Roses
Gently, as if afraid that she might shatter it into millions of pieces like a fragile glass object, Christine lifted the crimson rose to her face, sniffing it gently. Raoul had left it for her, but in her mind she'd always pretended whenever Raoul gave her a red rose that it was from Erik. That he was still around, still caring for her in his own way. She never saw Raoul when she saw a rose, which he often left for her, but instead she saw the famous Opera Ghost. The one she had realized too late that she was in love with rather than Raoul. Unconsciously, she brought the soft, limp petals of the fragrant blood rose to her lips, and she knew that she had decided. There was no going back- she was past the point of no return.
Snow flitted around her, dancing in the harsh, whistling wind of winter. It fanned her curls out behind her, and made her small her turbulent gaze against her will. Her mood matched the grey sky, seemingly in mourning with her over Erik. The sculpted angels stood all around her, frothy stone wings splayed behind them, mist enveloping the entire area in a thick, suffocating blanket of despair. And yet the cemetery had never seemed more inviting to her.
She paused as she passed her father's grave. The chilled, polished rock seemed to beg her attention, but she fought the urge and pressed on to her destination with zeal. It was not long before she found what had brought her there on swift feet.
Far apart from any other gravestone, with a heatless grey chain link fence surrounding it, as if the people feared that the creature inside the grave would harm them even when dead. The beast could never rest in peace in these ignorant and unforgiving times. Christine thought sadly. Erik's modest tomb would never be visited after her, she knew.
She collapsed to her knees, not caring the gown she wore would be ruined. Dirt flew up at her, but she didn't notice. Christine paused to read the headstone. It was simple-no one but she and Madam Giry knew of his true name, and no one knew the true date of the dark day that fate had claimed her angel, so it merely said The Phantom of the Opera and the date of his death. Tears sprung to Christine's mournful eyes.
"Erik...Angel of Music, are you here? Are you listening, Angel?" she whispered. "I'm sorry that I realized it too late, but I love you. This is for you, mon Ange de la musique." She pressed her swollen ruby lips to the bleak, polar rock, the sharp tang of death filling her mouth with a bitter taste of both regret and shame.
Glancing around, she knew no one was there. Good. What also caught Christine's attention was that a large, rather dead-looking tree gazed at her woefully through claw like branches that were bare of any type of leaf. The absent leaves were on the ground, lying in wet piles from the snow that still fell softly around her.
Standing swiftly with grace, she pulled back her cobalt cloak to reveal what was once Erik's weapon of choice-the Punjab lasso, one end already looped to fit her delicate neck in its unrelenting grip. Unhooking it from her slender waist, she walked with drive to the plant, the rope swinging slightly as she walked.
Throwing her pale, delicate hand in the air, she tossed the Punjab lasso over the tree's sparse branches, snagging the end on a piece of deathly wood. Then, in a rare show of strength, Christine pulled herself up the tree to wear the noose was snagged. Perching on a branch that could break at any second, she pulled the lasso up to her and placed the noose around her throat with conviction.
"I'm sorry, Raoul. I must." In her twisted heart and mind, she still loved Raoul-but as a brother. She could never love the Viscount as the way he did her, and wanted her to. Closing her eyes, she leaped.
The lasso resisted her slight weight and held her, but her neck didn't break as she had hoped. Desperately, she struggled to lift herself back up to breath, but the branches were all too far away from her reach now. Christine clawed at the noose, trying to break the knot in some way, but her attempts were futile. In a final, pointless hope, she strained to call for help.
Slowly her efforts grew weaker and her calls for the help that had known wasn't there grew feeble. What air she had managed to intake fell short in a gasp. Her pale, slack hands dropped limply to her sides, and her eyes gazed upward in a final sight of the dark sky. A single tear slid from her now glazed eyes for one final time. It represented every moment she'd had with Erik, the one called Monster. That warm, salty tear that was now freezing in the bitter wind was for him.