The chords were wrong, the key was off, and it was almost like the piece was staccato instead of legato - except things were never that simple. Erik threw the paper down with disgust. It was all that despicable Christine's fault. His Christine. He let out an audible groan, resting his head in his gloved hands. How had he, the Phantom of the Opera, the Opera Ghost, the greatest composer that had ever lived, been destroyed so by a mere woman? It was despicable. Erik had never let anyone into his life, no one had slipped under his skin, no one had ever seen under his mask. Until her. Christine Daae. What had been so different about her? He clenched his fist furiously. Was it her ivory skin, or the way her dark brown hair contrasted it perfectly? Was it the way she so gracefully danced? Or... perhaps it was her voice. Yes. She was the one whose voice perfectly completed his. Even more than that... It was Christine who was destined to sing in his compositions. No one else could ever take the woman's place. His Christine...

A guttered sob escaped his throat as a single tear slid from his good eye. He wouldn't sink this low. He wouldn't let her effect him like this. He couldn't. He couldn't. He was Erik. She would not destroy him like this.

As he rose, he pulled his cape on with a cold anger. It was all that artless, idle-headed fop's fault. The viscount had taken his Christine away from him! His Christine. She wouldn't be who she was without Erik! Raoul wouldn't have known she was at the opera house without Erik!

He was going to get her back. His Christine would be his again, and that bloody fool would no longer be a bother to either of them. Stopping only for a minute to select a sword from his collection and sheath it, he strode towards the exit from his lair. There were quicker and easier, less populated, ways to leave the Opera House, but this way went through Christine's old, and now deserted, dressing room. For old time's sake.

The room hadn't been touched since she'd left. All over the room were now dead flowers from her fans. They were placed haphazardly around her room, as if she didn't care one bit about them. But... one thing caught his eye. Carefully arranged in a glass vase were a dozen roses - all with a black ribbon wrapped around their stem. His eyes widened with shock. His black ribbon. Those were the roses he'd given her. His roses. She'd cared. She'd cared. His Christine! The roses were dead now, but she'd been gone from the opera house for a month. It was explainable. His sword clattered to the ground with surprise as it hit him. She hadn't tried to remove all traces of him from her life. He... he might still have a chance.

Before he decided what he was going to do, his eyes lit upon a small chest in the corner. It wasn't so much the box itself that caught his attention, but the card shoved under it. It.. it looked like it had been done in haste, as it hadn't slid all the way under. There was only a "k" visible. He bent down, hands shaking, to slide it out from under the box, trying desperately not to rip it.

"K... I... R... E..." he whispered the letters as they each became visible. Erik. The letter was to him.

His hands were, at that point, shaking so hard he could barely open the letter.

When he finally opened it, it took him a moment to gather enough courage to read it.

Dear Erik,

I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I know you must be in pain, in so much pain. I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you like this. Oh, Erik. My angel of music. My Erik. After I gave you back the ring, I hated you. I hated you, Erik, I hated you for so long. I hated you, and I was terrified of you. Of your fierce rage. Erik, you have to understand. I was scared, and in my fear I acted. You now must know that I am engaged to Raul. I'm sorry, Erik, I'm sorry. By the time you're reading this, I'll have left the Opera House. For good. I was scared, Erik, so scared. That is the reason I agreed; even though now, I regret it, with all my fault. I must hurry, Erik, Raul is coming. We leave very soon, my Erik. I need to tell you this.

I need you, Erik. I need my angel of music. I have felt so empty, so alone, like you've abandoned me. I suppose you feel the same. I'm sorry Erik. I don't deserve you. Please, Erik, please. Help me. I'm scared, and alone, and I don't understand anything anymore. Please, my Erik. He's hurting me. If I even mention you, he hurts me. Erik, I'm scared. Some nights he'll come home drunk and... Erik... Please, Erik, please. I need you. I need you, Erik, I need you. Help me.

Christine

Her signature was sloppy. It was clear she'd hurried with it.

"Christine." he whispered, pressing the letter against his cool skin, his face both soft and angry. It burned the disfigured side of his face, he'd forgotten his mask; he had no reason to wear it when he was alone. There were no mirrors in his lair to remind him of his hideous face. His Christine needed him. His Christine was crying out for him. His Christine...

"I'm coming Christine. He will never lay a finger on you again." he uttered a whispered promise, before rushing back to his lair, careful to pick up his sword on the way.