All the Point of View - Chapters 9-12

Author's Notes: Er, well, this one still uses quotes. . . but not as heavily as the previous chapters. I was done with chapters 1-7 when I posted 1-3, so I didn't want to change the others. This part also includes a chapter in which we don't see any other characters but Erik. Sorry if he's a little OOC, but I suppose his thoughts reflect my own a bit, as well as my personality. The scene where Erik comes out of behind the gravestone - even my very-creative-active-24/7 imagination couldn't think of words to sum it up. But I did change things a bit there, hehehehe, but I believe Erik's OOC a bit there.

Chapter 9
Reunited at the Grave

I followed her all the way to the graveyard in Perros. So this was where she was going. . . .

She looked around, then stopped on a headstone in the shape of a cross. As if being drawn to it, she walked toward it, trance-like.

Daddy. . . . she whispered quietly as she knelt by the stone. I tiptoed toward it as to hear the rest of what she was saying.

You were once. . . my companion. . . you were all I cared about. Well, that remained true until the Vicomte came around. . . . Then—then you were gone. . . .

One of my talents is slinking about unseen, and that talent came in very handy as I found a way to slip behind the stone and hide.

I still think about you every day, she continued softly. But dreaming of you. . . doesn't help me much, daddy. She turned away. You said I could do so much, yet I feel so helpless. . . . She let off a depressed sigh.

But you kept your promise. She spun back around and faced the stone. You sent me the Angel of Music. He taught me how to sing, daddy, he has a voice like no other man! . . . . But his face . . . .

I had been praying she wouldn't mention that.

He was so ugly, daddy! He wore a mask. . . and I wanted to know what was behind it. Daddy, it's as if he had everything a man could ever want and chose to pay for it with a deformed face. . . .

Ah, perhaps! And perhaps I was just born that way. Perhaps it led to a lifelong curse. Perhaps it meant that I would be hated for eternity - even by my own mother - because I had made the mistake of paying for it with my face.

Daddy, I've been thinking about you so much. I don't know how to stop. . . . this isn't helping me become what you believed I could be. I'm trying so hard - but I just can't do it.

Daddy, help me. . . help me say goodbye.

That was my cue. What to say, what to say. . . . I chose a tune that was particularly sweet and hypnotic, but I wasn't sure what to say to her. Something that could bring her back. I opened my mouth and sang. Wandering child - so lost, so helpless. . . .

Her eyes widened in disbelief.

Yearning for my guidance. . . .

Angel? Father? Friend or ghost? she asked breathlessly as I stepped out from behind the cross.

Have you forgotten your Angel? I asked quietly.

Angel - speak! she squealed in delight. She did not say more, but her blue eyes said her every thought.

She was in a trance again, slowly approaching the gravestone - and myself.

Too long you've wandered in winter. . . . I began, but a faint motion far behind her drew my attention.

It was the Vicomte.

Christine drew closer to me.

I froze, stopping my song completely and staring at Raoul.

Angel . . . ?

The silence continued. Vicomte, please get away from my Christine.

Angel, speak. . . .

Jealous. Envy.

I tried to grant Christine's wish, but I couldn't move - my sudden freezing up had nothing to do with the chill in the air.

Christine is returning to the Angel. . . . came the nearly silent voice of the patron.

Angel of Music, guide and guardian. . . . Christine walked slightly nearer and I finally came to my senses.

Angel of Music! I echoed. You've denied me!

Luring her back! the Vicomte snarled. From the grave, of all places!

I denied you, Angel!

Do not shun me, Christine!

My protector!

Who are you, Angel? asked the Vicomte (once again, asking thin air) as he stared at Christine walk closer every second.

Come to me, strange Angel! Christine was fairly pleading.

I am your angel of music. What deception. Come to your angel of music.

The viscount sprang forth, beginning in our direction. I grew uneasy with the Vicomte being within fifty feet of me.

began the viscount, believe me, this man - this thing - is not your father. He is just a man! Believe me, Christine! Please come back!

Christine came out of her trance about then. Oh, Raoul! she exclaimed, hurrying to him and throwing herself into his arms. I winced. They didn't seem to notice.

Jealous. Envy.

I clenched my fist. Bravo, monsieur! I hissed at Raoul.

Christine suddenly was aware of something other than her lover, looking back up to me. I hadn't one thought of softness toward her as I looked at her, cuddling with the Vicomte de Chagny.

Such spirited words! I continued, searching for words that were as spirited' and twice as offending.

Raoul released Christine and began walking toward me. The Punjab lasso was in my pocket. . . . Let's see, monsieur, how far you dare go!

More tricks! he growled.

I'm here, monsieur! Keep walking! Come on, come on! I instructed him mockingly.

Christine stepped forward, and Raoul instructed her to stay back.

I'm here, monsieur, the angel of death! Come on, keep coming this way!

More deception!

Oh. . . that one hurt.

More violence! he added, glaring at the skulls lying around his feet. Those had nothing to do with me. . . .

If you don't leave Christine alone, yes, it will be quite violent! I pictured strangling him with my bare hands. Why use the Punjab lasso? It would be much more fun without the rope. . . .

Raoul, no! urged Christine, grabbing hold of his arm.

Stay back! he spat at her.

Come on, come on, monsieur, don't stop, don't stop! I commanded. Keep walking this way! Come on, monsieur! I paused. Unless you're afraid. . . .

He said nothing, but kept walking. (I'm sure I saw him tremble a bit.)

Raoul, come back! Christine was begging now.

He and I both ignored her. I'm here, monsieur!

Christine tugged at him and he finally turned, but kept a threatening glance in my direction.

I growled. So be it! Now let it be war upon you both! I was steaming, watching as, once again, Christine grew further and further from my reach.

Chapter 10
Time to Myself

It had been a hard night. Sleep seemed to dislike me as much as I disliked the viscount. I awoke several times, each time with some new nightmare to torment me later. I could not compose this time, either - there was nothing to write into, nothing to write. . . .

It struck me sometime in the morning that I was starving. I hadn't eaten for a week now. I wondered why I never seemed to get any thinner.

I stepped out of the boat on the other side of the lake after leaving the house that morning. It was particularly cold - I guessed in the low twenties - and I shivered, especially when I noticed the familiar figure waiting for me on the other side of the dock.

The daroga liked to wait and watch me for some strange reason. He liked to meddle in my affairs. Why? I wondered constantly. I'm not so worthy of anyone's attention. Besides, daroga seems to do nothing but bother me.

What, may I ask, are you doing here this morning? I mumbled.

Warning you again. Don't kill him.



Don't play stupid.

I put the most mocking look of shock I could on my face, heavy with sarcasm. Well, daroga, I think you should stay out of my affairs.

He stepped forward and glanced up at me. If you do something drastic. . . .

I'll not, daroga - now, if you please, I'd like some time to myself, without you at my heels.

Where are you going, anyway? he asked curiously.

I'm going out to rid myself of a few tortures.

That was true, and yet it left so many possibilities for him to consider I would do. I hurried away before he could say anything more. He tried calling out, but I failed to hear (on purpose, of course).

I despised large groups of people, and I was thankful I had set out early. It had just begun to grow light when I returned, taking a cut through the torture-chamber so I would not have to face the daroga again this morning.

Many wonder what the Opera Ghost does in his spare time. The answer is, unlike many would suspect, draws. He composes when he feels inspiration, or he has something to write into. . . which has always been true for the past years, more than twenty, when Don Juan Triumphant was still a work in progress. . . but that was past, and I needed something to do now after I finished my meal and stored the rest of my food in a cupboard.

There weren't many writing instruments other than my blood-red pen, which I didn't wish to use until I was adding the bloody details of the Vicomte's corpse when I was finished with the picture. I finally located a black pen and began to draw.

The picture started wonderfully. I put every detail I could recall of Christine on that paper - which was every single detail of her - and then I shaded the masterpiece. Some have said I settle for nothing less than perfection when I can have the best, and one could not disagree. It was a perfect picture of her in black and white.

I debated whether or not to add myself in the picture. A self portrait has never been something I wished to draw; my ugliness was not to be put on paper - even with the mask on. But Christine was smiling lovingly in the picture in one direction, and I certainly wasn't going to draw her smiling at the Vicomte - and if she chose to go, I'd always have a beautiful picture of her smiling at me, even if it was a fake recreation of her I'd drawn in more of my wishful thinking, but such a man as I has every right to want something of the sort. Then of course there was room enough in the corner to draw a dead man and I had that bloody red pen to add the last remnants of life in a murdered corpse to the picture.

I put down my picture, unsure what to add next, or wondering if I should just leave it as it was. But I did feel like singing would lift my spirits a little, so I sat to write a song to sing.

I came up with a song that would never reach anyone's ears but mine, describing in one song my feelings of the whole cursed affair of Christine and the Vicomte.

When the sun meets horizon,
and the angel becomes aglow,
the angel hears an opera run,
yet he stays in tearful sorrow.

The yellow and purple sky
seems to fade and turn to green;
the angel's sorrow builds, but why?
Jealous of everything he's seen. . . .

It began that way, and dissatisfied as I was, it was true. The sun was setting, the angel statue began to glow with the bright sun's last extravagant beams, and despite Il Muto interrupted beneath me, it was running; and tearful sorrow had indeed overtaken me.

The golden rose, the perfect flower -
hand in hand with the rich beast.
Even more comes with each hour,
it has long been and hasn't ceased.

Darkness threatens to take him away,
as he sits there and watches the world.
Tears threaten to overcome his work and play,
as he deals with what he has unfurled.

In essence I had done it when I had deceived Christine. I had begun the series of problems rolling themselves out on the table, and I'd not taken the time to work each one out and put it away.

I sighed and looked at my song. Messy handwriting - true and depressing lyrics - and no music yet.

I glared at the organ sitting a few feet away. I didn't know whether this song deserved music; it was hardly my best work, and the tune would have to fit the song's mood, and I dislike sad songs.

I rose, walked quickly to it, sat down, and began to play, hoping to come up with something soon.

Chapter 11
Play-time

I was brimming with energy this evening, wildly excited, in the column of my box. Tonight was the premiere of Don Juan Triumphant and I had a tremendous desire to hear Christine - yes, that cursed traitor - sing. I also had a tremendous desire to sing with her, since she would not do that willingly nowadays.

My gaze fell upon the small group of people conversing on the main floor. Raoul - arr - as well as the managers and a few other men, including a few firemen and marksmen.

So you know what you're to do? Raoul ran a hand up the barrel of a pistol in his hands before handing it to the man he was speaking to.

Yes, monsieur, the man replied with a nod. Wait till I hear his signal, then fire. . . .

When you fire, shoot to kill. Raoul's voice was icy, yet as sickeningly smooth as the gun he had just handed away.

How will I know when to fire?

Believe me, monsieur, you'll know, Raoul assured him. Be ready. He turned. You, monsieur - yes, you in the pit - do you have a view of this area?

Perfect view, said another man, raising his head to be seen.

Good. Now, the doors. André?

André lifted his head and nodded at the viscount of Chagny. The doors, messieurs? he called.

The north door is secure! shouted a fireman.

Each door was called off by a fireman as secure, and then Raoul returned to the managers to make any other arrangements for my death.

So, the doors are secure, he began, and we have marksmen to make certain our Phantom friend will not disappear this time. As for any other—

I'm here: the Phantom of the Opera.

I had to try my hardest to restrain the maniacal laughter I was sure would follow if I wasn't careful. My technique as a ventriloquist was certainly fun to use at times.

All eyes turned to the northwest end of the theatre.

I'm here: the Phantom of the Opera!

My voice was louder this time, and from somewhere else.

I'm here, messieurs! The Phantom of the Opera!

I kept changing the location of my voice until finally it landed in my box. I'm here: the Phantom of the Opera!

In the confusion, one of the marksmen - the one to whom the viscount had handed the gun - fired, striking the door of the box.

You idiot! Raoul fairly yelled at him, rounding on him. He cowered in fear. You'll kill someone! I told you only to shoot when the signal came!

But Monsiuer le Vicomte—

No I ordered, furious with their argument over my death. For once— I put emphasis on once, Monsieur le Vicomte is right.

Seal my fate tonight, I continued. I hate to have cut the fun short, but the joke's wearing thin. . . . let the audience in - let my opera begin!

The managers, in a frightened rage, had no choice but to hurry and let in the audience.


The time was coming close. The opera had been wonderful, though Piangi and Carlotta performed like two schoolchildren just beginning drama class. But Piangi's time was up. He sang his last few lines with Passarino,' and walked easily backstage, where he had his last breath. I tightened the Punjab lasso quickly and left it on him for a moment while I stole his costume. I took care to put the hood on over my face, then I took the Punjab lasso and placed it in my pocket and tiptoed onstage.



I scowled underneath my hood and my mask. I'd completely forgotten this part.

Passarino - go away, for the trap is set and waits for its prey. . . .

He scampered offstage, and I walked slowly towards Christine. She was holding an apple, sitting on a bench. . . at a table set for two. . . .

I sat.

You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge - in pursuit of that wish which, till now, has been silent. . . silent. . . .

I proceeded with my song in my opera. Christine grew increasingly tense and wary with every movement I made. I could tell she was disgusted with singing a few of her lines to me by the look in her eye. She'd much rather sing them to the boy, I knew that much.

I chose to ignore that best I could, and attempted to dodge Christine's wild attempts to throw back my hood.

At last we sung together at the end of the song. The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn - we've passed the point of no return. . . .

Then she flipped back my hood and I stared into her face. What to say now. . . I searched for words and could come up with nothing except a few stutters.



She stared back at me, her eyes seeming to say, Oh, the horror! Mine were responding, I honestly do not care what you think, Christine. I love you.

she asked softly, not stopping to think about the audience. They were witnessing the first ever performance of Don Juan Triumphant, with its own brilliant love scene ending.

Please - say you don't hate me. Say you want to be with me, say you like me - say - say— I had to stop. I choked.

She stared bitterly at first, then with a growing softness I could feel. Ahhhh. . . so she was yet another one fallen prey to pity.

I regained my strength moments later. My gaze fell on the ring on my finger and I pulled it off. Say you love me, Christine, I began, handing her the ring, that's all I ask of—

Christine had slipped the ring on her finger, and then she cut me off by yanking my mask off my face. Out of the corner of my eye, I had seen Raoul's horrified and disgusted expression. The Parisians stared. I swept my cloak around us and opened a trapdoor beneath us. Mist from below swirled onto stage at the force I used to shut the trapdoor.

Chapter 12
The Point of No Return

Come, Christine! Come! I snarled, shoving her into the boat and jumping in after her. I seized the pole and pushed on the dock, setting out, and then began to propell us forward. Do you like me? Say you do! I know you do, Christine!

I could see the fear in her eyes at my rough attitude, but I couldn't care then. I continued.

But of course, you're hurting yourself, forcing yourself to stare at my hideous face - perhaps you didn't know. . . .

I rounded on her. That my own mother hated me for it, I was carried around in a freak show for it, and my whole world feared and loathed me for it!

She cringed. I had not realised I was mere inches away from her now, still yelling at her. I backed up a bit.

I'm sorry, Christine, have I hurt your ears? I fear I was not quite paying attention. I paused. What matter? You were not paying attention, either. . . .

Yes, I was, she replied quietly.

Oh, were you? How nice of you.

We bumped into the other shore, and I reached for her hand. She reluctantly grasped it, pulling herself out, knowing that if she did not do it herself I'd have to for her. She apparently knew the consequences of disobeying me.

Here we are, Christine! Isn't it beautiful? I lit the candles tonight - I didn't think you would like the darkness. I'm rather sad to see it go, though - after all, darkness is my best friend'. . . .

Terrified, she glared at me in shock and disbelief. I smiled grimly.

H-How did you know I said that? she asked.

My dear, perhaps you forget I am the infamous Opera Ghost, who resides in Box Five and has never been seen, who has slipped behind a headstone before your very eyes unnoticed. Have you a single doubt how I managed to climb onto Apollo without your knowing it? I grinned at her a smile meant only to torment her further. How evil of me. . . .

She was at a loss for words. Oh. . . . came her sad reply after a minute or so of silence.

I laughed darkly. Presently, Christine, we shall enjoy an eternity together. You have unmasked me twice now, and I daresay that's enough times for me to permit. I sauntered over to the image of Christine and took the veil from its head. I added, placing it on her head, I dislike pity.

She stared into my wicked face, swallowing her terror - or at least trying.

So, Christine - are you ready to face the fact that because of your foolish decision, you'll have to live with this— I paused and pointed to my face. —this before your eyes?

Believe me, this sight is not such a horror for me now. . . she began, staring. But your heart must be as cold as your hands. . . .

She was only inches away. I glared back into her face, coolly and not lovingly in the slightest - even if I did love the girl more than life itself. (One leading a life such as mine could easily love her more than life itself.)

Wait, Christine, I said quickly, sensing Raoul's presence behind me. I think, my dear, we have a guest. . . .

I turned to face him, making sure he was thoroughly afraid of my corpse-like appearance before continuing. Good evening, monsieur! So kind of you to show up. I was hoping you'd attend tonight.

Christine's face lit up when she saw her love and her saviour' show up. I gave her a sharp glance, then turned back to face my guest.

Free her! Raoul ordered, behind the portcullis, gripping the bars. I don't care - just do what you want - but free her!

What a wonderful greeting from your fiancée, Christine! I muttered dryly.

Please, Raoul! Christine begged. It's useless. . . .

I love her! said the Vicomte, going on. Does that mean nothing?

I replied shortly.

Christine scowled. I smiled at her.

Show some compassion. . . . he pled.

The world showed no compassion to me! I growled.

Christine, Christine - let me see her!

Of course, monsieur. I gestured. The fence rose, and Raoul hurried in.

Christine stood up to run to him, but I blocked her path. Monsieur, welcome to my home! Before I show you around, perhaps you'd be so kind as to answer my question. Did you really believe I would harm Christine?

He opened his mouth to speak. I stopped him. Why should I make her suffer your fate, for your sins?

I smiled evilly at Christine, pulling the Punjab lasso from my pocket and tossing the noose around his neck.

I laughed triumphantly. Were you expecting that, monsieur? Did I not warn you enough? I turned to Christine. So saying, my dear - perhaps now you shall see exactly the consequences of your past decisions. But I do leave you a choice.

I pointed at Raoul. His life is held right now in my hands. I lowered my hand and continued. Do you still want to marry him, with the knowledge that if you say yes, you will be a widow before you even utter the two words I do'?

Tears clung to her frightened blue eyes. I may have pitied you for your own fate. . . but I can't seem to feel anything but hate. . . .

At least it is not pity! I was quite aware I was losing my temper. I hate pity! Much like you hate me! Why? Why, Christine? Did you like me before you unmasked me?

Raoul was witnessing all this in shock, trying to free himself from the magical noose wrapped around his neck. He'd never free himself.

Now, here is your choice: do you choose the wedding or the funeral, Christine? Live with me! We shall share a splendid eternity down here in the depths of the theatre, coming around to every opera, performing for a public. . . of course, your other option, your refusal. . . murder your beloved Raoul. . . .

She looked over at him sadly.

Oh, Christine, forgive me, he said softly. I did it all for you. . . and all for nothing.

I snorted.

Farewell - my so-called friend and angel, Christine was saying.

She feels pity!

Christine, say no! Raoul urged. Don't throw your life away to save me.

Throw her life away? I repeated bitterly. I presume refusing me even the only joy in my life is not throwing my life away?

They only looked at me, both at a loss for words.

Raoul said despairingly.

Raoul. . . .

You try my patience, I snapped at Christine. Make your choice!

Identified as the Opera Ghost. . . living in darkness . . . not a friend in the world. . . she whispered. Parading in a freak show. . . what kind of life have you known?

A bitter one, full of pain! I assured her. Even more now, since you've done this to me!

She looked calm, facing me. You are never alone.

I all but laughed aloud. What did she mean, I was not alone? Of course I was alone - she was leaving, she was—

Kissing me.

Yes, she kissed me. I couldn't believe it. I wasn't really sure what to do. My hands floated in the air, wondering where to go. I'd never been kissed before, not even by my own mother, and I never expected that now, of all times, I'd receive a kiss from the one person I loved most. My first impulse was to pull away, but Christine simply wouldn't let me, so I just let my hand rest on the back of her head.

My eyes were open for a moment in shock, long enough to glance about the room and see Raoul's horrified expression, then I shut them in bliss. Whatever Christine's reason. . . I didn't care. . . I just hoped she wasn't planning on stopping this moment anytime soon.

I believe she was running out of breath when she broke the kiss, but I was still upset that she'd stopped the first kiss in my life.

Luckily for me, she did it again, and I was careful to put all my passion into this one. . . I honestly can say I felt some passion in her kiss.

Enjoy it as I might, the moment Christine released me, I backed up immediately. I looked at Raoul, gasping for breath in shock at my own emotion. I wasn't sure what to do now. Release Raoul and let her go. . . or keep her here. . . .

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Well, I need your feedback in your reviews. I want desperately to change the ending and make my own musical out of this. If you don't mind my changing it, just say so. If you do, just say so. This one had a lot of originality, I hope you liked it. . . . ^_^;