Disclaimer: Phantom Of The Opera belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber and his genius.
Mama, you may never understand, but he's always been there, singing songs in my head.
He's always been there, singing songs in my head…
I remember the night you brought Christine home to live with us. She was seven - so was I. She had lost her father; I never knew mine. We became friends. She would sing herself to sleep each night, trying to hide her tears. I would sing with her, sometimes, but my voice could never compare with hers. She was going to be someone wonderful. I always knew it, mama.
And so did the Phantom, singing songs in her head.
Christine never knew, but she wasn't the only one who heard his songs late at night. He would whisper her name, and she would wake, listening to him calm her. She would listen to the songs he sang in her head.
But the only thing was they weren't songs in her head…
I could hear them too. And I knew that the voice was not of Christine's father. But how to tell her? How to tell her that her dreams were unfounded? That the man she loved was dead and never coming back and the voice she was hearing each night was of a stranger? We were friends - and I was not supposed to have heard the Angel singing.
The Angel of Music singing songs in our heads…
As we grew, so did her voice. Christine became a dancer, but also a singer. I followed you, mama. I became a dancer, a ballerina, like you were. I always wanted to be just like you, mama. But you never knew that I knew of the Phantom. Of the one who sang Christine to sleep at night… and the one who taught her voice to take flight like a bird with newly unfurled wings. It was the Phantom. But he was known as the Angel now. Christine whispered his name in her sleep - he was her Angel of Music. This was before he was known as the Opera Ghost.
The Angel of Music singing songs in her head…
But then the world changed. La Carlotta came, and the Angel was not pleased. And he became two different entities. The malevolent Phantom, who brought harm to all who displeased him… and the Angel of Music, whom Christine loved and listened to and learned from. I knew them both, mama. I knew them.
I knew all the songs that he sang in her head…
Every night Christine and I would dance, I get a shiver running up and down my spine. Something between fear and attraction - it frightened me… but at the same time, I wanted to see him. I wanted to see him so badly. But all I knew was that he was nearby. I could tell by the shiver that would seize me from head to toe each time. And then when Christine sang, no matter where she was, no matter whether she was alone or with the other dancers, or practising with me… I got those shivers, mama. A surge of power. A sense that the Phantom, that the Angel, was watching.
The Angel of Music watching high overhead…
The 'accidents', you called them. Things falling, things breaking, things going missing, things being defaced. Accidents. Those that speak of what they know learn too late that prudent silence is wise, you said. Keep your hand at the level of your eyes. Accidents, you said. Warnings that you gave. I knew the Phantom. And I knew the Angel. They were two different men, back then. I did not know that they were the same. And Christine did not either.
With the Angel of Music singing songs in her head…
When Christine took centre-stage, I got shivers all over, mama. But I knew that he was near, but not there for me. So I looked for Christine after the play, mama. I found her in the chapel, when it was all over, lighting another candle for her father. I asked her the name of her tutor, so that maybe, one day, the Angel would sing to me. With me. For me. And I… I wished to see the Angel of Music.
The Angel of Music singing songs in my head…
But Christine, as she had when she was young, believed the voice to be her father. The spirit of her father. I tried to tell her it could not be true, but she was entranced. I too, had heard the voice cheering her. Brava, brava, bravisimo… And I, too, was entranced. I tried to convince her she was dreaming, that she was talking in riddles. I tried to make her see the truth. Her hands were so cold, mama, and her face was so white. She was frightened, but at the same time, fascinated. As I had been. As I still am. I consoled her, but as we walked away, I felt the shiver thrill me again. He was watching us.
The Angel of Music watching overhead…
After dark, I went to her room. She was gone, and the candles were out. I found the mirror open. I went inside, mama. I found the tunnels you'd told me of, warned me never to explore. But I could feel the chills. And I knew the Angel had been there. I wanted to see him. But you came. You came, took by the hand, and led me back. And then you told Joseph Buquet, the mocker, to keep his hands at the level of his eyes. Told him to be silent, and to be wise.
The Angel sees, the Angel knows…
But then, in Il Muto… the Angel was no angel. He killed a man, mama. He hung Joseph Buquet's body from the rafters. The mocker had not been wise… and not kept his hand at the level of his eyes. And now he was dead. Just as the Phantom had warned. It was then that I knew the truth. I saw the Phantom hang that man, mother. But that was not why I screamed. I screamed because I realised Christine's Angel was the Phantom. They were one man. And I…
I was in love with that man in my head…
She ran, frightened. I watched, and sensed the Phantom go. He would always go after her, mama. He loved her, love her voice, loved her, loved her… But I still got those beautiful, confusing shivers, mama. And I wanted to see him all the more.
The Angel of Music, the love in my head…
Maybe that's why I disobeyed you. Christine had been kidnapped. The Phantom of the Opera would hold her, and never let her go. You took Raoul to the tunnels. I wanted to come with you, but told me to stay behind. So I stayed, mama. Stayed, and told others to stay. Let Raoul save his sweetheart Christine. Let him defeat the Phantom. Let everyone have a happy ending. Let it all be over.
The music shall sound forever, all the songs in my head…
And then I knew. If I obeyed you, the Phantom would die, or flee. And I would never have him with me, and he would never be with me. He would never be there to sing songs in my head.
I need him here with me, singing songs in my head.
So I came down into the tunnels, and brought the others with me. They came, chanting. Track down this murderer, he must be found. Hunt down this murderer, he must be found. I did not sing that song in my head.
I'd never sing that song in my head…
But when we arrived, it was too late. He was gone, the mirrors broken, mama…
…
Meg lifted her hand from her mother's grave for a moment, hesitating. Should she continue? Would her mother turn in her grave if she knew?
The woman sat back and stared at the snow-covered tombstone. It had been years since the Phantom had haunted the Opera. Should his ghost be unearthed now? Meg closed her eyes, a single tear growing in each eye. She'd tried, all these years, to work up the courage to tell her mother the truth, but now she was gone. But she still knew she had to tell her mother. She had to tell her mother everything. Else she would never be able to sleep at night.
"I found it, mama," Meg Giry continued, placing her hand back on the tombstone. "I found his mask. That bone-white half mask that defined the face that was always watching Christine from the darkness. The face of her tutor, the face of the man who loved her but could never hold her. The face of the Phantom, the face of the Angel of Music."
"The Angel of Music, that sang songs in her head."
Meg bit her lip, but this time did not lift her hand from her mother's tombstone. Instead, she stared up at the serene face of the stone angel as she remembered the hellish night as the theatre burned. The night the chandelier fell, and the opera house was closed. The night the Phantom struck.
"Forgive me, mama… The music's not dead…"
…
The mob came rushing through the tunnels, running through the water, chanting their war-cry. Track down this murderer, he must be found. Hunt down this murderer, he must be found. Meg lead the way, but for another reason. Her heart was beating so fast she thought it would burst. Her skin crawled all over with shivers and chills she couldn't explain… nor did she want to try. She was content simply that they were there.
But she came too late. Raoul and Christine were gone. And the Phantom had vanished. Meg leapt up the stairs, barely having time to take in what had been the Phantom's lair. She was following the chills. She was looking for the Angel of Music. And she found the mask.
At the base of the music box, she found the mask. She picked it up, cradled in her hands. Reverently. Then she rose to her feet and sprinted back out.
The chills were fading, fading… where was he?
"Miss Giry!" One of the stagehands called to her, lifting his torch high, "He's not here."
"He had a boat!" Meg called, "He must have had another! Search the waterways! Quickly! He can't have gone far!"
The men with their torches and makeshift weapons turned and hurried out of the tunnels, calling to each other, screaming for the Phantom's blood.
But Meg stayed behind, and pressed the Phantom's mask to her heart. Where would a man who hid his face hide himself? She turned, and saw the mirrors. Broken, shattered, destroyed by a man's last resort to protect himself. She saw the impact marks where the golden candlestick had broken the glass. She treaded carefully, with a ballerina's measured steps through the pieces. Why was there broken glass around this mirror, but none around the others? With a trembling hand, she lifted the curtain that draped the mirror, then crossed over, stepping into the darkness.
She had not gone far when she found him.
"Monsieur, wait!"
The man turned, his clothes and hair wild from the flight. For an instant, his face gave Meg pause. She, like all the cast, had seen the Phantom's destroyed visage when Christine had removed his mask. But it was not his 'devil' side which stopped her. It was his 'human' side, the one which remained uncovered by the mask. Such sadness in his eyes. And tears that flowed so freely.
The Phantom cringed, half-turned his face away, torn between rage and anguish, unable to decide if he should fight or flee.
"I am alone, Monsieur," Meg whispered. "I come alone."
The Phantom said nothing, but watched her warily with one eye. Meg bit her lip, and moved towards him. She realised she was still clutching the mask over her heart. Slowly, she held it out to him.
"Do you need this?"
The Phantom looked up at her, revealing both sides of his face. Oh, the look on his face. Like a child who'd never been loved. Like a tormented genius. Like a man who had lost everything.
Meg continued to hold the mask out to him.
"No," the Phantom said, turning away, "I don't want it."
"Don't go." Meg pleaded, her voice barely a whisper. "Please, don't go."
The Phantom began to slip away into the shadows.
"How will I live without your songs in my head?" Meg sang softly, "I cannot live without your songs in my head…"
The tunnels were silent and dark. Meg watched in the darkness as the Phantom turned back to her, his eyes wide with a new realisation. Christine, the only one he'd noticed, was gone. And this common dancer was here… Madam Giry's daughter singing the tune he'd sung to Christine. Meg bowed her head and shut her eyes, her hand still holding the mask out to the man.
She kept her eyes closed as the Phantom took his mask from her hand. His fingertips brushed hers, and the shivers set her heart to fluttering. She waited until they were gone before risking looking up again.
He was gone.
…
Meg stepped back from her mother's grave, staring up at the stone angel that guarded the late Madam Giry. She brushed the snow from the lettering, somehow feeling that her mother was not angry at her. Meg sighed, smiling, as she turned away. The years of holding that secret within her had taken its toll - now that she'd managed to tell her mother, she felt relieved. Absolved. Madam Giry may never have understood her daughter's infatuation with the Phantom - truth be told, neither did Meg - but now that Meg had told, it was all over. And it was all better now.
As Meg left the cemetery, she turned back once more. To say goodbye, perhaps. The roses she'd left were slowly freezing in the snow, the frost looking like a coating of diamond dust.
"Farewell, Mama." She smiled. "Mama, you may never understand, but he's always been there, singing songs in my head."
He's always been there, singing songs in my head…
A/N: Does anyone else get those shivers when they hear the main theme of Phantom of the Opera?
'Scuse the conflicting styles, but I just had to try this out. I always thought someone other than Christine should love the Phantom. And considering the way Meg was, I thought she was the perfect candidate. After all, that man should never have to be alone…