I've been wanting to write something for Phantom for a while now. But nothing had quite turned out as I wanted it. Until this. Considering that I'm going to have Phantom on the brain for quite some time ( and by the way, Gerard Butler may be absolutely delectable, but it's the mask that's the turn on), I got this little bit on paper. This is an interpretation of the Phantom's reaction to Christine's betrayal on the roof. I know, one of the most overdone scenes, but I figure it's a good place to jump off and see if I won't fall. Based on the musical (though I don't drop the chandelier… yet)
K.S.
This pain had passed beyond any he had felt before. Before, there had been physical pain, mental pain. This was the clear, blinding torture of a soul. Every word she had spoken, every tear that had fallen from her cheek to be kissed away by that boy, had steadily drained all his hope.
And when they had left the roof, happy despite their fear and uncertainty, confident in love, he was alone. Nothing remained to witness his grief. Ever the stars were veiled, and the moon hid her face. He laughed bitterly. There would be no comfort offered him. Why should there be? The evidence was compelling: he was a monster.
There had been times when he had almost been convinced otherwise. Times when he had fiercely believed that he could live like other men. Loving her had taught him to hope.
And now, it was gone. She had destroyed it with a few frantic words. And surprisingly, it wasn't her reaction to his face; it was her obvious fear that he would harm her that hurt him so. But oh, his eyes had closed in pain and horror when she described his face to that boy. That damnably perfect boy! That boy who loved her! And she loved him. God, no! He could have dealt with a scoundrel. But that boy's earnest adoration of her defeated him. How could he hope to win her away from that? He twisted his hands in some awful combination of anger and hurt that was made all the more terrible by the tears that threatened to choke him. It wasn't fair! That he should find this... And that it should be taken away. The mask. That damned mask. If not for that, and what lay behind it, he should have his fairy tale.
Why? Why? Why? Why?
So many questions ran through his head. Why couldn't she see how much he loved her? Why couldn't she return it? Why couldn't he have a normal face? Why wasn't his voice enough? Why wasn't his love enough?
That night, that one beautiful night, he had really believed, no matter what the morning had brought. He had believed that she could love him. She had almost kissed him, and no matter how much he wanted that, he had shied away. In some strange way, he was almost as afraid of her as she was of him. She hadn't been afraid then. He had been shaking as she came close. He was terrified of her. Of her closeness. Of her finding out. Now, he would never get his kiss. He had wanted to be sure, wanted her to trust him totally, to overcome her fear. And it would never happen.
The anger that he had kept in check bubbled over. So, she had made her choice. And they would all burn in hell before her Angel would let her forget it. If she thought him a monster, so be it. He would be the nightmare she expected of him. Live up to all their expectations. He laughed again. What else could he do? He would never be the hero in this fairy tale. The only role open to him was the villain, the monster, the dragon.
The anger soon dissolved, however. It left in it's wake a man hollowed by anguish. The cold finally seeped into his consciousness. A snowflake caught his eyelashes and mingled with the tears.
Slowly, slowly, he made his down. Down to his home, underground, to lick his wounds and plan. Regroup. He would finish Don Juan. And she would sing it. She owed him that much. He would pour out all his anger, his pain, into it. And his love for her. Most of all his love. The finale was playing of it's own volition in his head. He could hear his own voice raised in song with hers. How else could he tell her? That he wanted her, needed her. That he loved her more than anything he had known in his bleak life. He couldn't tell her. Only in song did he lose his fear. He was still afraid of her. Of the disgust in her eyes. Yet, he was sure there was still some fascination on her part. She had gotten such a look on her face… Yes, there was something there. If anything else, she loved his voice, his music. And hope sparked up again, tentative, unsure, but there. She loved his voice still, and that would keep him going in the time it took to finish his opera. And open the curtain on an even larger one.