Erik gazed down at the ring in his hand, momentarily perplexed by the shimmering diamond set in the middle of the gold band. As Christine and Raoul's footsteps faded from his ears, he stepped into the entrance of his house, gazing past the lake, hoping to just catch sight of the gondola, just to have one final look at his beloved angel. Yet he saw nothing, Christine had truly left his life. Forever.
"You alone can make my song take flight." He whispered, absentmindedly loosening his grip on the ring, letting it drop from his hand into the lake, barely aware of the splash it made.
All pent up rage within him rose to the surface, bringing out the red in his face as he spat out his words in a furious manner;
"It's over now the music of the night!"
Turning his back to the lake, facing his home, he grabbed the nearest candlestick holder, running for the mirrors and smashing them each in turn. Every reflection from the mirror showed only a distorted monster, one whose selfishness got the better of him, propelling him into the unknown world of love – one world he was never meant to have come across to begin with.
Reaching the seventh and final mirror, he smashed it repeatedly until he could see behind it – his hidden passage through the belly of the Opera. For he was known as the "trap-door lover" – why not use them now, in this time of peril? He knew the heaving crowds of angry ballet dancers and policeman were coming after him; all of his tunnels now open to the public, it being only a matter of time until he was found and killed. Why he wished to escape from them, feeling as he did now; suicidal, broken and torn – remained still a mystery to him now. Perhaps it was because he was still not prepared to let Christine go, even though he assured her he had. Maybe it was because the humane side of his still appreciated life, though it had given nothing to him, except for Christine, and even then she had been taken away again from Erik. Or quite possibly, it could be the sense of revenge he wished to carry out upon Raoul -Vicomte de Chagny.
"Keep your hand at the level of your eye's…" Came the soft chants from the approaching crowds, bloodthirsty and violent as ever.
The sense of panic that would have flooded any normal man did not come to Erik, not even a sense of foreboding. The intrusion on his home seeming no longer threatening as he closed the thick velvet curtain behind him, making his way down the lonely corridor at his usual brisk pace. Still without the mask, he could feel the stale air whip across his face, as he broke into a run, unusual but quite pleasant. Even the loss of the white porcelain did not bother him; he was past caring of his personal appearance. His only objective now was to reach a safe place to hide, knowing full well he could not return to his home – it would be destroyed, his music, his personal belongings would be wrecked – especially if Carlotta was present among the crowds.
"Keep the hand at the level of you eye's…"
