Cry Me a River
((So I stole the title from my first celebrity obsession, the infamous Justin Timberlake. Might I also add that the first fan fiction I read was N Sync stuff.
Unfortunately, I own none of this. Except the plot.
Anyway.
This is based solely on the movie version. I'd love to incorporate a little bit of Leroux and Kay's work, and even ALW himself, but I've read too many Phics to date to determine which was (the so-called) truth and which was someone else's work. So it's my insurance policy, using Gerard Butler's rendition of the Phantom. I like his better than Michael Crawford's, anyway (please, don't take that as the opportunity to kill me – I enjoyed Mr. Crawford's performance. I just enjoyed Gerry's more.)
I was inspired to write this adorable, emo one-shot upon listening to the pop star's hit single a few evenings ago. I know also that out of my existing Phics, all have been a wee bit depressing for poor Erik. But I've been told that I channel his negativity really well. So here goes exploiting what I'm good at ;) ))
"You were my sun, you were my earth. But you didn't know all the ways that I loved you…"
He relived the past night over and over again as he stumbled through dark passageways, leading to places that he'd forgotten even existed. The vines and moss growing on the stone indicated that a large amount of time had passed since he had traveled this road, but that was no deterrent.
He stumbled not because he couldn't see; his eyes almost glowed in the dark and could see almost everything. He stumbled because he was still in the intoxicated stupor she'd left him in that fatal night before. His right hand reached out to grope at the wall next to him, which grew progressively more and more soggy. His left was a fist, tightly clenched around something of immense value.
His thoughts returned to being forgotten – the passageways must have suffered in some way from such adverse neglect. He knew sure had. But then again, paying them any mind would also cause them pain, or that's how it worked in his situation, at least. How was he any different than these dank, moist passageways to the world of men? Their stonewalls, cold, isolated, unfeeling, secluded from the rest of the world, had been left upon the completion of the Opera Populaire and completely forgotten. Almost like he'd been left upon his advent to the opera – lead to a small underground spot and told to stay out of sight.
"…You took a chance, and made other plans. I bet you didn't think that they would come crashing down…"
The more he thought of forgetting, however, the more he began to dread it. How could he have lived thirty some-odd years wanting to be forgotten, only to wake up one morning and despair at the very thought that had given him so much solace? The logic that involved women wasn't really logic, to him. It was faulty in that it involved the heart very deeply, and that was something until very, very recently couldn't be done.
Being her Angel of Music hadn't involved his heart; it had involved only his voice. Too bad she decided to come to the fore in both success and beauty, drawing more attention from more than one source.
When she was put on the market that night during Hannibal, he was forced to put his heart into the pot with all the others hoping for their numbers to be called. In comparison to all the other admirers, he supposed he had come extremely close. But second was as good as last in the game he had hoped to win.
He heaved a heavy sigh, his breath growing ragged with the constant stumbling. A moment later, he tripped on a protruding vine, landing an unmasked face first on the cold, wet masonry. His hands flew out to catch himself, and in the process, an extremely high-pitched ding was heard echoing off the walls.
SHIT!
He got up as quickly as he had fallen, groping almost hopelessly for his trinket. His hands caressed the coarse, roughly hewn granite that paneled his escape route, desperately searching for an object the size of a coin. His normal acuteness was impaired; his entire body was numb from both cold and shock.
He cursed again under his breath as tears began to sting his eyes for what seemed to be the millionth time in the past twenty-four hours. His eyes were swollen, stinging badly without the aid of tears to begin with. The moment the salt pricked the backs of his eyes; he squinted and almost groaned in pain.
In an attempt to steady himself on the ground, he let his right hand slide to the right for a moment, hoping to wipe his eyes with his left. His hand landed abruptly on the sought-after object, and he exclaimed in delight.
He grabbed up the ring and fingered it with extreme care and devotion; as if it were a tiny animal he was nursing back to health. He even allowed himself to continue in such practice for the next few minutes, until he shook his head to break his tainted reverie.
Why bother wasting such energy and time? She just left with the man she chose, the man she loved more. What can you imagine to achieve?
"…You told me you loved me, why did you leave me all alone?"
The realization that her kiss was out of pity began to dawn on him. She hadn't meant anything else. He felt like a fool for believing she had. He sunk into a ball at the base of his stone, vine-clad wall, a lump of self-pity.
Fifteen minutes had passed before he awoke from his gloom, still clutching the engagement ring Christine had given him in the moment of fleeting hope and permanent sorrow that ended the previous night's events. His sorrow at reliving the pain soon turned to cynicism, and quicker still to anger.
How was he to blame? He himself hadn't caused his pain. It was she, the girl he had loved and cared for for as long as he could remember, that had inflicted the worst pain he had ever known upon his person.
He was walking again, at a brisker, more graceful pace than he had been before. He stood erect, no hands outstretched to find his way, no silent tears adding to the omnipresent moisture in the catacombs.
He was resolute.
He had made his decision.
The night before, both he and Christine had sung of burning bridges, their inevitable consequences just another verse to their song.
"…Your bridges were burned, now it's your turn to cry…"
He had meant what he had sung. He had stood, watched what he had worked so hard to build figuratively burn to the ground. He watched his love sail away on his gondola with another man, a man she loved more than he, and a man that could probably provide for her better than he. She obviously had only complied in the haze his voice had always inflicted upon her.
She had led him on.
And she was the one to blame for his pain.
Though a shred of his heart remained intact, still consumed with his love for Christine, he decided that night that wasting the remainder of his life pouting about a lost love would be an absolute waste. He was always one for logic, planned occurrences, and the organized like. Wasting time was not part of his repertoire.
From that moment on, he decided that he wanted her to think of him, as he had in the beginning. He didn't want to be forgotten. He wanted to be remembered. And he wanted her to be sorry for making the choice shed made.
She had burned her bridges. Now it was her turn to cry over her loss.
Because that's exactly what he was: her loss. No matter what way he chose to look at it.
" You know that they say some things are better left unsaid…"Erik pocketed the ring as he continued his pilgrimage from his underground sanctuary, wishing his image into Christine's memory all the while.