Hello everyone! I was struck with an idea for a new story. It's very loosely based off of the movie City of Angels-only in the sense that Erik is dead and he wants Christine to notice him-otherwise everything else I'm trying to create as I go. As usual, I do not own Phantom or its characters. Disclaimer-there is mention of suicide in this story, so please read with caution. If you are having suicidal thoughts, please seek help.

"Piangi! I told you to bring Bella's toys today, did I not!?" shouted the half dressed diva from her vanity chair. Her small white poodle stood on the table before her, sniffing around at all of her mistress's smelly products she used on her hair and face, ignoring the screeching from the woman behind her.

"I know I told you to grab it before we left!" she continued, turning to glare at the groveling, overweight man in his ill-fitting suit.

"I'm sorry, my dear, I couldn't find Bella's toy bag. Perhaps you left it in another room?"

"I did no such thing, you worm! This is your fault, and now she's getting into my things because she doesn't have her own. You did this on purpose." she whined, grabbing the dog and moving from the vanity to the sofa in her dressing room.

"My love, I would never. There's a pet shop a few minutes from here; I'll go get her some chew toys."

The woman batted her eyes at her husband.

"Yes. She'd like that." she said, "Be back in time for my rehearsal."

He nodded, like the whipped husband he was, and quickly exited the room. The woman held up the dog in front of her face.

"Your papa is the stupidest man alive."

Outside the dressing room, in the hallway, he roamed in and out of dressing rooms and prop rooms, only bothering to use the door when he wanted to get a good scream out of people. There weren't too many people left at the Met; he had run a lot of people off and the managers were having a difficult time getting new hires to stay.

Because of him. The Lincoln Center Ghost.

Mainly, he stuck to the Met, his former love, but he knew many people throughout the complex and sometimes needed to venture out to other areas when the boredom became too great to bear. Today, he found himself back at the Met during dress rehearsal for Faust. That disgusting woman had returned to play the lead, and he didn't need to be near her dressing room in order to hear her screeching and bellowing. Carla was the most spoiled, vain, narcissistic woman he'd ever encountered, living or dead, and he longed for the day when he could silence her for good. Surely her husband would appreciate it, at least in the long run.

He glided through the rows of red chairs, watching as the staff prepared the building for the upcoming performance in three days; dusting off the seats, steam cleaning the carpets, and finishing the set designs on the stage. It would be so easy for him to materialize in front of any one of these people, and cause chaos, but he wouldn't do that at this point in time. It would jeopardize the opening of the show; stories of a ghost appearing out of nowhere and scaring the staff and actors would more than likely cause the show to be cancelled, and he was in desperate need of hearing music again. Even though that wretched woman was playing the lead, he'd suffer through it. Her lines were minimal, despite being the lead, and the chorus was decent enough to drown her out. Music was more important than everything that irritated him about this place, or more specifically, the people in it; he was willing to suffer their idiocies.

The place hadn't changed at all since he had been hauled out on a stretcher four years earlier. The janitors had found him hanging in the rafters above the stage, with a note attached to his shirt. He explained his reasons for ending his pathetic excuse of a life, and as his body was wheeled away, the note was pocketed by one of the managers of the Met, Margaret Giry. She had been the only person to show him some semblance of kindness, and despite her outward appearance of poise and stern silence, inside she took it hard; like the loss of a brother.

Unfortunately, for him, his death did not give him the peaceful rest he was hoping it would. The first time he'd realized that he was an apparition, was when he stood by Mrs. Giry on the stage of the Met after police had cut him down, and she identified him to the officers. He'd looked down at his own body, and knew something hadn't worked right. He shouldn't be back; he didn't want to be back. But he was. And he was stuck.

It was only after months of existing as a ghost, that he realized there was nothing he could do about his situation; he would roam the earth until it's ultimate demise and then, who knew? To make the most of his new limbo state, he decided to pay visits to the people he believed drove him to death; the ones who, day in and day out, hurled insults at him, made threats toward him, and even beat up on a few occasions, and return their kindness. Most of those people had since left, leaving him very few options apart from Mrs. Giry and her daughter, and the awful soprano and her husband.

It just figured. He ended one hell, just to be trapped inside another one. That was his fate. He'd never known real kindness as a living man. Growing up as an unwanted bastard on the streets of New York was a hell of another kind for him. The only comfort he found was in listening to music of street musicians, or sneaking into St. Patrick's Cathedral to hear the loud, mournful singing from the choir. Music soothed him; in it was all of the things he'd wanted as a living person, but never found; love, acceptance, longing, desire, and above all peace. It was pure luck that got him a job working on set designs at Lincoln Center. One of the priests at St. Patrick's had connections to Mrs. Giry and recommended him. He knew it was out of pity, but still, to work at the Met was a big deal for him.

He was broken out of his reverie when two chorus girls came into the theater, with their bags slung over their shoulders, ready for rehearsal.

"Apparently she's really good," said the blonde girl, tossing her hair back, "Like, better than Carla."

"Uh-oh" said the red head beside her, "That won't sit well with our Prima Donna."

"Poor girl isn't even here yet and I already feel bad for her."

"She won't last; Carla will see to that."

He watched them go through the doors leading backstage, deep in thought.

"A new girl, hmm? Well, it's about time we had some fresh meat."