Beautiful Disaster, a phantom of the opera fanfic

My entry into the DBCA 'Woven Into Song' Challenge. Came runner-up, and I'm dern proud. :-P Winner of the Contest was the marvelous My-echo and her Lotr story: "Awakening."

This is an AU-ish unmasking scene with a slightly...odd Christine (no, she isn't crazy, this ain't no darkphic). Rather dear to my heart as it is the first serious piece of writing I've composed in...like...years...

For more info on the fantabulous DBCA, check the link in the profile of our noble Queen Silvermasque.

Song Featured: Kelly Clarkson's "Beautiful Disaster"

Disclaimer: Nope, Iown neither Poto nor Kelly Clarkson (don't want to, anyway) nor her song.

Cowering in her room-no, the room he gave her-trembling and fighting back the sights in her mind's-eye, she did not at first hear it. The music. Oh, such seraphic music, so conflicting with the fiend that created it. It came from that room, that black room of death that harbored her so-called angel. Christine listened to him pour his thoughts into the air. Curled up on the bed, fighting back the apprehension and guilt that threatened to overwhelm her, the girl eavesdropped on his heart.

He drowns in his dreams

Hot, metallic notes, whispering melodies, heart wrenching despair wove themselves together, and became a living thing, like all his music did. Stalking on little cat feet, the song tiptoed out of his room and down the hall. Stretching luxuriously, it eased itself under the door of Christine's sanctuary. It crept...it slid...it hunted her down like prey and curled 'round her... clutching her in an embrace tainted with tears and rage...disordering her thoughts long enough for the newly made memories to slip through and flash across her mind like wind-blown embers, burning to the touch.

An exquisite extreme, I know

A cadaver with witch-fire eyes, staring at her with an expression of utter love and hate and dashed hope as the black leather mask, akin to a dying bird, fluttered from her grasp to the floor...the thing that had once been her angel, and then a man, was now nothing...hissing and cursing and twisting dead fingers into living hair...and he snatched her hands and...and dragged the delicate nails across paper-thin flesh...But now, softer recalling...a man...a strange one, yes, but one who loved her and left her roses and praised her till she felt that she was flying... he'd sung her to sleep...he'd done so much for her... even knowing that he was a man who'd lied to her, something convinced her that she... in some way...in the way he looked at her, those unearthly eyes shining with love...that she...

He's as damned as he seems
And more heaven than a heart could hold

The music sang more gently now, mimicking the muffled sound of weeping, and it pulled at the girl's soul. Unsteadily, Christine slipped off the bed, her legs useless after several hours of stillness and hiding. Perhaps...perhaps he was no longer so angry...perhaps she could talk to him. No! No. How could she speak with a corpse? It was too late, too late. She couldn't. Not after what she'd done and seen...no. She would be risking everything. What? Afraid that he'll eat you, or some other nonsense? Don't be a foolish chit! she chided herself.

And if I try to save him
My whole world would cave in
Lord, it just ain't right
Lord, it just ain't right

Taking shaky steps, she edged towards the door. What was she doing...what was she doing? Making amends? With a monster who had already extracted his revenge? No...stop. Yet still her feet moved on, fine shoes making not a sound as they were pressed by a delicate weight into the plush carpet. The music. It had infected her...it curled around her heart, forcing it to beat in time, squeezing her soul where it nestled in her breast. Stop. No. Stop... No. Keep going. Her legs complained, and reaching out to steady herself on her dresser, her fingertips grazed a thorn. A rose, a rose from him, one that he'd given her earlier. Her hand edged closer... caressed the silky petals and satiny ribbon, given in love. Love.

Oh, and I don't know
I don't know what he's after
But he's so beautiful
He's such a beautiful disaster
And if I could hold on
Through the tears and the laughter
Would it be beautiful?
Or just a beautiful disaster?

Curse her, the abject brat! His cold, deathly fingers pounded the keys, scrambling from here to there, hard enough that he would have felt pain shooting up into his wrists, had he noticed or cared. But he did neither, and continued to slam out the song, funneling his heartbreak away. Why! Why? Why would she betray him? Why? Why? Oh! Here he was, the trap door-lover, builder of a torture chamber that tricked the senses, a magician, able to hypnotize one with the simple sound of his voice! Ha! And yet, his illusions were not real, and he could not use any of his tricks to make her love him.

He's magic and myth

Tears, hot against his lifeless skin, spilled out, tracking down his distorted features. One slipped into a shallow scrape that traced his cheekbone, and he winced. Terrible girl! She had to look, didn't she? Yes, of course. They all wanted to look under his mask, and then they regretted their wish. Christine was no different. Oh, Christine!

As strong as what I believe

Shifting slightly, he stretched out the kinks that had formed in his emaciated form, never breaking from his music. He managed to spare a glance around, and saw with grim gratification that his room was a wreck. Papers flung about, the coffin tipped on its side, the black walls splashed with his red ink, a broken chair, a broken desk. His home matched his heart: ruined. Ha! Ha, ha! And now he was dead, inside as well as out.

A tragedy with
More damage than a soul should see

His music soared past Apollo on the roof. His soul-what was left of it-dropped in a charred heap on the floor. Christine... His plans. Look what had become of them! All he wanted was compassion, all he wanted was to walk through the park with her on Sundays, all he wanted was love. For love, he'd change, he'd be good! He'd take care of her! A fallen angel could care better for a heaven-blessed one than any mere fop.

And do I try to change him?
So hard not to blame him
Hold me tight
Baby, hold me tight

Christine...He moaned, pain and love scalding his dead, still heart, forcing it to beat once more. She was a good girl, truly. She didn't know, she couldn't have, she hadn't meant to cause him this anguish. He...he still loved her.

Christine followed the elusive tune, one hand clutching the rose...that he had given her. Some corner of her being still protested: No...stop! But her soul had been won over by her heart and his music. I care about him...somehow...this guilt, this sorrow...and those strange feelings...But, he was too much the opposite of the handsome princes in the tales her papa had told her when she was young, while Raoul...yet those eyes, those burning fires, fueled by love...And she was there. Gently, she reached out and pushed open his door.

I'm longing for love and the logical
But he's only happy hysterical
I'm searching for some kind of miracle
Waited so long
So long

Shapes flickered at the edge of his vision, and he stopped. Stopped playing, stopped breathing, held still. Was it her? Oh! The shape was hesitating, moving away, frightened by silence and a monster. No! No. She was coming back! Golden hair, blue eyes, pale face, songlike whisper of "Angel..." Beauty. Christine. He reeled about on the bench, reaching for his mask. Once he wore it, he turned to face her.

He's soft to the touch
But frayed at the end, he breaks
He's never enough
And still he's more than I can take

Slowly, cautiously, they approached each other, as though they'd never met before. Cornflower-blue eyes sought out glowing yellow. Snow-pale hand seized death-white. Apologies, seemingly sung by angels, poured from rose-pink lips and twisted mouth both, but nothing mattered, really, except for the sight of the other's eyes, the feel of the other's skin, the sound of the other's voice.

"Erik..."

"Christine..."

He's beautiful
He's such a beautiful disaster

And the shadows lifted.