I don't usually write one-shots, so I'd appreciate any feedback for this one. I own nothing, etc. etc.

"I gave my mind blindly..."

"You try my patience," I snarled. "make your choice!"

I gave the rope in my hands another yank and listened with relish as the Vicomte de Chagny, damn him, choked and struggled for air. Damn him for thinking he could take her away from me. Damn her for thinking I'd let her leave me. She should be mine; she would be mine!

There was a long silence as she looked at me, and I looked right back at her. Her glance flicked to her lover occasionally, and I felt feral rage stir within me; I didn't know which I wanted more, to kill him or marry her. If she said yes, it would only be to save him, but it wouldn't matter if she'd only say yes. She could grow to love me, I was sure she could.

She gave her lover one last look, and said, "No."

A roaring sound filled my ears. People talk of seeing red, but it seemed to me that my surroundings were suddenly lost in a white mist. My blood burned so that I felt as though I were on fire. No? She would still reject me?

My hands shook as I tightened my grip on the rope. "Very well," I growled. "Then I hope you're watching."

I turned and threw my weight onto the rope.

The lasso around her precious Raoul's neck strengthened its lethal embrace. He fought to breathe, but there's no fighting death when it has such a relentless hold on you. It gave me a hellish pleasure to watch the life leave him, to see his eyes bulge in their sockets and his face slowly turn purple. A wild, insane laugh burst from me, echoing throughout my cavern until I thought it would stifle us all. She had refused me, but I would have my revenge. If I couldn't have her, then the Vicomte de Chagny sure as hell wouldn't.

His struggles became increasingly feeble. There wasn't much time left for him. I looked back at Christine, wanting to see in her eyes the pain she'd caused me, but she'd hidden her face in her hands and was sobbing to herself.

I turned my back on her. Stupid girl, she'd had the chance to save him. Tears wouldn't do her any good now.

The viscount went limp and I slackened the rope. It was over.

My laughter faded away until the only sound to be heard was Christine's continued crying. I stood rooted, unable to move, look away from the viscount's dead body, or even release the rope. This man had been my rival; he'd tried to steal Christine, my Christine, away; for that I had destroyed him. Never again would he try to take what was mine.

Presently a new sound reached my ears: the distant thunder of footsteps and a hundred angry voices. A grim smile stole across my hideous face. So they'd sent a mob to hunt down the Phantom of the Opera, had they? He'd stolen their soprano and murdered their tenor, and they would make him suffer for it.

Poor fools. They didn't know what it was to really suffer.

I dropped the rope and went to Christine. She flinched away from me, but I seized her arm and ordered, "Come with me."

She looked stricken. "But you said-" she cried.

"Do you want them to find us?" I demanded, pointing in the direction of the mob's noise.

She moved to obey me, then stopped again and looked back at the viscount's body. "Raoul," she whispered.

"You renounced him the instant you chose to save yourself," I told her, not bothering to keep the ice out of my voice. "Now come."

I pulled her along behind me and led the way out of the fifth cellar without looking back. The Opera House had been my empire, and this cellar both my prison and asylum for so long, but that was about to change. My home was no longer safe. My world was lost to me forever.

Getting sentimental, are we? I asked myself scathingly. Keep on like this and you'll start feeling sorry about the boy.

Christine was still crying, but I barely spared her a thought. I was too concerned with getting out of the Palais Garnier alive. As I'd been established there for years, however, no one knew the building's secret passages and hidden doors better than I. Making my escape without being seen was child's play.

The tunnel that would lead us to freedom was blacker than a starless night, but I didn't need light to be able to see. Even if I hadn't known my Opera House like the back of my hand, I had always been able to see in the dark. I could hear Christine stumbling along behind me, and the sounds of the mob grew steadily fainter until they vanished altogether.

We reached a fork in the tunnel. The left fork was the same size as the tunnel we were in; the right was only half as high. It was the right fork that we wanted.

"Follow right behind me," I told Christine.

"Where are we going?" she asked tremulously.

"Into the sewers. Stay directly behind me; if you get lost in here, you'll never find your way out."

The tunnel was dark and the air smelled so foul I could almost taste it. I was forced to walk bent double due to the low ceiling. The walls beneath my outstretched hand were covered with something slick and filmy, like the skin of a frog. Every so often I would come across a gap in the wall-the mouth of another tunnel. I counted them all in my head, keeping track of when our path would fork again. I hadn't often explored the sewers beneath the Opera, but I was confident my memory would serve as a guide.

We held our course for what felt like hours before we came to a tunnel with a light at the far end. I quickened my pace, my breath catching in my chest. My back ached from stooping for so long; standing upright again would be painful.

I approached the grating that covered the exit. The night air blowing past was like the breath of life after the reek of the sewer, and I could see streetlamps in the darkness. I listened carefully, trying to discern if there was anyone nearby, but I heard nothing. It was locked, of course, but there is no door man can make that I can't open. I drew out of my pocket the set of lock picks I always carried with me-those fool managers could install new locks as often as they liked, but they would never hinder me-and within minutes I had forced the grating open.

I stepped out into the empty street and looked around me. While my knowledge of the Opera House was exact down to the last closet, I was lost outside of it. I had no idea where we were, but as long as we remained unnoticed, it didn't trouble me. I didn't even worry that I hadn't taken my mask with me; on a night as dark as this, no one would see my face.

I turned and pulled Christine out of the sewer, then slammed the grating shut behind her. "Go," I told her. "You wanted your freedom, now you have it."

She had stopped crying, but I could feel her trembling. The white of her wedding dress was strangely illuminated in the darkness. She looked like the ghost the world had believed me to be for so long. "Where am I supposed to go?" she asked.

"I don't give a damn," I snapped, my own bitterness choking me. "There are plenty of whores in this city, go join their number for all I care."

Oh, how I hated her then, that demon disguised as an angel who'd gotten into my heart only to rip it to pieces. I had offered her my world on a gilded platter, and she'd spat in my face! She deserved to burn in Hell for what she'd done to me, and if I'd had the steel to do it, I would have sent her there myself. But damn it all, I still loved her so much!

I turned my back on her and made to leave her there when she cried out, "Please, don't go! Don't leave me alone!"

"Why shouldn't I?" I demanded. "It's no more than what you would have done to me."

"You killed Raoul," she whispered.

"Yes, I did," I replied, "and I enjoyed every second of it."

"How can you be so cruel?" she asked. I could hear in her voice that she was on the verge of tears again, and the sound infuriated me.

I turned to her again. "I'm being cruel?" I repeated. "Driven out of the world, made to live underground for my own safety, and stomped on by the only person I was foolish enough to care about-and I'm being cruel? You don't know the meaning of the word, Christine Daae."

She burst into tears and, disgusted with her, I walked away. I hadn't gone far, however, before I heard her run up behind me. She grabbed my arm and begged, "Please, Angel, don't leave my here!"

I shook her off. Angel, she called me? She knew what I really was, and she still called me Angel?

Of course, the vixen, I thought, She's trying to appeal to my so-called "better nature" again.

I stood there, arms folded and foot tapping in annoyance. Why was she doing this? I'd murdered her lover, I'd given her back her liberty; why was she so insistent on my taking her with me?

Simple. Like me, she couldn't stand the thought of being alone.

I sighed, refusing to look at her. "All right, you little minx," I told her. "Come with me."

We left Paris in our wake that night, travelling on foot until the city lights had faded and the sky went from black to gray with the approaching sunrise. I had no idea where we were headed, but the further we were from Paris, the better.

I was eager to continue our mad flight, but I'd lost my mask of darkness with the dawn and Christine couldn't have taken another step if I'd threatened her. Unable to shelter at an inn, we lost ourselves in a dense wood on the roadside and she collapsed onto the hard ground in a gesture of defeat.

As for me, I had no desire to sleep. I sat near her, marveling at the way slumber came to her so easily after the night's events. Her white dress was already stained and filthy from travel, but her face was still so angelic and innocent. The longer I stared, the more I scorned my own stupidity. How could anyone as beautiful as that ever love a beast like me?

I sighed from the depths of my ravaged soul and saw her twitch and flinch in her sleep. She whimpered softly and I watched a tear force its way from beneath her eyelid. A nightmare, perhaps? The sight pained me; maybe I should wake her.

She murmured one word. "Raoul."

The pity was dashed away instantly and I looked away from her. Let her suffer.

Our journey lasted weeks, perhaps months. I didn't keep track, and it didn't really matter. We stole to eat and slept where we could find shelter, never speaking or even making eye contact. I watched Christine closely, however, alarmed at the change I saw in spite of myself.

Her manner was listless and diffident; the aura of radiance and joy that surrounded her had faded; the light in her blue eyes was gone; despite her youth, new lines had formed in her face, which had ceased to smile. If sorrow had touched her, it couldn't have left a clearer mark.

Had I done this to her? Was the misery I saw within her of my own creation? She was once an angel-had I clipped her wings?

Nonsense, I told myself. It's just life on the road that's affected her. Once we're settled somewhere, she'll be all right.

We did settle eventually, deep in the countryside and far from prying eyes. Christine became my maiden sister, and I retreated once more into the seclusion that was so familiar to me.

She was free to come and go as she pleased, to stay with me or leave me forever. True to the bargain I'd made her beneath the Opera House, she had purchased her freedom at the cost of her lover's life. If she wanted to go away, I wouldn't stop her. Yet she stayed. She went for long walks outside, she shut herself up in her bedroom, she wandered through our house like a wraith of the night. No matter what she did, however, she ignored my presence. She spoke to me when I addressed her, but she did so distantly, and she paid no attention to the efforts I made to ensure her comfort.

For I did try to make her more at ease. I gave her the garden behind the house to tend to if she wished, I sent for books and things to keep her amused, I got her a little dog for a companion, and I stayed away from her as much as possible. I did everything I could to make her happy, and it meant absolutely nothing to her. She was completely devoid of emotion, except for at night when I could hear her crying in her room. Thinking at first that I had caused her tears, I listened through the walls until one night I heard her sob out that hated name: Raoul.

So that was it? She was still mourning the boy? I had no sympathy for her grief. If she was so sorry he was dead, why had she chosen to sacrifice him to save herself?

Days faded into weeks, and weeks slipped into years. Holed up as I was with this vessel of misery and indifference, I felt my resentment grow and fester. Could I have truly missed before what a selfish creature she was? In an excess of pity for her unhappiness, I bent over backward to please her, but no matter what I did it was never enough. What business did she have wallowing in self-pity as she was? Couldn't she see I was doing all I could for her? Had I left her in Paris, she would have been reduced to selling her body to survive, but I had spared her that unhappy fate. The least she could do was thank me!

Our existence together could be described as a frustrated gardener trying to care for a dying plant. I tended to her every want and need, but it had no effect on her. I worked so hard to make her bloom, but she only continued to wilt. I tried to restore her to her former self, but she was damaged beyond repair.

Then one night, it was too much to contain. I gave, she took, I gave, she took, and there was never any acknowledgement, any sign of life. She was nothing more than a shell, and I was nothing more than a ghost.

She was hiding in her bedroom. I knocked on the door, then entered without waiting for her response. She sat on the edge of her bed, tears pouring silently down her face, but I had no patience for her weakness. In fact, the sight only made my anger flare stronger.

I strode across the room, thrust my hand under her chin and tilted her head up, forcing her to look at me. Out of habit, I had worn a mask ever since we came to this house, but I doubted she would have noticed if I had decided to display my ghastly face in all its offensive glory. She stared into my eyes and didn't resist my touch, passive as a marble statue.

"You're driving me mad, Christine!" I told her. "I do all I can for you, and what do I get in return? Nothing!"

"I'm sorry," she said blandly. "I don't mean to be ungrateful."

"Ungrateful?" I half-shouted, my fingers pressing deeper into her face. "You begged me not to leave you behind! If not for me, you'd be no better than the average slut, on her back to pay for the bread she eats. You might act like it matters to you!"

"Of course," she replied mechanically. "What can I do to repay you?"

"You can start by thanking me!"

"Thank you."

"Smile, damn it!"

She sighed heavily, but her expression refused to change.

I took my hand away from her. Just one smile, that's all I wanted, for her eyes to light up the way they used to, for her to be her sweet and innocent self again. Was that too much to ask?

"What do you want from me?" I raged. "I try so hard to make you happy, but you're never satisified! Are you really so selfish?"

"Perhaps," she whispered, another tear falling onto her cheek.

I wanted to hurt her, to break her, to make her cower at my feet. I tore off my mask and revealed the monster beneath, expecting her to turn away in disgust or cry out in protest, something to prove I inspired at least that much feeling in her.

She disappointed me again. She betrayed no emotion whatsoever, she just sat there staring as though she couldn't even see me.

With a wordless roar of fury, I seized her by the arms and dragged her to her feet. "Speak!" I shouted. "Tell me you hate me! Push me away, run from me, hit me! Do something!"

"What would you have me do?" she asked.

"Anything!" I told her. "Curse me, worship me, despise me, love me, whatever you like! Don't just exist!"

She bowed her head in silence. I shook her in impatience, and she didn't struggle. I hated myself for putting my hands on her, and I hated her for letting me. What had happened to her? She used to be so full of life, and now when I looked into her eyes, I saw nothing. No life, no light, not even death. Just nothing.

The sight was unendurable. My anger vanished in an instant; I released her and turned away. "I can't do this," I said, an unexpected lump rising in my throat and choking me. "I can't bear to see you like this!"

"I'm sorry to cause you pain," she replied. She hadn't moved a muscle since I let go of her, and even now all she did was stand there. "I just-" her voice broke and I knew she was crying. "I just miss Raoul so much..."

The sound of her sobs filled the room, and I felt as though something heavy had settled onto my chest. Once upon a time, the mention of the Vicomte de Chagny's name would have sent me into a rage, but when I heard the utter dejection in Christine's voice I could feel nothing but a terrible guilt. I had done this to her. I had stolen her love from her when she couldn't love me. I had crushed her dreams and destroyed her happiness. Enraged at her rejection of me, despicable wretch that I was, I had dragged her down into my hell and forever stained her innocent soul.

Desperate to escape the prison of regret I found myself in, I asked the question that had been on my mind ever since we left the Opera House. "Why did you do it?" I asked, not daring to look at her. "Why did you let me kill him, if you loved him so much?"

It took her a minute to compose herself to speak through her tears, and I didn't know if I truly wanted to hear it. I was on the verge of leaving the room to avoid her answer when she said, "It was because I loved him. We both knew no matter what I did, you would have killed him anyway. While you might not have let me go, there was still a chance if I made you hate me enough, you might have sent me away, but you hated him too much to let him live."

For years, I had defended myself from the words of others by convincing myself that words meant nothing. I had never really believed it, and now I had not even that feeble thought to comfort me. To hear her say such things to me was terrible in itself, but when I seriously asked myself whether or not they were true, I couldn't answer. Was I really such a monster?

Yes.

I had harmed the only person I ever loved and told myself that I did it all for love. For love, I'd lied to her. For love, I'd made her my prisoner. For love, I'd murdered the man she truly cared about. I had reduced her to this mean, lifeless, empty creature, and I'd done it for love. Could I even call such desecration love?

No. For love, the Vicomte de Chagny had given his life, and for love, Christine had condemned herself to a lifetime of darkness-a lifetime spent with me.

I was faced with myself for the first time. I had always known I was more beast than man, but until that moment, not even I had realized the depths of my hideousness. I had spread the curse of my inhumanity until it devoured all that was pure and good in the world. The truth was enough to break me.

I turned back to her and fell to my knees at her feet, sobbing out my despair and my guilt. "I'm so sorry, Christine!" I cried. "I'm sorry for everything!"

She didn't say a word, but I felt her touch on my deformed cheek. She'd pressed her hand to my face, wordlessly asking that I look at her. I raised my eyes to her, my vision obscured by hot, salty tears. She really was an angel...and I had thought her to be a demon! She was everything I wanted to but could never be, all that I longed for but would never possess. She had never been mine; I didn't even deserve her warm caress on my skin.

"What can I do," I asked, "to make you smile again?"

Not a sound escaped her lips, but they twisted slowly into the smile I'd missed, except for one thing. It didn't reach her eyes; they were still as empty as they'd ever been.

I awoke the next morning to silence. There wasn't a sound in the house, no stirring or noise to indicate that anyone else was there. An ominous feeling settled over me, a sense of dread so deep I couldn't discern its bottom. I knew something was wrong.

I searched the house, the garden, the land around me, and found no trace of her. Somewhere in my mind I knew what had happened, but I couldn't bring myself to accept it. I returned to the house and made my way to the one room I hadn't had the courage to look in-her bedroom. Slowly, I opened the door.

I'd known what she'd done, but I wasn't prepared for the sight of it. The sheets stripped from her bed. The brass chandelier swinging eerily. The overturned chair beneath it. Christine herself, dangling like a puppet with the sheet wrapped around her neck.

What did I feel? Nothing. I just entered the room, got her down, and held her in my arms as I'd yearned to do when she was alive. I'd finally gotten my wish; though it was a twisted image of what I'd dreamed, it was all that I deserved.

This was my fault. If not for me, she'd be alive and happy. I made myself look at her, telling myself over and over again: This is your doing. I had thought her cruel, heartless, selfish; I had forced such diseased love as I was capable of upon her; I had beheld an angel and turned her into a damned soul like myself.

After what seemed like hours, I carried her limp form to her bed and laid her gently down upon it in such a way that she might have been sleeping. I brushed an errant curl out of her face and pressed my misshapen lips to her brow. Then I turned back to the chandelier and the sheet hanging from it.

My turn.

EDIT: I am so glad I've gotten all the reviews asking for the story to continue, but sadly this is in fact a one-shot. I have no idea where to go now that all the characters have...you know. Thank you for the interest everyone, but I don't think there will be any updates for this one. Unless anyone has any suggestions?