Glass glistened the ground. They were shards of mirror, shattered and splattering the island floor like a canopy of the remains of his broken mind.
Gone. She's gone. The thoughts sounded foreign-alien. How could this happen? How could she choose that prancing buffoon over him, her teacher? Years they had spent together: him teaching her, her listening and learning. She grew up loving him as her master and her guide. Yet, she still chose the young fool over him. He knew why; his face drove away everyone he loved. But, she told him that she wasn't afraid of his face anymore. Could there really be something so deeply wrong inside him that turned his precious rose away from him?
"Christine." He whispered, despite himself. The words flowed out of the Phantom's mouth like water, but this water was full of acid. Bitterness, sorrow, loss, grief, and pain all summed up into one tiny, exquisite word. A single name that chopped him to pieces like a meat cleaver to beef.
Christine. From the very moment he heard her sing, she reminded Erik of a blossoming red rose. Christine was pure, passionate and gorgeous in her own flawless, innocent sort of way. She was one spot of the great Opera that was not corrupted so badly as himself, and her voice was like the call of an angel. Erik followed her and loved her more truly than any man could love a woman, yet he was not enough. Never would be enough, compared to handsome, young and strong Raoul. Raoul de Chagny, Vimconte and lover of the arts. Not only was he rich, beautiful, and sensitive, the boy even had a history with his Christine. It didn't take long for Raoul to rekindle Christine's childish romance with him, perhaps it never died. None the less, in a matter of days Raoul had Christine rejecting the Phantom and fawning over his perfectly styled chocolate locks.
Erik absent-mindedly tugged at his own dark hair, nearly onyx black curtains that fell around his face. Normally, he would have them swept back, slickened with oil that way they stayed out of his way. After the events that had transpired that night, Erik's hair had come undone from its normal style and hanged as dreadfully as he did, behind the curtain wall which separated him from the mob attempting to murder him.
Their voices rose up in irate song, calling for his death. He could hear their footsteps on the stairs leading to his dungeon, and Erik could almost imagine Madame Giry leading them. Her face would be resolved like stone, finally convinced of the madness within the Phantom. She would finally be ready to finish what others had not, what others could not do. The irony of his plight brought a cold, sarcastic smirk to his marred face. He half wondered if he should take his own life, just to spite the mob. Erik couldn't bring himself to find a proper weapon though, so he just sat there, waiting for them to find him.
They didn't find him: well, at least not all of them did. It was Madame Giry's daughter, the ballerina, who ended up discovering his perch of depression. She was clad in black trousers, a white blouse, and black boots. In her left hand, Meg Giry brandished a saber and Eric thought how intriguing the whole situation was. Here stood the daughter of his savior about to end his life. She dressed in gear almost pirate-like to finish the duty. She just appeared so...manly: even her long blond hair was pulled back. The fire in her eyes was not the same fire that shone in Christine's eyes, as she told Eric she hated him. It did seem to fit. A rose is always closest to a thorn and so Christine was closest to Meg. Erik watched her with amusement as she started towards him, her movements feline.
Meg held the saber aloft, yet tightly. She was so ready to strike, ready to end his reign of terror. He breathed a sigh of relief as she raised her arm for the killing blow and...stopped.
Erik stared at her as though she were something nasty he found in the lake. She looked about as horrified as he felt dismayed.
"I-I can't do it." She explained with surprise. Her hand lowered to her side and became limp. Her sky blue eyes widened in shock. Meg slumped down on the steps in shame and stared at the saber which she still grasped. Eric turned away in disgust. He should've known better. Meg was the soil to Christine and he, the thorn. "I'm sorry." She said out loud and Erik bristled. Was she apologizing to him? Why? "I'm sorry, Christine." Meg whispered and clutched her knees to her chest. Ah, so she had been speaking to Christine after all. Even though this should have allowed Eric to relax, he was more tense than ever.
Why is she still here? Is she going to kill me, or whisper sweet nothings as if it's not supposed to crush me knowing that Christine was closer to this imp than myself? The Phantom wondered angrily to himself. His fist clenched tightly, nails biting into flesh and blood dripping down his palm onto the floor. He looked at his fist in surprise.
"I should kill you, you know." The high-pitched voice of Meg told him. He didn't really care though-he was more fascinated by how his existence had depreciated into a pool of angsty emotions. Meg had the voice of a child, or a naive woman. Especially when she sang, Meg always reminded him of a cherub: infernally adorable and terrifying in its innocence. "You're a monster and a murderer, but I cannot kill an unarmed man." She continued, while Erik chastised himself for being afraid of such a petite person. Though her obstinance was a force to be reckoned with, Erik had already accepted that he was not allowed to feel any emotions attached to anyone besides his love, Christine. "What am I going to do with you?" Meg questioned him.
For the love of all that is eternal and beautiful in its own way, why was this woman still here? Either kill him or get out his sight, Erik always said. Well, not always, but now as was the case. He worked his frustration into his face without much effort and, with anticipation of Meg's fearful expression, turned to glare at her insolence.
Oddly enough, the girl didn't even flinch though Erik was sure he must have looked horrifying. Her face was so devoid of emotion. Actually, there was something there. What was it...perhaps, thought? Yes, Meg Giry, in the face of the wrathful Phantom of the Opera, was thoughtful. "I could kill you, but that would be giving you a break. I think I'll let you live, so you have to spend the rest of your days knowing that no one does or will ever care about you." She said finally. Meg stood, turned on her heel, and marched out of Erik's secret cove.
As she announced the Phantom's remarkable disappearance to the rest of the mob, something inside Erik that he didn't knew was still there fractured.