Sing To Me Our Last Song
Phantom of the Opera Drabble
I cannot lie. That is not to say I am incapable of it. What I mean is I cannot lie well or without feeling such guilt afterwards—the latter of which eventually brings out the truth anyways.
There is one lie, however, that I can tell and feel nothing from.
"I am alright."
The truth, which I will tell only you, is this: I am scared out of my mind.
Every day and night, I am frightened. I live in fear. I live in fear of him.
The Phantom of the Opera.
Just his title, his namesake, sends shudders down my spine. Such shudders!
At the same time, since I now know him also as my Angel of Music, I hear—visualize him differently. Deformed he may be, but I see the angel and man beneath the monster, as he once referred to himself as.
I do not love him.
I do not hate him, either.
When I see a demon—a monster—and an angel—an innocent man—at the same time, what am I to feel?
I want him.
I wish he would leave me be.
I trust him.
I do not believe a word he says.
His words are beautiful lies.
His words are painful facts.
He, Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, the Opera Ghost, the abused boy, the deformed figure, the misunderstood man, the outcast…
All he is… is a giant contradiction.
Maybe that is why I adore him.
Maybe that is why I hide from him.
Maybe… Perhaps…
That is why I am lying here, in bed, awaiting the time when my Angel of Music shall return.
A/N: I do not own PotO.
May your dreams be hauntingly pleasant.