CHAPTER TWO
My Angel, Christine Daaé

Christine, my love, Paris now will worship you...
—Iced Earth, "The Phantom Opera Ghost"

I could not believe my ears . . . she was singing the aria, not some pompous and untalented cow. That was Christine's beautiful voice I could hear creating such an exquisite sound.

I wondered if my ears were deceiving me and looked out of my column at the stage—and there she was, singing the aria with her hands extended toward the audience, and as I surveyed the patrons, I could see they were as pleased as I was with her performance. All those lessons had made her strong and talented; whatever the price was for her to be here tonight, it was certainly worth it now, to hear her voice reaching out to me as if I were the only one attending the theatre. Oh, just seeing her disoriented me slightly; her beauty was unchanged, her soft blonde hair cascading down her back and her pretty blue eyes shining in the light of the theatre. I closed my eyes, trembling slightly. I hadn't forgotten her breathtaking countenance, but I had been slightly out of practice at receiving it. Seeing her again with my own eyes and not my mind's eye was so different . . . these past five months, I realised quickly, had been torture far greater than I would ever be able to endure again, now that I had seen her once again.

Christine. . . .

When the song was over, I did not realise it. Long after the climax of Christine's aria, I sat in my box, leaning against the wall with my eyes shut. Perhaps, just perhaps. . . .

No! The logical side of my mind countered the hopeful side. I let off a sigh, wishing desperately that logic and hope could be on the same side of my mind instead of always choosing separate paths and causing inner debates whose answers were apparently never right.

But perhaps, just perhaps, she would be glad to see me . . . if she were performing at the Opéra, it would mean something had happened between herself and it–er, Raoul–to let her stay. Perhaps she has left him for good! The dreaming side of my mind was raising foolish hopes and notions, but I found them hard to push away. They were so entertaining to humour, to believe in them even for but a minute of ridiculous joy.

How would you know, suddenly the dreamer in me said to the logic, how Christine will receive you if you don't even try?

My logic gave in, and I knew immediately that once the performance was over, I would be back behind her dressing room mirror to seek answers to my questions and hope she would receive me with some joy–even just a flicker of happiness at hearing my voice would do, although I sincerely wished she would give up our past, take hold of my hand, and follow me to my house where we could ride the wave of music until our souls were content–and then we could continue what had been abruptly stopped with the coming of. . . .

Erik, shut up, I reprimanded myself. You are allowing yourself to hope. I sighed, knowing the truth behind that statement. It was a sad thing, really; everyone is allowed to have hopes and dreams, except for Erik! What crime had I originally committed to deserve having the world forbidden to me?

Oh yes, I had forgotten it. It was the crime I was born guilty of—the crime of being ugly. In this materialistic world, being as ugly as I am created an invisible barrier between the respectable and the despicable. I was in the latter group. And no man—no genius, no prodigy, not a man at all—in the latter group could make his way into the former. And the man in the latter group is denied everything, from the love of his very own mother to the love of his life. And I am denied everything, for I am one of those despicable for his ugly face. Mankind is cruel.

Then again, I knew that, and no one in this world needs a reminder of that, I don't think.

But the crowd began to cheer, pulling me out of a rather unpleasant reverie. I glanced out and saw Christine taking her bows and exiting the stage. Being the fool I was, I took off running suddenly to meet her behind her mirror. Thankfully there was nobody in Box Five, or else I would have given away my presence as obviously as if I'd left a note declaring that I was sitting in Box Five. Ah, well.

The beautiful woman was sitting in her dressing room when I arrived, brushing her hair and sighing. She stared into the mirror, let out a low groan, and looked at a piece of paper sitting on her dresser. Picking up a pen, she began to write on the paper for a few minutes, and then she let off another groan. She sat up, and I caught sight of her face. . . . She looked so beautiful, yet so pitiful, with a sad expression on it that made my heart yearn for her—I wanted to reach out and touch her, console her, tell her that she would be all right and whatever it was that saddened her did not matter in her light, for angels should not have any trouble and the demon would come to wash the troubles away.

I did not realise that I had acted with my actions until I heard my hand touch the mirror with rather more force than I should have. There was an audible thump, causing me to gasp suddenly and wince—and Christine to glance up at the mirror with surprise. I could not breathe. I could not speak. She was getting up. She was coming over to the mirror . . . she still remembered how to—

The mirror spun around, and I found myself facing Christine without a sheet of glass to separate us.

"Erik?"

To be continued . . . whenever Phantwo can continue!