Finale

Christine… my heart.

She was so beautiful, so fragile, and mine.

And then it all crumbled that day.

"Is something the matter, Philippe?"

Philippe looked up from the little notebook. His lovely wife Angelica was placing a tray of tea and biscuits before him, and her brown eyes were filled with concern.

"Thank you, Angelica. It's nothing really," he sighed as his wife sat down next to him. Her bulging belly nudged against his, and he could feel a gentle kick against his rib. "I just can never understand why my father would go such lengths to be with my mother…"

xxxx

"No. No. No, no, no." Christine's voice began as a soft whimper, getting louder and louder with each denial. " How did I not notice? How did I not notice? How did I not notice?" his mother had let out a hysterical crackle, one that Philippe-even though he was on the other side of the door- had never heard before, and hoped he would never have to hear again. "You are not Raoul de Chagny! You are him! You are him! You are him!" He could hear sounds of frustrated pounding. "Where is he? Where is Raoul? You know, you know! Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?!"

Philippe never saw his mother again after that. His father prepared for her a concoction to ease her nerves, but she never fully recovered. From that point on, she could not even look at her own son without bursting into tears. She died lonely and alone on her bed less than six months afterward. According to the doctors who conducted the autopsy, it was due to heart failure.

His father never got over the loss of her either. He gradually turned to drinking, and whether it was a side effect or not, but his face began to deteriorate as well. No less than a month after her death, and he looked as gaunt as the Phantom of the Opera himself.

He still tried to spend as much time with Philippe as much as possible, but Philippe always found his father smiling sadly at him every single time. And Philippe, knowing that his father was not who he claimed to be based on his mother's reaction, was always on guard for the worst.

He also finally began to realize that in the entire de Chagny mansion, there was not a single portrait of a de Chagny with golden eyes or curly hair. Even more curious, he had never met any of his supposed grandparents, even though the dates told him they would have only been in their early 60s in the late 1880s.

"You know," Raoul mused one day, while running his gloved hand through Philippe's curly hair-Christine's trait-, "you are a dead giveaway that you are the child of your mother and I. Your hair, your freckles, your intellect, your eyes…"

"Get your hand off of me," Philippe harshly demanded with an unusual cold voice, swatting away the hand. "Leave me alone, you imposter."

Reluctantly, Raoul retracted his hand and eyed his golden child sadly. He got up and returned to his study for another swig of wine. Following that, Philippe became more determined than ever to expose his father's true identity. And judging from his mother's reaction at the time, he needn't try too hard.

According to his mother's close friend, Meg Giry-Trouville, the Phantom was an intimidating figure, with a height comparable to Raoul's. This, of course, was all based on what Christine had confided to her so long ago. But what Mde. Trouville did recall distinctly from her own memory, however, was a pair of golden eyes in the darkness that shone before some mischief around the opera house occurred. However, she was but a ballet dancer, and no one ever believed in what she said.

"Now that I think about it, you look somewhat like the Phantom," she remarked on the street one day, when Philippe was old enough to finally set foot alone into the world. "With your golden eyes and tall physique."

That was enough for Philippe to finally confront his father, who was on his deathbed by that time.

"Father."

"Phi… Philippe?" the old man coughed violently, releasing a splatter of blood onto his white dress shirt. "Is… is that really you?"

"Yes." Philippe's voice betrayed no warm feeling. This man was not to be trusted, after all.

"My… my golden child. My redemption…" He raised his bloodied arm toward his child, who was still standing at the doorway. Philippe had not taken a single step into the room.

"Cut the act, old man."

"Bu-" more violent coughs ensued. "But you are my son, Philippe." Another cough. "I do not lie when I say that." He rolled his head to one side of the pillow., his voice hoarse but still conveying strong emotion. "You will not believe me now. Maybe I have gone past redemption."

"You really are the Phantom of the Opera, aren't you?" he said, as he finally strolled into the room and sat down on a chair next to the frail man's bed.

Raoul smiled weakly. "What? Me? Preposterous…" he pointed at the journal beside his bedside. "This should answer all of your questions, my son."

Philippe took the journal, noting that it was black with a golden emblem of a rose stamped in front. Looking back at the man who was his father, he muttered, "thank you, father."

Raoul lifted his skeleton-like hand shakily, reaching out to touch Philippe's cheek one last time. Despite his long hands, he failed to reach his target. And Philippe did not respond.

"My son," he breathed, his eyes meeting Philippe's. Philippe noted that the eyes that reflected back at him were his very own golden ones. The old man's breath was getting more and more shallow. "My son, my saviour…"

Philippe finally moved his head closer to the bed, allowing the man to finally touch him. The man's eyes were steadily closing.

"Erik's proof… My son… farewell."

Raoul de Chagny was dead.

xxxx

Yet Philippe would not touch the journal for nearly a five years. With his father dead and buried without an autopsy-per his father's request- he instead spent his time trying to court Angelica. In 1910, at age 25, he finally succeeded, and happily married her the same year.

Now, he was expecting his first child. A son, that was what his father predicted long ago. Angelica was due to give birth anytime this week, and he finally decided that now was the time to delve into the past once more. The five years to the day his father died.

There was just one entry.

xxxx

Philippe, remember when I told you that I would do anything for your mother?

I captured Raoul de Chagny that fateful night, far long ago. He was so young, so inexperienced. I felt almost sorry for him, but I had to. If I was to win your mother, he was to be the key to my victory.

A cover. That was what I needed. Flesh to cover all that she thinks is ugly. His face was so smooth, so flawless. I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. A knife. That was all I needed to distort it permanently. Flesh to actually mold into a synthetic, rubbery mask of my creation to cover what I lack. It took many months, but I finally perfected it that night. Attached by thin threads, she would hardly notice. As long as I carefully maintained the mask using oils, the mask would not disintegrate. Locks of blonde hair from his head to form a wig, which concealed most of the threads of my mask, as well as most of .

His teeth were also so perfect. Thankfully, I didn't have to take them for myself. A nice set of false teeth, using his teeth as the ideal design and mold, worked just fine. But unfortunately, the poor fop had to lose his most of his. He squirmed as I cut chunks of his teeth away, so he looked poor and untrustworthy. And also his voice. A concotion from Persia served to permanently damage his vocal cords, making him unrecognizable.

He whimpered so pathetically in chains, moaning for Christine. But she will not hear his voice, his calls. The food that I had left your mother was laced with a sleeping draught from India; she fell into a deep sleep, from which nothing can awaken her until the draught's effect fades.

His eyes, a most curious baby blue. Mine, a glowing gold. Two strikingly different colors, but glass lens did the trick. I had obtained some design sketches from Adolf Fick, a talented Swiss man, and personally made my own custom pair, tinted to the exact same shade as his. These lens were clearly one step ahead of its time, for they are perfect. Excruciatingly painful, yes, but the result is what counts. Your mother did not know.

The poor fool, he was so predictable. He really thought I was spying on him all this time. How unfortunate that his hunches were right; he certainly was not a good sharpshooter though. What tricks a couple of drops of red ink can play on his cocky young mind! Little did he know that I watched his every move, studying his very action, starting to mimic his voice…

It was because of this that I could fully replace him. He, being a noblesman, needed not to flaunt his skin before the public. His custom-made gloves served to hide my hands excellently. And yet, because no one had ever seen me in my full glory, it became possible for the real Raoul de Chagny to become the face of the Phantom. Not even Christine Daae, for I had taken her captive fully masked! For Raoul the Chagny, it is his face on display in the museum. A face I maimed so that I may walk away scot-free.

Dispatching the rest of his family was not hard. His brother Philippe was an unnecessary death, for he had fallen into one of my traps while I was busy luring the Daroga and Raoul into the heated chamber. His parents, your supposed grandparents? It also did not take long for me to spike their nightly medication with chloral hydrate and lock them within their own room. The police officially wrote it down as overdosage, and I was left alone with just your mother.

Your mother never knew, couldn't have known! She was too happy really, to be rid of your 'grandparents', for they had never treated her with respect in any way. Of course, she was the primary suspect prior to the final reports, but I made sure to point out that the keys to the room were, funnily enough, in their room and not Christine's. The locks required keys on both ends to open; thus, it surely must've been impossible for her to have murdered them!

Christine, Christine. She was so naive, so ignorant. She had eyes only for the glass lens I wore, and that was how she recognized me. She had never seen me undressed; the night we conceived you was pitch black. She did not know that she had eternally bound herself to me.

The events leading up to your birth were not happy. They were rather the darkest times when your mother and I were together. I? I feared that you would be born and bear my ugly sin. I tried to convince your mother to abort you, saying that it might be too soon for her to conceive a child. She steadfastedly refused, and may have even had a slight hint for who I was. I disappeared for days without end wallowing in despair, until I finally decided that you would be born; however, had you turned out as ugly as I was, I would end your life so you would not suffer mine, and let your mother believe you died prematurely. But fortunately, that was not the case. You were, and still are, a golden child, one your mother and I always dreamt of having. When I held you in my arms for the first time, it was then that I resolved to be a father that you would be able to look up to without any shame.

Life turned for the better. I realized that the de Chagny estate was quickly losing value even before my, shall we say 'intrusion'. They were not very good employers, they certainly had no clue in terms of investing money or pleasing the class below them. Christine and I saw this every day, as we strolled through the gardens of the mansion and paid monthly visits to our investments. We were both all too heavily reminded of our poor pasts. I particularly was much shaken up, and it was on that first day of normalcy that I vowed that I would do everything I could to help Paris thrive. And thrive, Paris did.

And Philippe, you know the rest. You, your mother, and the rest of society lived unaware that I remained alive. I, the supposed Phantom of the Opera! Even now, that name has become bitter to my mouth. That day, your mother finally realized who I was. And now, it is all but a distant past.

Philippe, I know that you may want to forget me after reading this, but I beg you to consider all that I have been through. Torture, abuse, deprival of freedom to even walk out in the sun, living in constant fear. Fear of being caught, fear of being exploited. It is a very hard picture for me to try and paint for you, for I am sure that future society would certainly do something against all that I had suffered in my youth.

Philippe, my son. Don't forgive me for what I've done, if that is what you wish. But still, it is because of you that I changed for the better.

Your loving father,

Erik.

xxxx

"Philippe? What would you name our child when he or she is born?"

"Hmm?" he turned around, wiping a tear away from his eye.

"Oh Philippe." his wife patted his shoulder soothingly. "I know that the journal must have been-"

"Oh no. My father… I never knew. But this gives me peace. It probably gave him peace too, the day he died." He looked at a vase of roses by the windowsill, frozen by the winter chill and instead illuminated by the moonlit sky.

"Yes, I think so too."

The pair watched the vase of roses until the moonlight finally vanished behind a storm of clouds.

"You know," Philippe turned to face his wife. "I was thinking Erik Louis."