Legal Disclaimer: I don't own The Phantom of the Opera in any of its many forms.
Notes:
This was written for an assignment in my one of my high school
English classes. We had to write a persuasive essay, and after some
negotiation with my teacher, I was allowed to write from the point of
view of our favorite OG instead of my own POV. Thanks Mrs. K! This is
from Erik's POV when he first hears Christine crying and asking for
her Angel of Music.
(Update: I got a perfect score!)
I Am Your Angel
Looking back, I don't know how I was so naïve. I, the great Opera Ghost, the majestic, grand and omnipotent entity feared by ballet dancer and manager alike, reduced to the bitter shell of a man, the bare semblance of the fearsome power I had once been.
And by what? A mere slip of a woman-a girl almost, completely unaware of her power over men. And oh, her power over me, her ability to sway my mind and tug at the strings of the heart I thought had hardened many years ago.
I met Christine Daae in a quite unusual manner, completely inappropriate to normal society, I'm quite sure. It had been a dark day, as all days are dark in my underground home. In fact, looking back I wonder how I could ever discern day from night in my tomb-like lair. I had been sitting before a dim fire in my den, reading a musty novel and sipping at a snifter of strong cognac. Just as I had turned a yellowed, brittle page, the sound of sobbing reached my ears.
'Has the impossible finally happened?' I had wondered to myself. 'Have I finally lost my mind?' The voice, crying out with keening wails was frighteningly similar to the sounds of my mother's sobs that I overheard in my childhood. Her pain over her curse, having such a demon-like son, had caused many long nights of grief, and I can recall with ease the days when I was forced to stay locked in my bedroom, as my mother tried to pretend for a day that she had no son.
Hearing the cries from five floors above my underground home caused me to wince and I placed my book aside, bringing my hands to cover my ears. The sobs formed words, and the woman's cries begged for her father with a hopelessness that led me to believe that he would never be able to respond. I moved out of my home and through the labyrinthine passages, and I was shocked when I followed the sounds to one of the dressing rooms that had a passage into the cellars. This room's passage I had cleverly hidden behind a large full length mirror built into the wall. The glass was two-sided, and I could see through it like a window. I looked in and saw a small woman folded on the thickly carpeted floor, knees drawn to her chest as she sobbed.
"Papa!" She cried, and I felt my entire body ache with empathy, something I hadn't known since my early childhood, before the curse of my face showed me the evils of man and I hardened myself against such weaknesses as emotions.
"Papa, why did you leave?" She begged, looking up at the ceiling as if expecting an answer. "You didn't even keep your promise, papa! You haven't sent me the Angel of Music!" She lowered her face into her hands and my palm pressed to the cool glass of the mirror.
"I'll never sing like you thought I could. You've abandoned me, papa, and the Angel of Music doesn't want me either."
It was with those words that my fate was sealed. I knew too well the feeling of abandonment. But I could save this child, I could be her angel! Without thinking ahead, without weighing the consequences as I still at this time thought myself invincible, I lifted my unearthly beautiful, resonant voice and cast it about her dressing room to cloak the small girl in a blanket of comfort.
"Hush, my child. Your Angel of Music is here."