Disclaimer: This wonderfulness is not mine to claim. I do own The Phantom of the Opera in my dreams, but in reality I find I have no connection to Gaston Leroux or Andrew Lloyd Webber. So…please enjoy my own version!
Christine's lithe form hurried up the steps that led towards the ruined Opera House. Gone was the innocent flair that had once resided in her gait. It had been replaced by the burden of a haunted past. Her rosy complexion had paled considerably; dark circles had appeared under her eyes, her mouth seemed to be permanently twisted into a mournful frown.
With a wistful sigh Christine gathered up the folds of her plain black dress and took her first step into the desolate Paris Opera House. She had not returned once since that fateful night nearly two years ago, not until now. By the looks of the place, no one else had either. Her thoughts flew to all the corps de ballet children she had grown with, Meg in particular. A small smile flickered on her lips at the thought of her friend, brightening her pale complexion for a short instant. Meg, her fair headed friend with those innocent blue eyes. Meg had never been one to be bothered by silly things such as worries and problems. How Christine wished she could have seen Meg's sweet face contorted with fear as the chandelier had fallen upon that innocent woman. What evil thoughts continued to consume her since that night!
Christine busied her mind with harmless imaginings while her physical being let the dusty light that streamed through the broken windows of the Opera House envelop her. She wondered where Meg and her mother, Madame Giry had gone. Somewhere magnificent, Christine imagined with a hint of jealousy. Or perhaps they had moved to another Opera house with plenty of other noisy brats to teach the art of dancing to. And what of Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur Andre? What had become of them? The wonderfully naive managers of the Paris Opera House had been ruined by the 'accident'; they had probably scurried back to their junk business, all too willing to forget all about the Phantom and the Opera House. How she wished her soul could have been as easily deterred from thoughts of her Angel of Music. She had prayed daily over the course of two years for his spirit to leave her body yet her soul wouldn't let him go. Night after night he came to her in dreams, haunting her. She had screamed at him in those dreams, clawed at his deformed face, done everything she could possible think of to make him leave her alone. Now, as she stood in front of his ruined domain, her heart softened.
Large honey-hued eyes took in the sight that lay before her. The Grand Entrance had been completely destroyed- the marble had been melted away to reveal concrete foundation, the meticulously carved rail was reduced to ash. Walking slowly up the 'stairs' to room where the productions had taken place Christine pushed away the rubble that filled the doorway. Once she had cleared the way, she gasped, petite hands flying to open lips. Fallen beams, broken glass, fragments of the chandelier, charred remains of once beautiful sculptures, and the skeleton of the grand stage were all that remained of her once treasured Opera House. The newspaper stories had been right about the extent of the damage. By the time the firefighters had gotten there, they had only been able to salvage the dressing rooms and some of the lower levels, made of hard stone instead of wood.
Feeling helpless, Christine collapsed on the dirty floor, tears stinging at her eyes. They trickled down her dirt streaked face, landing with a soft plop onto the floor beside her. Slapping at her tears, Christine angrily stood up. She was determined not to let the destruction deter her from what she had come here to do. Opening her arms, she tilted back her head and began to sing, her heart breaking all over again with every word.
"You were once my one companion. You were all that mattered. You were once a friend and angel then my world was shattered. Wishing you were somehow here again, wishing you were somehow near. Sometimes it seemed if I just dreamed, somehow you'd be here. Wishing I could hear your voice again, knowing that I never would. Dreaming of you won't help me to do all that you dreamed I could. Broken glass and burned velvet, sharp and insolvent, seem for you the wrong companions, you were warm and gentle. Too many years fighting back tears, why can't the past just die? Wishing you were somehow here again, knowing we must say goodbye. Try to forgive, teach me to live, give me the strength to try. No more memories, no more silent tears, no more gazing across the wasted years. Help me say goodbye…help me say goodbye."
A quick movement in the rafters above the charred remains of the Opera House caused ash to fall like damned snow onto the ground below. Startled, Christine glanced up, a flicker of hope shining in her wide eyes. "Angel? Are you there?" the sweet words gushed from her lips, "oh Angel! Please forgive me!" She had worked herself into a fury at the very thought of him still alive. "I can not bear to bury your corpse, even if you did make me promise," she said to the still rafters, twirling the plain gold ring that she wore on her middle finger, just as the Phantom commanded her to.
Dancing around the large pieces of broken chairs and twisted metal that littered the floor Christine ran towards her dressing room hoping that, by some miracle, it had been saved from the fire's hungry flames. She was greeted by a red rose with a black ribbon tied delicately around it in a small bow, lying against her dressing room door. Stooping to pick it up, she was alarmed as the petals crumbled in her palm. She dropped it hastily, calming herself with a hesitant song.
"In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came. That voice which calls to me and speaks my name. And do I dream again? For now I find the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind."
Her breath came heavily, her small chest heaved as she waited for an answer. Getting none, she continued alone, the voice of her Angel sounding clearly in her head. 'He's there, singing songs in my head.' She thought as her mouth opened to sing.
"Those who have seen your face draw back in fear. I am the mask you wear."
Still no reply. Closing her eyes, she opened the door and stepped into her dressing room. Opening those haunted eyes, she continued her song, lowering herself into the velvet chair that stood before her vanity table.
"Your spirit and my voice in one combined. The Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind. He's there, the Phantom of the Opera."
There, at that exact moment, she heard his voice, calling to her. "Sing for me!"
Sing she did, she gave her heart and soul to him in that song. Christine made herself his once again.