have soothed the tired ears of those forced to listen to the prima donna's shrill croaking. That fat fool, too, has learned her lesson, this night. She is not so safe as she thinks.

Without a conscious thought as to their motion, my fingers dance in the air, silently practicing my near-finished piece, Don Juan Triumphant. I can hear each note in my head and can see the performance in vivid color. I see Christine, dressed in a costume which her enhances her beautiful face and picturesque form, her mouth opened as she sings the lead, which I, of course, designed to belong to her. She is my voice, my angel, as I am hers. She will not fail me in this performance.

The mess downstairs has not yet quieted and I settle down into a crouch, allowing myself to slip into a reverie in which Christine is my only thought. I am standing before her, coaxing notes from her throat, notes which are increasingly perfect. I command her to sing, demanding that her posture be just so, and willing my music into her. Finally, she can sing no more, and I smile, satisfied with her effort. In my dream, she does a curious thing.

She steps closer to me, a soft expression on her face, and lifts a hand toward me. I tense, but do not move, as her fingers brush aside my hair and slip under my mask. In this imagined moment, she pulls the mask from my face and runs her fingertips over the deformed flesh behind it. Her eyes are without fear or disgust as she traces every line, every feature, and then smiles.

I am breathless and do not know how to react as she leans forward and begins to press light kisses to my forehead, over my eyes, across my cheeks, to hover above my lips. She breathes softly against me, not touching me, until I can bear it no more and wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her against me.

I meet her lips in a passionate kiss, the first of my life, and feel as though I have been freed, saved. She runs a hand up my arm to rest it on my shoulder and sighs happily against my lips. I know, in this moment, that she is mine.

My reverie ends and I am shocked to feel tears dampening the cloth of my mask. My dream was perfect, amazing, but a dream only. In truth, she fears my face, longing only for my voice, my music. But, loving her as I do, I must content myself with this.

I will lie to her to keep her close. I let her believe that I am her father's promised Angel of Music, an otherworldly spirit creature whose music is a gift to her from her beloved, long-dead, father. If such a lie keeps her close to me, lets me control her voice, I will happily live it.

If she only knew the extent of my madness, she would fly from me with all haste. True, she has seen my face and the evidence of my insanity, but still she is bewitched. She hears my voice and is possessed, drawn to the beauty in it, the only beauty I will ever be able to call my own.

I did not ask to be cursed with this demon's face, this cruel jest of nature. I hate it as much as she did when first she ripped the mask from my face. What a rage that sent me into! I fell to a series of unkind titles, calling her a viper and a liar when in reality, I pitied her for being witness to my shame. And, though I long to hide it, I felt no small amount of pity for myself. How could I lie to her, then? She knew the truth of what I hid. Desperately, I sang my sorrow to her, this time, without lies. I gave up my mystique, for a moment, and let her see my soul. Yet, though I showed her the man, I am certain that she is still entranced by the Angel.

I hear footsteps below and know that Christine will have fled to the roof. She is fragile, easily frightened. I knew she would want to escape the chaos below and so I have waited.

She runs out onto the roof, her thick curls spilling out behind her. Terror shines in every facet of her countenance and the salty tracks of her tears glitter in the starlight. She stops and looks about her, confused and unsure, wringing her hands in worry. Hands which are soon clasped to the chest of a man I have despised since the instant I laid eyes on him.

She speaks to him and he replies, but I am too enraged to understand their words. What business has he in touching her? He is not worthy to breathe the air she breathes. The Vicomte de Chagny was meant for the social pages of the paper, not for the arms of my angel.

He is fashionable and wealthy, to be sure. If I did not love Christine so, I would declare him acceptable. But she is perfection in voice and beauty. He will never be able to appreciate her as I can.

My rage diminishes enough that I am able to listen to their words. He is doing his best to comfort her, assuring her that there is no Phantom of the opera, that the wretched face she was was merely a dream.

My stomach tightens with dread and sorrow when I realize that her terror is directed at me, her loathing directed at me. But I relax, knowing that I can win her back. My voice is a potion against which she has no defense. I need only sing to her and she will belong to me once more. His lies will not sway her. If only he knew how close the dreaded Phantom truly was, how close the knife that could take his life.

Indeed, I could kill him right now, but as I again listen to their words all conscious thought ceases. He has taken her hands in his, is looking deep into her eyes, which is enough to drive me mad. But, it is his words that push me beyond the brink of sanity.

He is swearing to guard and protect her, to love her forever. And she can only stare dreamily at him as he speaks. She should be disgusted at this inferior man, should tear her hands away from him and turn to me, the man who truly loves her.

My life is no dream, though, and I am scarcely surprised when she pulls his arms around her and begs him to protect her from the darkness, my darkness. She asks him to tell her that he loves her and of course he complies willingly. He'd be a fool not to. That is all she will ask of him, she whispers, just to be loved, a sentiment he readily shares.

He kisses her softly, running his hands through her hair. She smiles as he releases her and tells him to get his horses to speed her away from here, away from me, no doubt. They run from the roof, hand-in-hand, love beaming on their faces.

No sooner have they left the roof than I fall to the ground, the truth of what I have just seen stabbing into my body. I have suffered pain before, but all pales before this. I am shattered, lost. How can I live without the possibility of her love?

How she mocks me, her every word and motion spurning my devotion. How often did I dream of holding her in my arms, of learning the taste of her lips? But it was the fool, the fashionable, love-struck puppy, who lived my dreams.

It was stupid to believe she could love me, could love the monster than I am. Why would she choose the beast over the beauty? Why would she choose my face over his?

"I gave you my music," I call in a strangled whisper to the empty air, "Made your song take wing."

How else could I have shown her my love? I, who have been scorned my entire life. What have I to offer but my music? I gave her this gift, this love which is music.

"And now, how you've repaid me. Denied me," My voice is a pitiful whine, high-pitched and empty. I offered her everything I had to give. "And betrayed me." But she wanted none of it, wanted only the arms of her laughable Vicomte de Chagny.

"He was bound to love you, when he heard you sing."

I fall to the ground, desolated and alone. I gave her the voice which captured the heart of a man unworthy of her. But I should not be surprised. Who could survive, without heart intact, the beautiful attacks of her voice. Even I feel to them, and now I am broken.

"Christine," I call, sobbing. "Christine."

She mocks my sorrow, again. From far below I hear her trading vows of love with her Raoul. I crouch against the rooftop in agony while she laughs at my pain, below. She could hurt me no more had she reached into my chest and torn my heart, still beating, from it.

Enraged, but empty, I leap to my feet and will myself to have strength. If she will not have my love, she will have my vengeance.

"You will curse the day you did not do," I cry as loudly as I can, pouring emotion into the words, "All that the Phantom asked of you!"

I will make her pay, make her mine, no matter what. I begin to laugh, maniacally and hatefully as I descend into my dungeon.

Even as I plot, though, I know my rage is purely contrived. My love for her remains, though I wish to banish it. I long to hate her, but I know that I cannot. I will lie to myself, though, if it means having her.

My laughter reverberates against the empty walls and bounces back to my ears. It is not the laughter of one bent on vengeance. It is the laughter of a man broken.