A/N: I don't own anything. This is my first Phantom phic. It's veddy veddy bad. Christine thinking as she sings the night Joseph Buquet is hung, just before she re-meets Raoul. I hope she's in character; 'cause I tried.
How does one describe it? I might be singing for my Angel, but I'm singing more for me. This wondrous, incredible feeling—I'm soaring, on the wings of my voice. And I love it. There might be people out there, but I don't notice them. There might be others on stage, but when I'm singing right now, it doesn't matter. I'm just me. I want to twirl. I want to dance, the way Raoul and I danced so many years ago, twirling and swirling and laughing to my father's music. He probably doesn't remember me, yet I can remember him as though I see him every day.
I hit a high note, and am lifted up by the exhilaration of it all. I don't see these people; I don't hear them, yet they're there. And I'm feeling this love of singing for them, of entertaining them. 'Tis a wonderful feeling. I am floating, flying, soaring, twirling, whirling, amazed by it all, and—and when it's over, I'm going to fall.
I realize this and push it to the back of my mind. I'm only halfway through the aria, and since it's over after that, I can worry about falling later. My Angel will be proud—
My Angel. I wonder where he is...he said he'd be here tonight. I push this to the back of my mind, too, and the feelings return. I fly up to the chandelier, and soar over it, I dodge inn and out of boxes happily. I am entertaining the audience, I am entertaining myself, I am entertaining my Angel, and I hope I am entertaining God in all his glory.
I hit the last note of the aria, and my voice falls. Applause—for me? Impossible—fills the room. I stumble off the stage. I see actors; I recognize them, though there are no names, no faces. I move forward blindly, till I suddenly crumple up, then...blackness.