This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.
It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.
Disclaimer—This story is the property of Jordan A. Masters and may not be reproduced in any way, shape, or form without express written permission of Jordan A. Masters, which can be obtained through email. It has not been posted for gain or profit. Some of the characters have been borrowed from Andrew Lloyd Webber's play and movie, The Phantom of the Opera, and I do not own these borrowed characters. Also, some lyrics have been borrowed from Webber's play, with slight modifications—I do not own these lyrics, even though I have modified them.
New York City, NY, USA—May 16, 2032
Kit—7:30 AM
It was misty and dark. I couldn't see more than a foot in front of me. But I could hear him calling me—I needed to get to him. It would be all right if I could just see him.
"Kitten…"
The second his voice sounded clearly, the mist cleared. Now I could see him. He was locked in a cage, his heaving back facing me. In front of the cage was a throng of people; they were laughing, pointing, throwing things at him—he reached out toward a rotten apple core. His fingers were dirty, his nails broken and bleeding. His back heaved; I watched a tear glide down his cheek. It paused for a moment at the tip of his nose, unsure whether or not to drop into the straw beneath. In the crowd, a face seemed suddenly familiar; a woman, staring at him as though he were to be pitied. She almost looked like Meg—but I knew it couldn't be. I turned away.
"Kitten…help me…"
I walked forward again, through more mist—when it cleared, I saw him again. Now in full Phantom attire, he stood in his lair underneath the Opéra Populaire, Christine Daaé by his side. She was singing—I nearly covered my ears. How on Earth he'd found her voice glorious was beyond me—but luckily, the sound muted before I could reach up to my head. I watched him turn toward me, his masked face staring straight at me.
"Kitten…" It was more deliberate now…stronger… "Help me. Please …"
I turned away and was immediately met with another view. He was now laying on a bed—our bed in New York. His face was intact; no hint of deformity. I was clutching his hand in my own. There were words, but I couldn't understand them. He reached up and laid his hand on my cheek, then took my free hand and brought it up to hover above his chest.
There was a knife in it. He smiled, and I saw his mouth move, but no sound. Another voice—deeper, not his—was heard. "…by your hand…" As the words echoed through the scene, I watched helplessly as my disembodied hand plunged the knife through Erik's heart.
I sat up in bed, shaking, sweat pouring off me. A dream. Only a dream.
I looked over at his pillow and put my head down on it. Even after four years, it still smelled faintly of him. Clutching it to me as I sat up, I cried hard.
"I killed him. I…killed him… I let him die…"