Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or its characters. The rights belong to those who have acquired them legally.
Their eyes were locked. His muscles were tightened, teeth clenched his heart pumping blood through his tense body. His mask lay on the floor, exposing the impossibly twisted, discolored flesh and the sparse strands of hair.
Christine's tearful eyes stared at him defiantly. Her small fragile body was trembling, her little fists clenched. He couldn't read her expression. Dear God, what could she be feeling at this moment.
"Phantom," she said, her voice unsteady. Two tears spilled down her cheeks. "Your face no longer frightens me. It is your black heart I am afraid of."
His jaw shifted, his mismatched eyes never leaving her face. His pulse was pounding hotly in his ears.
"I...am willing to give you my heart, so that you may heal it," he whispered, his voice hoarse from screaming. "I want you to take it."
Christine's eyes watched his trembling hand press itself to his chest, above his cold heart.
"I can't..." she said.
"Take it. Take me."
He grabbed her hand, desperate to feel her touch on his chest, but the gesture startled her. She tore away from him and stepped back. "No," she breathed. "You frighten me so badly, Phantom. I thought you were my friend. I cannot be your lover, and I am sorry. You must understand."
His brain began to tighten up with that mad rage, that unstoppable urge to strike something. His eyes darted around the room, looking for anything he could beat and destroy, but most of it had already been damaged by his own hand. Manuscripts lay torn and shredded on the floor, pieces of shattered glass scattered everywhere, bookshelves and tables knocked off their feet.
There was nothing left to destroy.
His eyes settled back on Christine.
He'd given everything to that woman. He'd written his music for, her, poured out his very soul onto paper as a gift for her. He'd trained her voice to make her own dreams come true. He'd offered her a wonderful life full of magic and music. He'd killed for her. He'd fallen on his knees and offered his heart and soul to her in return for her gentle affections.
She'd refused him.
She was turning around and leaving.
"No!" he roared. He ran after her, his arms wrapping around her. He felt her struggling against him, screaming with those powerful lungs of hers, beating him with her fists. She would not leave him. Not after all he'd done for her.
Her cries and his own labored breathing began to soften in volume, and his mind began to cloud...his arm pulled tightly around her neck, the crook of his elbow closing off her airway.
"You won't leave me," he whispered calmly, his eyelids slipping halfway over his eyes, his rage slowly fading away and being replaced by mindless emptiness. She was still struggling against him, but she had become oddly silent and even as the seconds crawled by, she was growing more relaxed in his embrace.
"You see," he mused, his lips twitching in a smile. "I am gentle. I can hold you and love you just like your young man, Christine. Perhaps I can even love you more than he can."
She'd stopped fighting him, sinking back into his body. She was realizing how kind and gentle his touch was, at long last. She had only needed to agree to be embraced to understand his good intentions.
He dimly felt her muscles spasm in death, but thought nothing of it.
"Let me hold you just a while longer," he said, dropping his head to kiss and sniff her hair.
The clock in the drawing room ticked. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
He stood there with Christine as the hour chimed...and remained there ten minutes after, fifteen minutes, twenty.
He heaved a deep sigh. Christine was growing very cold. She needed to go get her shawl.
He released her from his arms. She crumpled into a lifeless heap, her lovely hair spread out on the floor.
Dead.
He stared at her.
His limbs began to cramp and stiffen, his lungs started to dry up and tighten painfully. He couldn't breathe. His skull was surely going to split. Bile pushed against the back of his throat. Cold sweat trickled down his temples.
"Christine?"
He ran into his room, gasping for breath, his eyes fogging with hot tears. He pulled out all of his drawers, throwing out the contents. His hands shook so badly he could hardly control them.
His fingers closed around cold metal.
Drawing out the revolver, he ensured that it was loaded, and he briefly recalled placing it in his drawer years ago. He'd sworn to himself that if he was ever discovered in his little house down by the lake, he would take his own life before the authorities could lay their hands on him.
With the gun in his hand, he stumbled back to Christine's body, landing on his knees beside her and rolling her over onto her back. Her face was calm and still, her eyes half-closed. So beautiful. He touched her lips. Such a sweet, gentle girl. An angel. Only a short while ago she had been speaking to him and crying.
He turned away from her, his body sagging in anguish, and placed the revolver against his head, pulling the hammer back.
The clock was still ticking. He listened to the stillness of his home. It was so quiet.
The explosion shattered the silence. The bullet buried itself deep in his brain. His body slumped over onto Christine, his eyes closed, dark blood oozing from his nostrils and mouth.
The Phantom was dead at last, sleeping beside his final innocent victim.