A/N: This is my second PotO fanfiction, and my first attempt of portraying Raoul's thoughts.

Taking place after the events at the Opera Garnier as shown in ALW's musical, this story is only partially based on it. I set the time from Christine's singing debut to Erik releasing the lovers (the Final Lair scene) to about four months, which derives from nothing but my personal feeling.

This first chapter serves as a kind of introduction and shows the initial situation from Raoul's point of view. The style of writing, however, will not stay like this and change to a third-person-narrator as the story progresses.

More detailed information might follow with the next chapter as I don't want to spoil the fun just yet. I'm afraid the updates will not be frequently, though, as I have very little spare time at the moment.

Hope you'll enjoy reading, and let me know what you think. :)

"Her therapist strongly advised me to write this down, and I acquiesce in doing it as a very desperate man. I am repelled by the thought of admitting it, but I fear our reunion and proposed marriage was doomed from the very beginning.

My name is Raoul de Chagny, vicomte, passable swordsman, miserable protector, and a man who clings to the faint hope of becoming a husband and a future father. Here I shall list every detail which lead to my present sorrow and misery. I will start at the point when the light of hope and happiness was supposed to invaded our lives after a long period of darkness – the day which marked the beginning of the end.

I tried my best to make her forget the devilish phantom who had been haunting her for nearly half of her young life, no matter the purpose. After we had emerged from the depths of the burning opera house, she had been so timid... I still shudder at the the memory. Although these events had all but left me untouched, she had remained strangely quiet for weeks. I remember spending the first shared nights sick with worry about my love, for she woke screaming from her nightmares. Only with the greatest effort, and the competent advice of Dr. Harris, I finally managed to convince her that the horror was over, that she was safe with me. Little did I know how wrong I was.

In hope of giving her a solid feeling of insurance, I was eager to make her my bride as soon as possible. Therefore, I had set the date of our wedding on the following Sunday. How happily her eyes shone when I told her the news! It was the first time in months that I had heard her laugh so freely, so full of joy! We danced that evening, and I am not afraid to indicate that we spent the most romantic night. Without violating her honour as a reputable woman, that is; of course we had yet to wed.

We could afford the liberty of facing the preparations of our great day at ease. I hired my best men to take care of the decorations, order a whole field of her favourite flowers, deal with the catering and the invitations so that we would not have to. Instead, we had an argument about the place of the ceremony: I suggested that we rent a beautiful, little mansion in the country, but she, stubborn as she is, insisted on celebrating in the ballroom of our estate close to the town. I assure the non-existent reader (for never will I allow anyone to lay eyes upon these private records) that I had merely her well-being in mind. I thought she would prefer not to be reminded of her terrible experiences at the opera in Paris in any way, and therefore, afraid to lose her new-found trust in our bond, I intended to bring her away from there for a while. However, I was mistaken. As soon as she told me how much she loved our cozy place and the city that had become her home, I knew I could not deny her wish.

After all, the demon had not been able to spoil Paris for her, and I was grateful for that.

Since any marriage in a noble family as politically and socially involved as mine is bound to draw the public's attention, I found myself forced to attend to a rather unpleasant affair I had deliberately overlooked hitherto. The invitations for my family were the only ones I wrote myself, and I sent them away with great reluctance. My brother, Philippe, had neither spoken a word to me nor asked me to join him on one of his frequent visits to high society events ever since I had confessed my engagement with Christine to him. After five months of awkward silence between the de Chagnys and their youngest son, I was well aware that the odds of my choice being met with tolerance were rather long. If none of them would come to our celebrities, I would officially be humiliated and an outcast.

Though this knowledge drove a bitter sting into my heart, this was nothing my dear Christine should be concerned with.

And I... I cannot imagine life without her!

It happened on our wedding day. I kissed her good bye in the morning, for tradition forbade me to see her in her beautiful, white bridal gown before the ceremony. Then, in the afternoon, I was standing next to the priest at the heavy table serving as an altar. The ball room of our estate was crowded with people – strangers as well as good friends of hers and mine. I remember even spotting Mme. Giry with her daughter and, oddly enough, the opera directors among the guests (it was good to see some familiar faces besides all those dandies and high society members who had only been invited for formal reasons). Of course my family did not attend, but I did not care about the whispered remarks. My heart was pounding wildly in expectation of my queen.

While waiting I was impatient like a child, imagining her heavenly entrance over and over again.

And I kept waiting.

And waiting.

For hours.

My Christine has disappeared since the day before yesterday.

No one … seen her ever ...

… no sign-"

Whichever words were meant to end the report, big blots of tears had left the ink unreadable. His face buried in his palms, the Vicomte de Chagny was sobbing silently.