Title"Mask of Death"
Author: Adhara1
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters from the book The Phantom of the Opera, the theatrical version, or the play. No money is being made from this little piece.
Dedication: Although I'm hardly a good enough or experienced writer to banter on about dedications and the like, I'd still like to take up a few lines of text to express my appreciation to various people. Firstly to Sean, who inspired me to get off of my lazy muse with his lovely little fic. Second to Cat, Kristina, and various other people, if not for anything but just being a good friend. Third to my fine blonde prince of the hallways (it's nice to pretend that you know I exist).
Mask of Death:
I move stealthily throughout the crowd, my movements unnoticed by the hustle and bustle of daily life. A life that I will never know. The depth of the shadows consumes me, folds of my cloak enclosing my wiry frame. And a mask. A mask I wear upon my hollow face, white as the Virgin's gown. It is behind my mask, this festering piece of plaster, that I am hidden from the swelter of emotions that threaten to consume me. Emotions that, on this day, are more prevelant than ever before.
Christine.
Who would ever think that the gates of hell would be lined with stony faced angels? The cemetary is no place for the living, I realize as I slide past row after row of aging gravestones. I then come to the purpose of my journey. A simple stone, indifferent from the rest, at the edge of a white picket fence. Small and undeserving of the name it bares, it stands defiantly against the swirls falling snow.
Christine. Wife and mother.
How so few words could be used in good conscience to describe a woman of such life, such compassion, I will never know. I become acutely aware of the sting of tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.
The mask keeps them inside, my broken body pushed to ends of its strength to keep them there.
A foot brushes over the newly packed earth and I sigh to myself and remember. I sing under my breath a song of times long passed, and I swear that I hear the chill of wind humming along, carrying with it that soft soprano voice that for so long had been the center of my existence; my passion. I picture now the old opera house, reduced to rubble and rotting wood, a shell of its former beauty.
So much like my Christine.
I rise slowly to my feet and carefully place a single red rose on the newly-carved headstone. A strand of silky black lace delicately hugs the the green stem.
For Christine.
And then I am gone.
Author's Note: Loosely based on the movie, The Phantom of the Opera. My first fanfic in approximatley two years. No amount of flames could dampen that accomplishment, so review if you will, please! As always, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!