Plotting and Recovering

They would pay. This was the single enraged thought that forced itself into his brain and refused to leave. The morphine was just beginning to take effect, so the pain was still reminding him that someone needed to pay. Just as soon as he felt better-hopefully he would feel better soon-the Opera House was destined for trouble. He would need to write a note expressing his displeasure with the managers, maybe order them to fire Carlotta. They would not do that, and he would be forced to take action.

Unless he scared them badly enough, the Phantom thought. He supposed the managers could be allowed to live; it took too long to train new ones. Firmin and Andre, though defiant, were already believing that the Phantom could be real. Oh yes, he was too real for their own good. A fire then? Perhaps a small fire in the dressing rooms, with an injury or two and a soft warning. And after that, some stage incidents, falling beams, broken appendages, etc.

A soft smirk played across his thin lips at the thought. He so enjoyed the power he wielded over those pitifully perfect humans. Christine's beautiful face appeared in his mind and he winced. She would have to be lured to safety before he struck; there was no way under heaven that he could harm her. The rest? Certainly, but not her. After a while, he would ascend again and see where she was.

It was unfortunate that she needed such close watching now. He had almost begun to trust her, but then that fop Raoul had appeared bearing roses and a brilliant smile on his godlike face. The Phantom lifted his lips in a silent snarl at the darkness. Envious of that perfectly balanced face, he wanted to wring Raoul's neck more than any other's. The ghost had been so close to capturing Christine with his singing, his dark appeal, his charm…

No matter, the Viscount could easily be silenced. It would only take a minute in the dark corners of the Opera House, and the Phantom would have nothing to worry about. Sadly, Christine or a crowd was always with him, making it impossible for a quick kill. And the man did support the opera.

He let out a strangled chuckle. His most recent quick kill had not gone well. Buquet had fought back with surprising force, managing to clasp the Phantom's throat in a deadly grip. Now he stared into the long mirror, observing the dark black and blue bruises on his crushed neck. He ran his fingers over it and emitted a rattled sigh. A closer examination revealed that Buquet had performed sore damage.

The medical book on the table gave no promising hope for a crushed larynx. It gave several examples of men who had lost their voices through accidents and fights, reduced from a booming presence to a wretched whisper. One man, James Longstreet from that recent American Civil War, had gone from being able to stretch his voice over the battlefield to a barely audible tone. The Phantom pushed back tears of despair. It had been blunt laryngeal trauma, his larynx crushed between Buquet's fist and his own cervical spine.

Was he then never to speak clearly again? Never to sing with perfect smoothness and clarity? The irony of it was too much to handle. Half of his one beauty had been ripped from him at last, and there was little left but the monster. Life was not fair! He lived to sing, to feel the music vibrating through him in a glorious, clean rhythm, no grotesque gargoyle face to sully its beauty. Music allowed him to sink within the shadows and create beauty unseen. Now he would be unseen, and unheard.

The glass of wine on the table was suddenly swiped across the room, where it hit the far wall in a crash of breaking glass. His breathing came fast and hard, forced with a wheeze up through his damaged vocal chords. He lunged up from the soft chair and dragged himself to the great organ, staring down at the mocking notes of Don Juan Triumphant. Those wonderful words he had composed to sing to her, to sway her to his side at last, would do him no good anymore. Who could love an angel who could not sing?

Tears sprang to his eyes, and he dashed the pages to the cold ground, slammed his hands down on the organ keys. The loud sound filled his ears, harsh and unforgiving, like his soul. Like my soul…do I even have a soul? Or am I just a heartless monster like everyone has said I am, hiding beneath the façade of a creature of beauty and talent? The beauty was gone, but his heart still ached with a desire to love, to be loved. A monster had been given a heart; what cruel entity could have done such a thing?

A page of his opera lay still in his hand, and he stared down at it, wanting to destroy it in a mad rage at his luck. Yet it continued to lay there in his palm. He could not do it, for a tiny flame of hope resided deep within. He had overcome the tortures of a horrible face; maybe he could manage without singing…

No, it did not seem possible. Who was he kidding? His passion lay in singing, music. At least he still had his instruments, the organ and the violin. And eventually, Christine would sing for him, and all he would have to do is listen. This thought kept him from tearing the paper into a million pieces, and slowly he laid it back on the organ. Perhaps his throat was only hoarse from the pressure; just maybe he would recover in a few days. Until then, he would play his music by hand. Play music and wreak havoc on those wretched opera hands.

He thought about going in pursuit of Christine, then decided against it; his neck hurt too badly, and she was a good girl, not just good, perfect, beautiful. She knew what he wished of her. He was certain she would obey him…fairly certain. He sighed and moved towards the coffin in the adjoining room. The morphine was kicking in and sleep sounded altogether appealing.

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Christine trembled against Raoul in the snow of the rooftop. "He could be here right now," she whispered, shuddering. "His eyes can be everywhere, you know." Drawing her limbs close in an attempt to get warm, she turned dark brown eyes on her childhood friend. The young man tossed his blond head of hair and huffed.

"Look, Christine," he beckoned to her and took her around the shoulders. "I am always going to be here for you, and I do not care what this Phantom, ghost, thing thinks." His voice was filled with scorn and contempt, and she looked up sharply.

"You do not believe that he is real, do you? Even after all this?" she shook her head in amazement. "Raoul, I have seen his face, and he frightened me. His voice though….it was like an angel was singing, so beautiful that I was trapped by it."

"Look, dear, if he is anything at all, he is a mortal man, not an angel sent by your father to guide you," Raoul sniffed. He slicked his hair back, knocking off a thin sheet of snow. The cold whipped through his thin opera coat, but he bit back a complaint nobly. "And think of that poor stagehand; how can you ignore something like that?"

"Buquet?" Christine appeared surprised, eyes widening and lips parting. Raoul found it very fetching and leaned in close to kiss her. She pulled back with a soft laugh. "The only ones who will miss Buquet have moved on to the next available man. He was a very bad influence on the girls, trying to get them off alone, and all that horrible nonsense." She blushed, "I should not speak of such things in mixed company. My apologies."

Raoul liked her straightforwardness, reminding him of her younger days when she was such a carefree bold girl. He had almost forgotten those times, and suddenly happiness spread through him like a wave of heat. She was so lovely this evening, with the snow falling around her shining hair. "Don't be," he finally said. "I enjoy the way you are. It reminds me of those old days, remember?" She nodded shyly. "Where's that wonderful young girl again?" Raoul smiled mischievously.

"I remember," she grinned, "You were such a young rooster, prancing about, especially in summertime, up at the lake house. You and Papa would have such arguments, even at your fledgling age." She smirked cheekily and went to stand by the roof's edge.

Raoul joined her with a chuckle. "Yes, and I always won."

She poked him. "And you always were the biggest braggart." Her gaze drifted away. "Then my father died so suddenly…and I was left alone. Alone to grow up in the opera house. Where were you then, Raoul?" she turned and asked him, sadness now present.

"Oh love," he whispered. "I wanted to come to you, but my father demanded my education in London. But now, now I am Viscount. We can go anywhere, together." He placed urgency in his voice and wondered how she might respond.

She sighed. "Alone in the dark, I was there, until he came. My angel of music…He taught me how to use my voice, and he would sing with that breathtaking voice of his own. It would send me soaring to the highest of heights. It was the only sound I lived for, Raoul." She turned and he saw that she was in anguish. "I lived and sang for him, because I believed he was my angel, the angel from my father. And now you tell me he is but a man who murders."

"You saw it yourself."

"Yes…Who is this man with that mask of death?" Tears fell from her eyes, making Raoul miserable. "That horrible face I saw, but for the briefest time. I saw too much, but I heard too little. That voice, Raoul. He looked at me that night, and I saw pleading there. He wanted help, though what for I cannot say." She leaned against him. "Such darkness there. My angel…"

"No angel, Christine, but a twisted man."

"A twisted man desperate for love," she countered. "What could be so evil and so beautiful all the same? What could have made him so?"

"It is not like that, my love. He is evil entirely, and you must forget him. We can leave together and tour the world." Raoul pressed her gently, but she pulled back in horror.

"Leave? I cannot! He will know and be shattered. Raoul, I cannot do that, after all he has done for me. I cannot crush him like that."

"Are you willing to risk everything for his deceit? What about us, Christine?" Raoul gritted his teeth and felt a flash of hatred for this deceiving Phantom, whoever he was. "What about our future? Together?"

"Please, Raoul…not now," she groaned, heart aching. He instantly felt like a cad, and swept her to him.

"I am sorry, my love. Please, forget him tonight, just tonight. We will take this one step at a time. No more talk of darkness, forget these wide-eyed tears, I'm here, nothing can harm you… Not even that cursed Phantom, he thought angrily, and kept singing.

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Later that evening, while the handsome young Viscount embraced his dearest friend, a letter took shape deep in the bowels of the Opera House.

Gentlemen,

I am most displeased to find that although I have extended several amiable warnings in order to avoid this disaster, you have failed to heed my words. Sending a man into the rafters after me was most unwise, and I hope through his experience you shall not try such a thing again. As for the punishment I have planned, it shall not be pleasant, not for you. I fervently desire that Box Five be left empty this coming performance.

I remain, Gentlemen,

Your most obedient servant, O.G.

The Punjab Lasso twisted back and forth between the black-gloved hands...

Well, instead of not hearing from the phantom for 6 months, it looks like the Opera House has made him mad. The fun begins in the next update. Many thanks to my reviewers, though I daresay there could be more. Again, apologies for any mistakes.

I desire more reviews (happy, constructive, etc) and hope they will be coming soon, since I have noticed 60 hits on my far-fetched tale. I remain, Gentlemen, your most obedient author, S.t.W.D

TwilightSnowStar: Thanks very much, and I'm glad you liked it so far. It's not actually the first fanfic I've done on here, though it's my darkest story I have yet. I have several accounts that I use for different categories and levels of violence, darkness, etc. We'll just have to see about poor ol' Phantom. ; )

Elphie89: I'm very glad you reviewed and liked it. I had a hard time picturing it too, so I wondered what might happen if he lost it. We'll see about permanence…

And thanks to TrisseGuTTerarT, and TwilightSnowStar for the faves and alerts.