It would be unfair of me to say that I forgot about this story. Because I haven't. It taunts me everytime I open Microsoft Word and have to do an essay for english. As well as A Memory's Phantom. I haven't forgotten about that one either. They're both being a pain in my side (a good pain, mind you, it means that I still have ideas for them) and I have decided to finish them. For good. Their endings will be up before summer finishes and my second year of college takes a hold of me. So yeah, I'm not dead (just in case some of you were wondering) and I am back. You might notice a slight change in the writing as the first half was written almost a year ago and the other half yesteday, so yea. Yay! If you don't remember what's been happening, well... go to the beginning and read again. jiji take care, God bless, and please leave a comment!

If Erik thinks he's getting an apology from me, he's sadly mistaken. That was the only thought in Christine's mind that night. All she would do was pace around in her room. My temporary room, she corrected herself.

How dare he? How could he? She thought wildly. She kicked the bed as hard as she could in frustration

Damn him! Damn Erik!

She continued to pace the room. She would forever hate him for this. She would never forgive him for this. The mere thought of him mentioning her face again made her go through the roof.

He had made her feel normal for the first time in her life. It was almost as if she wasn't disfigured after all. That she was a normal girl talking to a normal guy having a normal conversation.

The conversation they had in the music room had almost made her feel normal. She had lowered her defenses in such a way that it scared her. To think, that she met someone like Madame Giry, someone that could read her like a book. Because that was what he did. He took her fear and exposed it for her.

At first she had only looked at him, then she went raving mad. She had regretted when she pushed the cover over his hands, but was instantly relieved to see that his fingers weren't hurt.

She would have hated to rid the world of such a fine and gifted composer. She had gone after the one thing that musicians coveted, the tool that brought an instrument to life.

She closed her eyes. Not only could they do that they could caress her skin, warm her cold body, give her something that she had long been denied.

Damn you, Christine! She scolded herself. A man takes pity on you and already you are having romantic fantasies of him!

She punched the closest thing to her which happened to be the wall. She just looked at her hand as the pain shot up her arm. She bit her lip to keep from crying and took her hand back You're not invincible, Christine.

"Shit," she said as she moved her hand to make sure nothing was broken.

Why did she have to torture herself? Why did she have to torment herself with those thoughts? She wasn't being fair with herself. There was no way that dark haired beauty would notice her.

She looked at her bag next to the bed. "I don't have to put up with this."

But what of Erik? He had been so kind to her. He had given her a place to stay, food to eat and something that she had long once thought had been dead in her soul. Music.

He was probably regretting he had helped her now. He would probably kick her out first thing in the morning.

She would just be doing him a favor.

"Screw this." She put her bag on her shoulder and left through the door.

After she had spent the whole night walking through the city, only going back to her home when she felt she absolutely had to, her neighborhood was almost a welcoming sight. Despite the unwelcoming visage.

Her neighborhood was the same as ever, even in the afternoon sun. She could hear shots everywhere, but she wasn't scared, she had grown used to it. If anything, they should be afraid of her. She did have quite the reputation.

And to think, that with Erik it didn't matter. It didn't matter to him that she had been arrested, had a dark past and an even darker personality. He was willing to see past all of that and get to know the real her.

She groaned in frustration and continued to the apartment building not too far away.

The real her. Who was the real her? Who was she inside, underneath the tough exterior she had made for herself? Was she really the person that Erik saw or was she the person she had shown to everyone for so long?

Madame Giry certainly believed in her, so did Erik. But they were the only ones. No one knew her. Meg didn't know her even though she was her "best" friend.

She looked up from the floor at the apartment building. It was so different from Erik's. This was gray, dilapidated, hopeless. Like…. She was. She almost laughed. Anybody would be hurt to think of such a thing but not her, she was used to it after all.

After everyone in her life shunned her, it was only expected.

She went up the familiar stairs, tired, her boots making loud heavy booming sounds, the chains on her jeans jingling almost melancholically next to her. She couldn't wait to go to her apartment, after walking aimlessly around all night. As small as it may be, it was most welcome, especially to dismiss everything as a dream. There was no one in this world that would take pity on her.

Erik was her angel, too good to become flesh.

She opened her apartment with the key she produced from her jean pocket.

"Christine!"

Christine turned from the door abruptly. No one knew her name here.

A petite blond ran to her from her own apartment to Christine. Of course, it had to be Meg. She didn't look like herself. She still looked as skinny as a rail, she looked like she had been stretched out over her bones. Her dirty blond hair was draped over her face, evidently wet, she had just come out of the shower.

Judging from the way her face lit up with a radiant smile of hers, she wanted something.

"Hello, Marguerite," Christine said indifferent, knowing that she wanted something and she most likely wouldn't approve of it.

"I haven't seen you around," she said, still smiling. "Everything okay?"

"I've only been gone for a couple of days," she said, crossing her arms.

"I was worried," Meg said with a different tone this time. She did sound genuinely worried. "I thought that maybe you wouldn't come back."

Christine sighed and started to go into the apartment. "I always come back to Hell."

Just as she was about to close the door, Meg stopped it with her hand. "Christine, do you have any money I can borrow?"

"Borrow?" Christine asked outraged, opening the door wider. "Borrow? You never borrow money, you take it! I'm not giving you any money so you can keep shooting up on that shit. I'm not giving you anything anymore! I'm sick of your shit."

Christine began to close the door again but stopped when Meg all but threw herself at the closing door. "Christine please! Please! I beg you!"

Christine's heart didn't go out to her. She didn't feel sorry for her because she had a habit she couldn't –or wouldn't- break. She had so many chances.

"No."

She just about turned to leave but stopped when she saw Meg's face. She didn't stop because she was crying, no, it was much worse. Her eye was black and blue, it had a welt and her face looked like someone had punched her repeatedly. It looked like someone beat the shit out of her.

"Meg," Christine said, hiding her surprise. "Who did this to you?"

Meg sniffled. "It's Joe."

Christine paled, she could feel the blood freeze in her veins. Joe. No, it couldn't be.

"I've owed him money for some time now and he's come to get it."

Christine tried to swallow the lump in her throat. It couldn't be Joe. "But Joe never collects his money, his men always come and get it for him."

She tried to remain calm in front of Meg, she couldn't show her fear.

"But he said that this time was different. It's special. He wants to come himself. I-I don't know why. Christine, what do I do?"

Christine walked out of her apartment and took Meg by the hand, dragging her to the stairs. "We're getting the fuck out of here."

They almost made it.

Almost.

As soon as they turned the corner to the stairs, Christine froze.

She couldn't move, couldn't think. He was there. Her nightmare became real, it had taken corporeal form and it was in the two men in front of her.

Raoul de Chagny and Joseph Buquet.

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